Up, Up and Away!

My vacation to New Mexico was all I had hoped for and more. The only problem was one which I had anticipated - and that was simply - that I did not want to come home.

Not only did I see some of the most spectacular scenery in our country, I met some very nice, interesting people - from the Native Americans of the area to fellow travelers from Canada, Houston, Amarillo, Tennessee, California and Colorado - I visited some wonderful galleries and museums, took an unbelievably adventurous hot air balloon ride, ate at one of Rachael Ray’s recommended restaurants, The Shed, drove a couple of hundred miles into the mountains and back, got a massage at a luxurious Santa Fe Spa, walked and shopped until I nearly dropped, and visited a couple of historic, picturesque old churches.

And, as if all that wasn’t enough, I nearly ran head on into movie actor Steven Seagal, who was in town to begin shooting his next movie, “The Keeper,” as I was crossing the square in Santa Fe. Then I was filmed talking to the gallery owner in Chimayo, after she was interviewed for a television news spot about how the fire that destroyed their famous restaurant Rancho de Chimayo, has affected the economy of the whole village. My portion of the piece did not make the 6 o’clock news, however. Hollywood will just have to wait a little longer.

The first day in Albuquerque was spent getting my bearings and trying to get a handle on a good dose of altitude fever, unfortunately a problem for me. The altitude there is 5,325 ft. or thereabouts - alot more than my sea level hometown.

My hot air balloon ride was scheduled for very early the next morning. The Rainbow Ryder crew picked me up at my B&B for a nominal fee and we met up with the rest of the group at the ‘field’ which was next to a bank parking lot. It was a full gondola, i.e. a super large wicker basket, into which all twelve of us climbed and stood for the duration of the ride. After the balloon was inflated it was a feat of sheer strength for our ground crew to keep it on the ground long enough for all of us fat old ladies to climb aboard. And then we were up - very quickly. Amazing! The feeling was surreal, magical and peaceful. A couple of times, we were literally suspended in air, totally immobile, while we waited for the wind to catch us again and move us along.

We were in the air about one hour and soared to a little over 1,000 feet, drifted south along the Rio Grand River and ultimately landed, spot-on where the ground crew waited for us to reverse the process, folding and loading the balloon and basket into its trailer. The landing was a bit strange and not my favorite part, but not bad at all considering. There was a slight bump, slide along the ground for about ten feet and then the basket tipped over some before we finally settled. But I’d go again anytime…except for the expense. It was definitely an extravagance.

The rest of the second day was spent at the Natural History and Science Museum and The Indian Pueblo Museum and Market where I also ate lunch.

The third day I drove to Santa Fe, located my B&B and discovered they had a Spa to which I promptly made myself an appointment for a massage at the end of the day. I figured after another day of strenuous walking and shopping, I would probably need it.

That day included an unexpected surprise encounter with actor Steven Seagal, as he and his entourage crossed the town square at the same time I did. I fumbled for my cell phone camera and tried to capture the moment…but succeeded only in getting a shot of his backside. Me and everyone else in the square.

The evening was spent on the patio at the B&B, complete with a kiva burning fragrant Pinon wood, wine and cheese and a fun group of folks from Houston.

After some last minute shopping on the square the next morning, purchasing authentic trinkets and visiting with the Indian women and men from various Pueblos, I hit the road for yet higher ground. Santa Fe’s elevation is higher than Albuquerque, but my next destination at Chimayo is even higher - about 6,200 ft. By then, however, I had my altitude fever under control.

Chimayo was a delight and the perfect way to end my trip. It’s a tiny village, with not much going on…the main attraction there is a historic church to which a reported 300,000 people make the pilgrimage every year. I spent a lovely afternoon on the church grounds, enjoying the stream running behind the church, the trees and local eatery, reflecting and genuflecting. I’m not a Catholic by trade, but figured it couldn’t hurt me. The Chimayo Inn, where I stayed, was a pleasant, peaceful, low-key, informal place where I felt instantly at home.

That afternoon I went to the only store and gallery available in town where I encountered the television camera man from Santa Fe, interviewing the locals about the fire and its effect on their economy. The charitable owner of the restaurant has been trying to find other jobs for her employees until the restaurant can be rebuilt - sometime next year - and that ended up the rightful focus of the newspot on the 6 o'clock news.

Because of this tragedy, there was no place in town to eat, so the innkeeper lady, retired from the New Mexico Transportation Department, took pity on me and made me a sandwich that evening. We had a very congenial visit as she shared the history of her birth family, Martinez, their Spanish lineage and that of the town/village.

After one last wonderful night’s rest in the mountain air, I hit the road early the next morning after having my breakfast brought to me in my room. Boy, I could get used to that. It was a long, uneventful drive back to the Albuquerque airport, and a smooth trip home except for a delayed takeoff from our stopover in Lubbock…not the ideal place to get stuck.

So long, Land of Enchantment. Hello reality in Texas.

-30-

Sitting Pretty

It was an interesting day at Lake Woebegone, aka, downtown Austin, my home town.

I returned from lunch, buffeted by a pretty strong wind, which consequently reeked havoc with the hairdo, so I swung into the ladies room to fix my coif.

However, I never got a chance to beautify myself, because I was rudely surprised by - and surprised - a dark-skinned gentleman sitting there on the ceramic throne, pants around his ankles and in all his glory with the stall door wide open. In the ladies room. Upon my entry, the interloper jumped up, presumably to close the door, thereby exhibiting all his wares. Bad move.

I shrieked, "What are you doing in here!!?!?!?!!?" At which time, he figured out he was in trouble and immediately put himself back together to exit the place.

In the meantime, I rather excitedly advised the security guard about the fact that a man was helping himself to the ladies room, and inquired if he was asleep at the switch, or just sitting there on his duff, letting it happen. This office does not have a public restroom.

His reply, “Errr, ah, errr, oh.”

Oh, indeed.

To heck with the Aquanet, where is that Lysol when you need it?

-30-

My 9-11 Odyssey

After two weeks in a tiny medieval village in Southern France, fulfilling one of my life-long dreams - attending a real French art school - I was finally headed back home to Texas. Saying goodbye to my new friends was difficult, but eased by the fact that I had managed to get addresses and a few phone numbers. This fortuitous move proved to be my saving grace in the days to come.

On September 10, our art teacher drove me and another student to Toulouse - her to the airport and me to my hotel. My original plan was to have a day in Toulouse for decompression and maybe a little sight seeing before returning home. That didn’t happen because I was more tired than I realized and ended up resting in my room, reading my book. On emotional overload by then - anything else just seemed too much.

The next morning, right on schedule, the hotel shuttle took me to Toulouse airport where I had enough time to enjoy my last cup of French coffee and buy a bottle of my favourite perfume (L’Heure Bleue) at an airport shop. I boarded my plane and took off - again, right on schedule. The flight to London’s Heathrow was perfect - until it landed.

Heathrow airport is a huge place and because I was unfamiliar with it, I was nervous about finding my way to the Continental Airlines desk to get checked in properly for my connecting flight. My bags - two pieces of brocade luggage and a briefcase full of artwork and supplies - had been checked all the way through from Toulouse to Texas. In an effort to ensure all my souvenirs made it home with me, I had packed them into the basket purchased from the Gypsy man at the village market. That was my new “carry-on” luggage.

When I finally found the Continental desk, there were hundreds of people milling around. It wasn’t long until a tall young man stepped out from behind the desk to make an announcement. He said that there had been a terrible tragedy in the United States and it appeared to be a terrorist attack - that two planes had been flown into the World Trade Center and one into the Pentagon. He continued, saying that ALL FLIGHTS TO AND FROM the United States had been cancelled until further notice. One of the planes had originated from the Newark airport, which was my next connection destination. He instructed us to get our bags from baggage claim immediately and wait for further information, but said that we probably needed to get accommodations.

OH, MY GOD!!! My kids would think I was dead! That could have been my plane! So many thoughts were swirling around in my head. What was I going to do!?!?? I had no money left. I had spent down to my last few francs and a little money in American Travelers’ Checks. Money would have to wait. I had to get my luggage. I had to try to think clearly. Oh, my God. Then the tears started.

It was about this time that the first of three two-legged British angels showed up to help me on this part my journey.

A sweet young man who worked in the baggage area was the first angel of mercy. I was so discombobulated that I was having trouble finding my cosmetic bag. Thank goodness my luggage was very distinctive - brown and gold brocade. The young man was able to locate my bag in a minute; I had already gotten my larger bag and briefcase from the carrousel. So now I had four pieces of luggage and my purse to deal with. I stacked them together the best I could and rolled to find a kiosk to get some money.

While I was standing at the baggage claim carrousel in tears, I ran over periodically to the phone and tried several times using my credit card to call my office - the only number I could remember - my phone book being packed away in my luggage. I was having no luck and was becoming more and more afraid as the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

Another kind young man, my second angel, was standing with me at baggage claim and offered me his cell phone. What a blessing. I was able to get through immediately to Leah, who was sitting in for me at my office in Austin. She confirmed the awful news in the U.S. I asked her to please phone my kids and tell them I was not dead and that I would be back in touch as soon as I knew where I’d be. My oldest daughter later told me that she had in fact made a mad dash home to double-check my itinerary for flight numbers, afraid that I had indeed been on one of those planes.

Finding the kiosk to get some money was not a problem, but suddenly I realized that I did not know a pence from a pound. During my time in France, I had gotten pretty good at francs, but had no reason to learn English currency until then. I threw what money I had at the girl in the cage and asked her to change it for me. She was an oriental gal and we had a definite language barrier, so my hopes of getting an emergency lesson in currency exchange were lost.

Next, I got in a very long line or “cue” as Europeans call it, for a hotel reservation. Everyone in that line was in a state of upset and confusion. One young man had a wife, baby in a stroller and little boy about 4. They had a stack of luggage nearly as tall as the man and were returning home to Newark, but were obviously not going anytime soon. At least I only had me to worry about. No babies.

The first room offered to me at the airport’s reservation desk cost 200 pounds, or about $300 American per night. Too many of those nights would bankrupt me, so I begged for something cheaper and was glad to take a room for 130 pounds. Then I made my way to the shuttle stop, again, wrangling my four wobbly bags. I stood with hundreds of other frantic people waiting for the shuttles to take us to freedom. It was all I could do to get my bags to the curb. I had no idea how I was going to get off that curb and onto that bus with those unwieldy bags, while fighting for my life with all those other panicked people.

Then my third angel showed up. Another gorgeous young man appeared with a single bag slung over his muscular shoulder and offered to help me onto the bus. When the shuttle stopped at my hotel, he also helped me off the bus. I never saw him again, but I thanked him and God profusely for his help.

The hotel was very nice and my room small but elegant. I didn’t really care about the elegance at that point. All I cared about was that there was a private, clean toilet and television with CNN. I promptly glued myself to that tube and began phoning everyone I could - damn the expense. I called the art school back in France to tell them what had happened in case anyone called there looking for me. I called my daughter in Texas. Then I called one of my art school classmates. That nice woman insisted on coming to get me the next day. At the time I didn’t realize Oxford, where she lived, was two hours away, but I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. She took me home with her where she lovingly tended me for the next two days and nights. Another angel.

Unfortunately, as beautiful as Oxford is, I was not able to relax and enjoy it because I was too obsessed with getting home. The immensity of the event began to imbed itself into my thoughts - ‘stinking’ thinking took over. I was actually afraid we might go to war before I could get back across the Atlantic and I'd be stranded for years. My hostess tried to distract me the best she could by taking me to a local, picturesque pub, The Trout Inn on the Thames River, and then on a drive through the Oxford campuses. It was during my stay in Oxford that my Gypsy basket, carry-on bag, became a war casualty. It was simply too bulky and I needed to lighten my load before attempting another airport. So, as a thank-you gift for putting me up, I gave my English friend the bountiful basket and it’s souvenir contents. The rest of my souvenirs were stuffed into my remaining luggage.

A travel agent in Oxford helped me purchase another airline ticket on a planned charter flight to Orlando, Florida. This meant I had to ride a bus back into London, but this time to Gatwick airport. Everyone was to be at the airport three hours prior to take off because of all the new, extra security measures. So my friend and hostess got up at 4 a.m. in order to get me to a bus stop by 5 a.m., so I could arrive at Gatwick by 7 a.m. for my flight at 10:30 a.m. It was a long shot, but I was willing to try anything to get back stateside.

Unfortunately, that plane never got off the ground. More fear and depression set in. The rest of that day was spent going from carrier to carrier in a feverish attempt to find anyone who would take me home. I was on standby with Continental even though I had a solid reservation the following week; I was leaving nothing to chance, hedging all my bets. On one of my multiple visits to Continental’s desk, the entire country held a scheduled three-minute silence for the victims of the U.S. tragedy. The staff was standing at attention in a teary-eyed formation. They offered me Kleenex and comforting words. There was not much else they could do.

It was beginning to look like I might have to live at the airport forever - or at least a whole week. I was exhausted and forlorn. It was then that I decided to lighten my load even more. During my continuous circling the airport, I discovered a post office storefront where I decided to avail myself of its services. I purchased a large mailing box and placed my whole briefcase filled with art paraphernalia inside, along with all the non-breakable souvenirs I had stuffed in my suitcases, repacking yet again. At least my kids might get the souvenirs and see my artwork if something terrible happened and I was killed before I could get home, which felt like a real possibility to me. That box was so heavy that it cost 69 English pounds to mail, but it was worth it because I had downsized to two of my original four pieces of luggage. I felt like I could manage that.

Finding the airport’s Internet Café saved my tentative sanity that day. I spent several hours there communicating via email with my kids and friends stateside about the ongoing situation. My emotions ran the gamut from abject fear to total numbness. But no matter how badly I felt, I was constantly cognizant of the horrors suffered by the people in those planes, the towers, the Pentagon, and all their families on the ground. Knowing that nothing I felt could possibly compare, I was ashamed of myself for having such self-pitying thought.

At 4 p.m. that afternoon, the announcement was made by Continental airlines that they still had no plane to fly. It would be the next day before they knew anything more. There was no way I was venturing very far from that airport; I was going to be standing at that desk when they called for standby passengers. It would be the folks who were physically present who would get on the plane bound for Glory and I intended to be one of those folks. But I was so beat, I knew I had to give up for the day, so I located the hotel reservation desk again, and asked for a B&B near the airport this time.

A dark Turkish man in a rattletrap red van came to get me and took me to his family-run “B&B.” He was very kind as was his sweet English wife, but their place left a lot to be desired. Smokers ran rampant and the walls were paper-thin at best. In short, it was a “flea bag” hotel, but I did not care, I was so tired and desperate. One bright spot was that there was another Texas woman staying there who was apparently an old friend of the host family, making me feel a tad bit safer. That evening, she took me to a neighborhood grocery store where we bought our supper. It was comforting to hear someone speaking in a familiar dialect.

After breakfast the next day, my Turkish host took me safely back to the airport where I rushed to the Continental desk - again. To my surprise and relief, within 30 minutes I was on my way. We all stood in long lines for another couple of hours as every passenger was body-searched twice and our bags hand-searched thoroughly. But none of us cared. We were actually grateful for the extra security. Prior to September 11th, we would have been incensed at the thought of being searched.

The flight home was uneventful, thank goodness. We were due to arrive in Houston around 5:00 p.m. Texas Time. I waited until around 3:00 p.m. to call my kids from the plane phone and tell them I was actually on my way home, thinking I did not want them to be over-worried for the entire flight time. They were so excited and relieved all three wanted to drive to Houston to pick me up when I landed. Ordinarily I would not have asked them to drive all that way, and I did have another connecting flight to Austin, but I was not interested in flying one more mile than necessary.

When the plane landed, there was a rousing round of applause from a plane full of grateful passengers. And when I deboarded that plane, I was tempted to get on my knees and kiss the ground. That Houston, Texas skyline never looked so good. Houston, Dallas, Dime Box or Austin, I did not care. I was home.

-30-

Times Have Changed

I’m a 60 year old grandmother with a featherweight cell phone that takes great pictures whenever the mood strikes me. As a matter of fact, I’ve gone almost totally wireless these days.

In the olden days my parents took pictures with a Brownie Box camera for vacations or special occasions, and talked on heavy black phone with cords which they had to dial. Their parents had portraits done once or twice in their lifetimes by a traveling photographer with a cumbersome tripod and tent over his head. They talked on wall-hung contraptions which had to be cranked by hand, and utilized one-party line for the whole county. It was one step up from a string and two tin cans. Times have changed.

Here I sit composing this article on my new wiz-bang laptop, with which I am also having a love affair, but that is a whole other story. The fact is, I had never even laid hands on a computer until I was in my thirties, and that was only for part of my job which required uploading and downloading data once a week. Before that I typed on electric typewriters at work and on my manual Smith Carona typewriter at home and used carbon paper if I wanted copies.

Now, at least 90% of my job is accomplished on the computer and we “Xerox” or simply print multiples when we need copies; carbon paper has gone the way of the dinosaur. Personally, I now own and use both a PC and laptop computer. My grandmother was a very smart lady, but she never laid eyes on a computer, and could not type a word on any sort of typewriter. My mother, also very intelligent, could type, but never owned or used a computer. Yes, times have changed a great deal.

Traveling is one of my passions and I do it as often as I can, flying and/or driving, horseback, wagons, boats and ferries too. My father used to say I wasn’t happy unless I was going somewhere and he was right. Yet, again, I had never even stepped foot on a plane until I was in my thirties. Since that maiden voyage, however, it’s been “Katy Bar the Door.”

My grandmother, on the other hand, never flew anywhere and never drove a car in her whole life. She never learned how. On the other hand, I’ve had my driver’s license since I was sixteen, and learned how to drive Grandpa’s old truck when I was twelve. I think the farthest Grandma ever ventured from home in the Texas Hill Country was to a Mexican border town once. She certainly never flew to France or lived in Alaska like me. Grandpa farmed cotton in Texas using a horse and plow when he was a young man. He never cared to get off the farm until the Model T came along. They didn’t “travel” though. Unlike my ancestors, I can’t wait for my next trip. Times have definitely changed.

My father was a World War II veteran; he joined the Marines when he was seventeen years old and never graduated from high school. He killed people in that war - in hand to hand combat and came home with a Purple Heart. He worked hard all his life and earned a decent living, but was never a wealthy man. People from my generation protested the Vietnam War - a move that was considered treasonous by my father.

Today our country is still at war (Isn’t it a perpetual state of the human condition? To be constantly at war?), but I hope by the time my young grandsons are of age, those days will be over. If they do go to war someday, however, it’s possible that the use of modern robotics or droids may prevent them from having to actually murder enemy combatants with their bare hands. It is more likely however, that unlike their Purple-hearted great-grandfather, my grandsons will not only graduate from high school, they will attend Ivy League colleges. My father would have scoffed at that. They may never be war veterans like him, but they will probably be millionaires. Yes, times change.

More than fifty years ago, my paternal grandparents owned one of the first television sets and routinely watched their favorite programs - mostly the local weather and one soap opera, As the World Turns. It was only a black and white appliance powered by mysterious tubes, but it was a TV. There was only one channel to choose from then. Nowadays, if I happen to miss my favorite show, I can replay it on my new wireless laptop, ergo, the love affair. Television has become my best friend and companion. Oh, I have lots of human friends too, but TV is definitely my most reliable companion, aside from my laptop.

My grandparents were married over 50 years to each other. I’ve been married and divorced three times. That was certainly never part of my Cinderella plan, but it’s the way my life has unfolded. Divorce was pretty rare in my grandparents’ day - people tended to just stick it out, come Hell or high water - whether they hated each other or not. They also didn’t tend to dwell on their feelings because they were busy trying to make a living and just get by. Self-actualization for my grandmother would have been finally buying that sinful pair of red pumps she’d been ogling in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I’ve got at least two pairs of sexy red shoes and/or boots in my closet at all times. But then, times have changed.

When Grandma was alive, my family spent almost every Sunday at her house for dinner and visiting. In fact, I would have happily spent every available moment at my grandmother’s. We didn’t have cell phones or computers in those days, but we communicated just fine. My grandmother had nine brothers and sisters and they all talked to each other and met up for important holidays and reunions, bringing along their entire broods. Such reunions were a way of life for us. Now, I don’t even remember when I went to a family reunion last.

These days, I’m lucky if I see my grandsons once a month…and then it has to be at their place, because mine is not “kid friendly.” What the heck is that? Kid friendly!?!? Plus I have to make a date with them for quality time, and invent ways to stay connected to them. This family dynamic of estrangement is devastating but I feel powerless to change the course of events; I am only one person in this evolving family drama. We may never have been a picture perfect family, but we were a family. Though I never would have imagined it, and did not set out to, I have lost track of many relatives.

As a matter of fact, I know this type of dysfunction has happened in many other families as well. It seems to be rampant in our society today. Knowing that doesn’t make it any better though. While technology continues to zoom ahead with more and more toys and tools, cell phones and computers, our families are disintegrating right under our noses.

Times have definitely changed - and not necessarily for the better. It will do us no good to long for the Good Ol’ Days, however. While technology is a wonderful thing, perhaps it is not the answer. It sure seems like all the tools in the world - all the washing machines, televisions, microwaves, laptops and cell phones with cameras, cannot fix the things we value most. Only we can.