South for Christmas

Like the rest of my family, I was born and reared in the State of Washington.  The famous "Northwest Corner," as my blog would have it.   Unlike every other member  of my family, I still live in that state.  In Seattle.

The rest of the family, the shameless renegades, have flown to the far corners of the ... well, of the West Coast I guess.  My sister and my youngest nephew Jesse live in Challis, Idaho.  My brother moves about between three residences co-owned with his daughter -- all in Southern California -- Palm Desert, Oxnard, and Big Bear.  His daughter's usual residence is in Glendale.  My eldest nephew lives in San Francisco.  My "middle" nephew has lived for the past several years in Chiang Mai, Thailand, with his wife and daughter; they will return to Sonoma, California, however, at the end of this school  year.

I have hosted Christmas and Thanksgiving on a few occasions over my lifetime, but generally no one wants to come to an area they now consider either a rainy bog, or a state too close for comfort to the Arctic Circle.  Instead, I get regular invitations to visit them, and to do the traveling myself.

Which is merely a lead-in to my announcement that I will be flying from Seattle to Palm Springs tomorrow.  My brother will meet me at the airport and escort me the 14 miles eastward to his home in Palm Desert, where he has offered me places around the family Christmas tree and the dinner table.  I'll be returning next Tuesday.

These announcements of departure from Seattle used to be necessary to explain why eager readers of my blog needed to expect a week or so without the joy of reading my latest essay.  Now that my frequency of publication has sunk to a level explicable only by old age, incipient dementia, or -- most likely -- criminal laziness, this sort of announcement really isn't necessary.  In fact, it's farcical.  Nevertheless, old habits live on. 

And so -- "No posts, gang, until at least next Wednesday!"

Getting to know Arthur Ritis

With all good intentions, people say to me "Oh, you're not old! ...
"My uncle is ninety and he walks eight miles a day." 

Lucky Unk.  I hope he never meets that old bully Arthur Ritis or his mean wife Sciatica.

--Ursula K Le Guin, No Time to Spare, "Going Over Eighty: The Sissy Strikes Back"

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Fantasy author Ursula K. Le Guin was 81 years old when she stepped from fantasy fiction to harsh (if often funny) reality in her published collection of essays from her blog.  

The quotation above is take from one of her earlier posts.  She was sick of being told "You're only as  old as you think you are."  Such comments, she feels, are well meant, but encourage older people to deny the obvious changes in their bodies, and their obvious resulting inability to still act like a kid.

She herself suffered from arthritis and sciatica at 81.  She didn't drive.  Her formerly enjoyable walk to the grocery store to pick up one item or another was now a torment -- she was forced to limit her grocery visits to one per week, keeping a list during the week of her needs for the visit.

I chuckled sympathetically when I read her little essay a couple of years ago.  I didn't realize how quickly one can go from being a light-limbed and light-hearted youth to an arthritic cripple.

"Cripple" is a bit of an exaggeration.  I can still get around; I can walk a couple of miles with only minimal pain.  But so far, I haven't been able to walk much farther than that without developing pain not only while walking, but for the next day or two.

What's been surprising to me is how quickly it all happened.  If you skim over my blog essays for the past six months or so, you'll note that I was still hiking steep paths without complaint last May.  In July, I developed a strained groin muscle that very gradually became more painful.  In July, I decided to cut back the distance of my daily walks from four to five miles a day to something like two.  Within a couple of weeks, without known cause, I began having Achilles tendon pain in the same leg.  

Note that the groin strain and the tendinitis were both annoyances of the sort that are somewhat easily treated, primarily with rest.  But by the beginning of August, I was developing knee pain in the opposite leg.  At first the pain was minor, but it soon became more worrisome than the Achilles tendinitis.  (By that time, the groin muscle was no longer really a factor.)  By the time I left with friends for Scotland at the end of August, it was clear that I wasn't going to be able to participate in the group's daily hikes.

I saw an orthopedist, whose radiology revealed moderate arthritis.     He suggested physical therapy.  The plan would be to strengthen my leg muscles, thus increasing the stability of my knee joint, and reducing or eliminating pain.  I haven't really done that, of course.

A friend tells me that his wife found physical therapy to be useless in combatting her arthritis, but that she's intrigued by a remedy that her grandmother swears by -- raisins soaked in gin.

Intellectually absurd, but tempting.  Even without the raisins.

I do something occasionally similar to consuming gin, but with fewer side effects -- I take a Tylenol or two.  Even one reduces the pain noticeably, but doesn't entirely eliminate it.  I kind of like the background sensation of mild pain, because it reminds me not to get carried away and walk long distances before my body's used to it.  

If it ever will be.  Most on-line experts say that you're stuck with arthritis for the rest of your life.  The only change is that it generally gets gradually worse.

Anyway, I don't take Tylenol regularly, at least yet.  Taken too often and in too great a quantity, it ain't good for your innards.

I go back over my years of writings, in this blog and before, about the hikes and climbs I've taken.  Many of them were exhausting, some even painful.  But the exhaustion came from my lungs' efforts to suck in enough oxygen.  And the pain came from the pain that younger muscles feel as they learn to work harder and longer with training.

These little essays make me sad, knowing that they document challenging hikes and climbs, most of which I'll never be able to do again.  But reading about them makes me happy that I did them when I did, year after year, always exhausted but always happy.

I've passed on the moral that I derive from my life history to my younger friends on Facebook:

"Don't kid yourself that you're too busy with work and family to go hiking or climbing now, but that you look forward to doing it when you have time, once you retire." 

Because maybe you won't. 

Singing like angels

Christmas is packed with traditions.  One of my more recent traditions -- interrupted for a couple of years by the pandemic -- has been attendance at the annual "Festival of Lessons and Carols." presented by the Northwest Boychoir and its teenage affiliate, Vocalpoint! Seattle.

The combined choirs present their concert at eight Seattle venues each December, leading up to their final concert downtown at Benaroyal Hall.  Last night, I attended their concert at St. Mark's Cathedral, not far from my house.

The singers this year included 29 boys from the Northwest Boychoir, and 32 teenage boys and 15 teenage girls from Vocalpoint!.  The concert each year is based closely on the Christmas Eve service at King's College, Cambridge -- portions of which are available for viewing on YouTube.

In the versions by both King's College and the Northwest Boychoir, the most striking moment -- for me, at least -- comes at the very outset.  At St. Mark's, the singers enter a short distance into the cathedral from the rear, behind the congregation, and pause before advancing farther.  The congregation is hushed as the solo, ethereal voice of a very small boy begins the first verse of "Once in Royal David's City," his voice swelling as he nears the end of the verse, filling the volume of the entire cathedral, from the congregation on the floor all the way to the high rafters above. 

At the second verse, the entire choir joins in as they enter and file to the front of the cathedral, lining up in rows and singing all six verses without accompaniment.  Their singing becomes more complex with each verse, and the final verse is sung with a soprano descant soaring high above the pitch of the main melody.

After singing three more carols, the choir proceeds with the lessons.  A boy -- this year, also a girl for one of the readings -- begins each lesson with a reading from the Old or New Testament.  The choir then proceeds with a carol, related to the reading,  followed by a well-known and popular carol in whose singing the entire congregation joins. 

The overall effect  is magical, and is concluded -- after nine such readings -- with the choir's singing of "O Holy Night," and -- as they file back out through the rear of the cathedral -- "Joy to the World."

As I've mentioned in a past year's blog, I have reservations about the piano accompaniment, although the accompaniment is quite musical in its own right -- not merely a support for the singers as  in a typical church or Sunday School service.  These singers need no support, as was well illustrated in the two carols that were sung without accompaniment -- the initial "Once in Royal David's City" and a Gregorian chant with challenging polyphony, "O Magnum Mysterium."  Both pieces illustrated the skill and musicality of the singers, young and older, beautifully.

But all the carols were beautifully done, with or without accompaniment.  As we filed out of the Cathedral, we were greeted by smiling Boychoir singers, still dressed in their gowns, who were distributing small candy canes.  

All of us, in fact, were smiling.  Even Ebeneezer Scrooge, had he been present, would have been smiling as he walked out the door.  

We're No. 2

So, the University of Washington football team is the second best in the entire United States of America.  The AP says so, the Coaches' Poll says so, and the thirteen voters in the almighty College Football Championship say so.

Very cool.  But, those of us who aren't totally committed Husky fanatics, or at least current UW students, have our doubts.  The team, despite its 13-0 record, has seemed shaky in game after game.  Would the second best team in the entire known world really have to struggle to get past Stanford, Oregon State, and Washington State?   We, along with most of the nation, have asked ourselves that question repeatdly. 

And beyond that, here in the Northwest Corner, regardless of ethnicity, we tend to be Scandinavian in our attitudes.  "Be humble.  Don't brag about yourselves.  Don't call attention to yourselves.  Remember that if you're too happy today, you're bound to be miserable tomorrow.  Things can always go wrong, and usually will."  Pessimism is our proven default.

And even my mildly felt, Norwegian happiness at the Huskies' success is offset by my displeasure with everything else in the world of college football.  The advent of the College Football Championship has been motivated by television's quest for bigger bucks.  It's been built on the destruction of the New Year's Bowl traditions, and on the destruction of regional football conferences with century-old traditions (notably this year, of the Pac-12), and the growing conviction that football conferences themselves are no longer necessary.  That their championship games, especially, should be done away with.

When you have a play-off system that determines the champion of the entire Universe, who needs regional conference championships?  They just clutter things up.

And, of course, the antique need for "regional" conferences is now obsolete, now that we can fly across the country in five or six hours.  (And now that football players aren't seriously expected to have the same lives and academic strivings, interests, and responsibilities as do common college students.)  With West Coast teams now set to join the "Mid-Western" Big Ten conference, joining recently-added Atlantic Coast teams like Rutgers and Maryland, the term "regional" is rather anachronistic, right?.  

My mind is still reeling from the idea of Stanford and Cal playing in the Atlantic Coast Conference.

I can't predict where it's all heading.  I just know I won't like it.  In fact, as a teenager, I hated the disbandment of the "Pacific Coast Conference," and its temporary replacement by the Pac-5.  Even though the Pac-5 was, within a few years, expanded back to the Pac-8, leading to the snide comment that the schools had chosen an unnecessarily complicated way just to get rid of the University of Idaho. 

So, bah!  My politics may be liberal, but my attachment to traditions, to the "way it's always been," is downright conservative.  Even Tory!  Stop the world, especially the sports world.  I want to get off.

But anyway.  Go Dawgs.  Beat the Longhorns! And the Wolverines!

Christmas cards

Sir Henry Cole is said to have sent the first card in 1843, and we've been sending and receiving them ever since. We can not only judge a sender's personality by the cards he sends, but we can also sense the changing moods of society itself by the differences, from decade to decade, in the style, subject matter, and art work of the Christmas cards it creates.

We creep closer to the month of December.  And as we creep, we consider once more the vexing problem of Christmas cards.  Do we send them, or do we not? '

I'm not certain why discussing this issue has become an annual tradition here in the Northwest Corner blog.  It first arose in 2008, the second year that I cheerfully published what had begun as a humorous, passing stab at imitating the obsession of what I then considered a much younger generation. 

Blogging.

I presented a brief history of the custom (see my quote above), and then began questioning my own sanity in continuing the tradition while stranded in the midst of a society that seemed to despise tradition.  But I quickly brushed my qualms aside, as well as my progressive reputation.  Like a cigar-smoking Tory, I boldly declaimed:

Let's face it. Maybe in 2008, with email and Facebook so readily available, no one really does care if I send them a card or not. But I send them for myself, at least in part. Christmas just doesn't feel like Christmas until I carry my stack of envelopes down to the corner and drop them in the mailbox.

And send them I did.

The issue fell dormant for the next eight years.  But in 2016, the issue raised its ugly, if holly-wreathed, head again.  I not only questioned the sending of Christmas cards, but professed myself shocked at the vulgarity of whatever cards actually were available for sending.  What's wrong with society today, I cried, in tones redolent of the Republican National Committee?  Have we lost all appreciation not only for the sanctity of Christmas, but for the simple, all-American values represented by public portrayals of happy families about the tree, and rosy-cheeked kids on sleds, and snow storms, and deer gamboling through the forest?

Maybe -- except in the bosom of our nuclear families -- we should all just sit around a plain pole and exchange ironic witticisms.  Or did Seinfeld beat me to it?   Happy Festivus?

And with that, the floodgates of blogdom were flung open.

I offered my yawning readers similar themes in 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022.  How original!  How predictable!  No wonder my readership figures began spirally downward!

And yet, through all these many pages of self-questioning angst and lamentations, one fact stood out:  I continued to send Christmas cards, year after year.

Which brings us to 2023.  Let me be brief.  And unapologetic.  I've ordered Christmas cards.  They arrived today.  I will bend over my desk, appending personal greetings to each.  Yes.

Yes.  While the rest of you gather around the Festivus Pole, worshipping the gods of modern, sarcastic, ironic, post-traditional America -- I proudly admit --

In 2023, I once more shall mail Christmas cards! 

Merry Christmas.

Ditching the boot

I'm sure we all lament the narcissistic turn my blog has taken this year.  When, of course, I'm writing anything at all.  Either I'm gloating over my travels, or I'm worrying in print about my disintegrating body.

But after two posts about my Achilles tendon, I can't just leave the subject hanging.  The matter's ready, not yet for closure, but at least for an update.  An encouraging update.

Two weeks ago, I related my submission to "the boot," that orthopedic appliance designed to keep me from using the Achilles tendon and to force me to walk somewhat stiff-legged.  My two weeks of boot purgatory ended on Wednesday -- I had already discarded it for walking inside the house two days earlier.  On Wednesday, I reported for my two-week follow-up medical appointment.  It was a short visit with the podiatrist.

He asked me if I'd experienced pain while wearing the boot?  No.  Had I felt pain walking around the house in normal shoes?  No.  He had me stand on my toes.  Did that hurt?  No, but I lacked strength to get more than half-way up on my affected foot.

Doing fine, he said.  No more boot.  No more icing my leg daily.  Continue five-minute stretches twice a day.  Get out and start walking.  Very short walks at first, but increase by increments.  If it starts hurting while you're walking, cut the length of your walk by half the next day, and continue from that new base point.  See a physical therapist for leg-strengthening exercises.

A walk in the park!  Literally.  I'm up to a mile walk -- in the park -- as of today.  I don't count my steps walking around the house and other short distances.  No pain in my ankle so far.  (But my legs do feel weak and wobbly, after two weeks of ankle immobilization.)

Interestingly enough, after the ankle pain developed in August, I also began having pain in the knee of my other leg.  X-rays showed arthritis, but I'd never before had pain in that area.  Now that I'm walking normally both without a boot and without consciously or unconsciously favoring my ankle, I've noticed the arthritis pain has greatly diminished.  I may not be out of the woods with respect to the arthritis, but it's an interesting development.

I'll continue with the prescribed regimen.  I'm optimistic.  It's so cool  to walk freely, even though I'm far from being back to my normal four to five miles a day.  But I see the progress.  

It's odd to be so happy because I'm able to do, even to a small degree, something I've always enjoyed doing, but have naturally taken for granted.  Walking for pleasure.

Maybe, with continued progress,  I'll be able to return to blogging about the Great Philosophical Issues of our time?  We'll see.

Challis Thanksgiving

Quickly ignoring my unconscionable and increasingly glaring failure to blog with any regularity, I'll mention that I'm looking forward to enjoying Thanksgiving next week near Challis, Idaho, with my sister's family.

I note that I've blogged on the subject of her house and large property on thirteen occasions since 2017 -- most recently this past June when my far-flung family met there for something of a reunion, including, most notably, a rafting run down the Salmon River.  Her property abuts Salmon-Challis National Forest, and abuts it so closely that I can look out my bedroom window at the wire fence a few feet away, marking the boundary.

I've seen the Challis property in sunshine and in snow, when choked with brush fire smoke and when blessed by the dying beams of an eclipsing sun.  There are horses to ride, dogs to run with, cats to pet, and even bunnies -- many of them -- to cuddle.  Not much more that I can say about the property, at least until the next natural phenomenon appears.

More to the point is that I'll be able to enjoy a holiday with my sister and her family.  This time, I'll be the only family member visiting from outside Idaho, but I'll be accompanied on my visit by Suzy -- a long-time family friend whose mental acuity, sharp humor, and physical agility totally belie her ninety years.  Our last get-together with her for Thanksgiving was in Vaison-la-Romaine (Provence), France, in 2009.  

Suzy and I will fly from Seattle to Idaho Falls on Tuesday, where my sister will meet us and drive us the 2½ or 3 hour hour drive to her home.  It will be a short, four-day visit, but one to which I've been looking forward eagerly. 

In Provence, fourteen years ago, we roasted a chicken and called it turkey.   This year, I have dreams of real turkey and dressing, and all the necessary trimmings, in Challis!   

RMS Queen Elizabeth

This week, I reserved a February roomette on Amtrak's "Empire Builder," a two-day trip from Seattle to Chicago.  This completes my West Coast to Chicago "trifecta" -- following similar trips the past two years on the Southwest Chief from Los Angeles and the California Zephyr from San Francisco.

I have no particular objective in going to Chicago -- the reason for the trip being the train travel itself.  I've often compared similar train rides I've taken to cruises for the average guy.  They aren't particularly cheap, but certainly far less than a cruise ship.

The comparison to travel by ship brings to mind my first dreams of travel as a tourist.  First, that is, not as part of family travel with my parents and planned by my parents.  But travel planned -- if only in fantasy -- by myself. and travel to be undertaken alone.

I was 12 or 13.

I was a young kid in the early 1950s, just a few years after World War II, although that war seemed like ancient history to me at the time.  My mother had somehow acquired a travel memoir by an American who had traveled by car up and down Great Britain in those first post-war years.  He visited town after town, discussing each in loving detail.  I was already primed by temperament to be an Anglophile.  Reading his book converted that predisposition into a total love affair.  

I wanted to explore England.  I needed to explore England.  I planned my own itineraries, based on the sights and experiences described by the author.  [Both author and title have been lost in the shifting sands of memory, and my family no longer has the book.]

In another three or four years, I figured, I'd be old enough to rent a car myself in Britain.  The question was how could I get there.

In the early 1950s, airline travel certainly existed, but it was prohibitively expensive for travelers with my resources -- or with my family's resources, for that matter.**  The obvious way to get from America to Britain was by ship.  

Travel by ship in those days differed from passage on cruise liners today.  The ships provided often luxurious accommodations, especially for the two upper classes, but the objective was travel from Point A to Point B.  The same objective as as that of passengers who traveled by rail -- to arrive somewhere as quickly as possible, not (primarily) to gaze at the passing scenery with a cocktail in hand.

Numerous ocean liners sailed down the Hudson River from New York Harbor, heading for Europe.  I think I finally decided on the largest then afloat, Cunard Line's RMS Queen Elizabeth.  The ship was divided into three classes, First, Cabin, and Tourist, and each class occupied its own portion of the ship, with its own dining and other facilities.  Tourist class passage between New York and Southampton was, as I'm certain I recall, $165 each way.  Far beyond my ability to pay, as a 13-year-old.  But maybe by the time I reached 16 or 17?  One could hope.  One could dream.

I also was concerned about the preliminary matter of reaching New York from my small town in Western Washington.  That would be solved by the three-day train ride from Seattle or Portland to New York.  I don't recall the fare at that time, but a year later, when I was 14, I traveled round trip to Chicago by train for $90.  Still pricey, but easier to contemplate.  I'd be traveling in a coach seat the entire way, of course, not in a sleeper.

Today, looking back, I'm fascinated by the style of shipboard accommodations, even for Tourist class.  That didn't interest my junior high school self at all.  I just wanted to get to Britain as cheaply as possible, and an ocean liner was the ticket.  

So did I eventually sail off to Britain on an ocean liner ?  Nope. Just a kid's dream. But eight years later, I did find myself talking at the border to an officer of Her Majesty's Home Office, Immigration Branch.  Not at Southampton, but at New Haven.  Arriving by sea, but on a ferry from Le Havre, not a liner from New York.  I had ended up on the Continent, months before I ever saw England, attending school in Florence.  And I had arrived in Italy not by sea, but on my school's chartered Pan-Am DC-6.  During our three-week semester break, I crossed from France to my childhood dream destination

The ferry was quite nice, but it wasn't the Queen Elizabeth.   But England was England, largely the England I had dreamed of as a 13-year-old lad.  Far more "England" -- still largely its pre-war self (prices still in traditional pounds, shillings, and pence! oh joy!) -- than the modern country millions of tourists visit today.  I'm glad I saw it when I did.

But I'm sorry I didn't arrive on the RMS Queen Elizabeth! 

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Photos

Top -- RMS Queen Elizabeth

2.    -- Tourist class library

3.    -- Tourist class lounge

4.    -- Tourist class Winter Garden restaurant

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**NOTE (11-15-23):  In the 1950s, minimum fares for all airlines were governed by an international body, the IATA.  The IATA had refused to allow air travel that was not first class until July 1952.  The minimum one-way air fare from New York to London was $711 -- in 2023 dollars, $8,255.  But in 1952, Pan Am won the right to offer a "tourist class" level of service for $486 round trip -- $5,642 in today's dollars.  

Still a bit steep, even for the day dreams of a 13-year-old

Giving me the boot

Back in August, just before leaving for Scotland, I posted my lament at having developed tendinitis in my left foot Achilles tendon.  Since my purpose in going to Scotland was to hike eleven miles a day,, my lament was understandable.

The best treatment for Achilles tendon problems is obvious -- give the tendon a rest, let it heal.  And, in fact, I refrained from hiking in Scotland, following my group of friends by bicycle for two or three days, and more usually by hitching rides in our baggage transfer van.

But I didn't really give my ankle a rest.  There were places to go and places to see.  I walked around towns with everyone else, as soon as their day of hiking was over, and I walked around towns just out of curiosity during the days while they hiked.  

Then I went to Lake Como in Italy for two weeks.  Did I spend two weeks resting my ankle?  Are you kidding?  There are so many places to explore.  I even did a rather lengthy and strenuous hike up a hill in Varenna, to explore a castle at the top.  Peer pressure, even when your peers don't mean to be pressuring.

So I get home for two weeks, and then fly to Thailand to join my nephew and his family.  We didn't do anything too strenuous, but we went out for walks around his neighborhood almost daily. 

Finally, my autumn travel completed, I decided to see a podiatrist.  What your ankle needs is rest, if it's going to heal, he advised me.  Unnecessarily.  To encourage me to do so, he insisted that I wear a boot -- a knee-high boot -- all day except when sleeping (or, I assume, showering).  The boot holds the ankle immobile, so that the Achilles tendon isn't being constantly pulled and exercised.  It also makes walking difficult -- not impossible, because I still have to get around the house and go out for groceries and the occasional meal -- but clumsy enough to discourage me from setting out for leisurely walks through the park.

Walks that I greatly miss.  

But the boot will be on for only two weeks, today being my fourth day of confinement.  To back up the discipline of "the boot," the doctor also has prescribed fairly large doses of Prednisone to reduce inflammation.  And demanded that I follow a daily routine of stretching and icing.  

Even after that glorious day when the boot comes off, my tendon will need probably months of special care, exercises, and reduced use.  Hard to predict, the doc says, shaking his head.

So here I am, a blogger who once prided himself on discussing events of general interest, of philosophical import, of humorous daily life -- now confined narcissistically to discussions of his personal health.  

I don't mind growing old, but do I have to be so stereotypical about it?

More later.  Oh yeah, there'll be more.  Bet on it.

Enjoying the burbs of Chiang Mai

Sunday, I arrived home from Thailand.  Three days later, I still can't read for any length of time without falling asleep.  Jet lag, you know.  Let's see if I can at least write a short blog post!

It was a short visit, just six days, making the best of what had been planned as a rather different trip.  But it was a highly enjoyable visit, poignant because it may have been the last such visit to the beautiful northern town of Chiang Mai.

Not that I will never visit Chiang Mai again, but that it will never again be the kind of visit I've enjoyed over the past six years.  My nephew Denny and his daughter moved to Chiang Mai in 2017, where Denny accepted a job teaching middle and high school classes at an international school.  They were joined later, after his marriage, by his wife and his retired father.  Visiting Chiang Mai became an annual family event, until interrupted by the pandemic.  This year's visit was my first since Covid's chokehold on travel.  Sadly, it was to be my last.  Denny has decided to return to teaching in California, together with his family.

Any future visit to Chiang Mai will be as a simple tourist -- not as a family guest.  The difference is significant.

Since 2017, I've become familiar with central Chiang Mai.  Every return to the city is fun and this year Denny and I spent part of a day revisiting favorite areas.  Favorite areas shared with any curious tourist who visits the city.

But Denny lives outside the downtown area, southwest of the airport and close to the hills of the Thanon Thong Chai range running north and south west of Chiang Mai.  One day, we drove into the city on his motorbike, following a bewildering route through a maze of small roads, thus avoiding the semi-freeway -- enjoying a much more beautiful drive.  The city is surrounded by pleasant neighborhoods, such as his -- forested with semi-tropical trees and plants -- in many of which live members of the area's large expatriate community.  Spending your days in these neighborhoods is a very different experience from staying in a hotel in the city itself.

My experience with these neighborhoods has derived from two primary sources, both highly enjoyable.  First, riding on the back of Denny's motorbike as we tooled along small streets and roads, both in the valley and up in the hills.  And second, sometimes related to the first, meals at numerous small, local restaurants and cafés.  These eating spots -- aside from the numerous pizza joints -- all served both Western and Thai food.  They were inexpensive (at least by American standards), beautifully designed for both indoor and outdoor dining, and welcoming to locals, expatriates, and any casual tourists who may have been lucky enough to blunder in.

We also had one luxury dinner at a restaurant close to Denny's house -- the Little Glass House -- specializing in French, Italian, and other Mediterranean dishes.  Thailand's restaurant scene is not provincial, not even in the provinces.

A third source of experience with these suburban neighborhoods is the well-marked maze of bike/pedestrian trails, at least near my nephew's house.  Formal bike trails are almost superfluous, because the narrow streets and roads are so lightly trafficked, but they help guide you through some of the most beautiful, forested areas in the neighborhood.  We went out for walks virtually every day I was there.

Why can't I, as a tourist, simply return to this area on my own?  I could, in theory, but I would sorely miss the guidance of my relatives, taking me to the places best worth visiting.  Also, these are not areas where you find hotels, anymore than you expect to find hotels in an American suburban neighborhood.  I was staying in a rental next door to my nephew's house, rented to me by a couple known by Denny.  There was no neon sign in front advertising "Rooms for Rent."

Having gushed over the charms of suburban Chiang Mai, I should emphasize that the Chiang Mai downtown is full of hotels and bed & breakfasts -- everything from youth hostels to luxury hotels.  And you could easily spend many days enjoying the world of historical and modern day Chiang Mai without ever venturing beyond the ancient walls and moat.  

But just be aware that there's a lot more out there in the open countryside.

Lake Como redux -- 2023

As I prepare to depart Thursday for Singapore and Chiang Mai, Thailand, I recall that two weeks ago today, I was prowling around Milan -- sightseeing, photographing, and killing time before my 9 p.m. flight to London.  Writing this, I suspect I sound like quite the jet-setter, although by personality I'm almost the opposite.  It's just that several trips have come together at nearly the same time.

My visit to Italy was the second chapter of a European adventure that began with the hiking trip in Scotland that I discussed two posts ago.  With two of the Scotland crew -- John and Anne (my college friend Jim's brother and sister) -- we flew to Milan, took the train to Milan's Stazione Centrale railway station, and walked a couple of blocks to the hotel we had stayed in exactly a year before.  There we met Ann and Tony -- the wife and husband, respectively, of John and Anne.

We arrived late.  All of us were hungry, and we went out to dinner at an outdoor café a couple of blocks from our hotel -- a dinner begun at 10 p.m., which made me feel quite European and cosmopolitan.  The following day we relaxed in Milan, and then the next morning we took the short (about 45 minutes) train ride to Como Town, on the southern shores of the lake.  If we hadn't felt it before, we now realized that northern Italy was crammed with tourists this year, even at the relatively late date of September 9.  The line for tickets on the lake ferry was endless, but we persevered as we watched the sailing of several boats, finally got our tickets, and boarded a hydroplane about 3 p.m.  We arrived at Menaggio -- half way up the western shore of the lake -- about an hour and a half later.

After two prior years renting the same villa just north of Menaggio, I felt on very familiar ground by this time.  We walked to the bus station and boarded a bus for the ten minute ride to Rezzonico, where our property's manager was waiting for us with big smiles.

As I approached the entrance to our rented villa, I felt the same as I had the year before -- that I had hardly been away at all, let alone an entire year.  Everything looked the same, everything seemed welcoming. The manager realized there was no need to give us more than a cursory tour of the house we knew so well.  She set us up with reservations for dinner at the local pizzeria, and wished us well.

We had only to choose our rooms, move in our bags, kick back our heels, and await the hour for dinner.  The two bottles of complimentary wine in the kitchen's pantry called out to us.

The only real differences between this year and last were (1) the weather -- beautiful the first three days -- changed to clouds and occasional showers for the rest of the week; (2) we missed the presence of Jim and his son Graham, although the house felt a bit roomier with only the five of us; (3) we felt more at home in a well-remembered and beloved town rather than first-time visitors amazed by the magical world in which we found ourselves; and (4) my legs were still suffering from the infirmities that had plagued me in Scotland, limiting the amount of hiking and walking I could do.

Nevertheless, we repeated our ferry visit to Bellagio and Varenna, across the lake, and walked a considerable amount about those towns.  Assisted by a morning dose of Tylenol, I also joined the others in climbing a steep, rough trail from the town to Varenna Castle, feeling a brief flush of late-life manliness, a feeling I had missed for the most part in Scotland.  John and I also repeated last year's visit to the neighboring town to the north, Cremia, and this year pressed on further along a pleasant lakeside trail to the next village of Pianello.  

Less actively, we discovered a new hotel restaurant about a mile from our villa, which also contained a gelateria with some of the best Italian gelati I'd ever sampled.  And that's a high bar.  And we discovered that our opening day piazzeria also served as an excellent source of caffe and croissants in the mornings.  We wound up our week's stay with a final pasta dinner on Friday.

On Saturday, I sadly bid farewell to our group in Menaggio, where they caught the bus back to Como Town, and thence by train to Milan.  Anne and Tony were leaving for home, but John and Ann were heading south to explore Sicily and the Naples area.  I was sad, as I say, but also eager to greet my sister Kathy, brother Philip, and his wife Vicki, whose ferry pulled into Menaggio in mid-afternoon.  We took the bus to Rezzonico, and almost lost our brother when the bus's doors closed and bus began moving while he was still struggling with baggage.  It was a funny scene, although maybe only in retrospect. 

Check-in formalities were repeated, and Philip and Vicki -- their first visit to Lake Como -- began settling in and getting a feel for the area.  A photo from their first day shows Philip already stretched out on a lounge in our patio area, soaking in the sun.

Unfortunately, not a lot of sun soaking was available during this second week.  The occasional showers of the first week became more frequent.  I woke up about 3 a.m. Wednesday to the most dazzling lightning display I'd ever witnessed.  The room was lit non-stop for about a half hour, and the roar of thunder was constant.  We had occasional thunder and lightning throughout the rest of the week, but the rain that fell seemed to dry surprisingly quickly, so we still managed to get out and around quite a bit.

While Philip and Vicki were otherwise engaged, Kathy and I repeated the hike to Pianello that John and I had done the prior week.  Tylenol again came to my rescue and made the hike easy and enjoyable. 

We repeated the visit to Bellagio and Varenna (but not the climb to the Castle), where the crowds were even denser than they had been the week before.  It was a relief to spend the rest of the week in the far more semi-rural atmosphere of our village and its surroundings.  We did make an enjoyable visit (as had the group in the first week) to the Swiss city of Lugano, a beautiful lake-side town a little over an hour's bus ride from Menaggio.  We had a great lunch.  And then were totally drenched during our half hour return to the bus stop for the ride home, but the downpour seemed funny, rather than a disaster.  (We are all former Pacific Northwest residents, after all.)

That same night, we had our celebratory dinner -- as we had with both weeks the prior year -- at the family-run restaurant Lauro in the village.  As always, a wonderful meal in a casual but atmospheric setting.

So, again it was Saturday morning.  Kathy's knee had been acting up, and so we skipped the ferry and took the bus all the way from Rezzonico to the train station in Como Town, and then the train back to Milan.  That night, we had the best meal of either week at the restaurant near the station in which our second week's group had dined in 2022.  The next day, we each headed home, our planes leaving at widely different times.  Mine was the last, leaving at 9 p.m. for London, where I spent the night at the Terminal 5 airport hotel before leaving for Seattle the next morning.

An excellent two weeks.  Will there be a fourth consecutive year at the same Lake Como villa?  When I returned home, I was shocked to see that the first three weeks of September 2024 were already booked, as was the third week of August.  In panic, I plunked down a deposit to reserve the villa for the last week of August. 

So I guess the answer, quite probably, is "yes."

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Photo -- Lake Como displays a different mood during the second week from the sunny, peaceful face it had shown in past years.  But even in a storm, it's a highly attractive locale.

Singapore "Swing"

Barely back from Milan and Lake Como, with my circadian rhythms still somewhat confused, I leave next week for Singapore, and then on to Chiang Mai, Thailand.

I spend only one night in Singapore, between flights, and you might well ask me why I'm taking this circuitous route.  Because of a cooler, more complicated plan that my sister and I originally planned together with my nephew and his wife.  My nephew lives and teaches in Chiang Mai.

The idea was to meet in Singapore, explore it a little (I'd been there a couple of times before, but never for long), and then take the train through Malaysia to Bangkok, stopping along the way to see a bit of Malaysia and, perhaps, sample their beaches.  I'd fly home from Bangkok, and the others would proceed to Chiang Mai.

Unfortunately, for various reasons my sister was unable to make the trip at the last minute, but I already had the nonrefundable airline reservations.  So I'll stay overnight in Singapore, then fly via Bangkok to Chiang Mai.  I'll spend a week in that very attractive and relaxing town, socializing with my nephew, who will be on vacation, and then fly to Bangkok to connect with my previously booked flight home to Seattle.

I'll be gone about ten days, only six of which will be in Chiang Mai.  The rest of my time I'll be flying, cooling my heels in airports, and staying in hotels -- both in Singapore and in Seoul airport's 12-hour-stay, inside-security hotel which exists for the exclusive use of persons in transit.  I'll have a 14-hour stay in Seoul between my flight from Bangkok and my flight to Seattle.

This isn't an itinerary that I ever would have arranged from the outset, but it evolved organically out of unexpected events.  But it will be fun, and the heart of the original plan -- to spend time with my nephew and his family -- remains intact. 

There will be photos, of course.  I'd post of photo of me downing a Singapore Sling at the Raffles bar in Singapore, but the drink is vastly overrated.  I'll stick to gin and tonics.

When Scottish schemes "gang agley"

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

--Robert Burns

It's been a  month since my last post, a hopeful essay on how I planned to hang out with fellow hikers on Scotland's Rob Roy Way -- without actually hiking.  I returned from Europe on Monday, and now have overcome my jet lag well enough to tell you how it all went.

And, in general, it went well -- despite certain aspects of my "scheme" that did "gang agley."  First, and least surprising, it often was raining.  In Scotland in early September!  Are we surprised?  But we always make our plans hoping for the most optimistic conditions.  Secondly, my irritated right foot's Achilles tendon strain somehow expanded to include pain and stiffness in both legs, with a bizarre swelling in my left leg.  Third, under the conditions of point 2 above, I wasn't able to bike the entire trail.  And fourth, despite every immunization possible, and a positive Covid test result in May, I managed to contract a very mild case of Covid while in Scotland -- the symptoms were primarily frequent coughing at night while I attempted to sleep.

But despite these hurdles, I enjoyed the company of the friends I was with, I enjoyed the towns in which we spent each night, and I enjoyed -- as always -- Scotland itself.

As explained in the last post, along with a woman who had arthritis in her knee, I rode in the baggage transport van the first two days of the hike.  The first day, we arrived in Aberfoyle at around 10 a.m., and filled the hours until our friends came dragging in on foot enjoying  coffee and sweet rolls together, and then separating to explore the small town on our own.  I spent much of the time in a beautiful city park, and then a cafe, reading a novel on my Kindle.  The second day, we drove to Callender, where I was to rent a bike.  The van driver very considerately offered to drive me directly to the bike rental facility, several miles out of town.  The staff did an excellent job of choosing the best bike for me, considering my plans for its use.  They gave me advice, and had me on the road within an hour.  The trail at this point was essentially a small paved road, and rather than drive into Callender, I chose to head the other direction, back toward Aberfoyle, and see whether I could meet the gang.  I waited for some time at what seemed a reasonable meeting spot, until finally I intercepted text messages between members of the party complaining that they were lost.  

Being "lost" on the bike/pedestrian trail between Aberfoyle and Callender isn't the same as being lost in the Cascade Mountains of Washington, but I could see a delay developing.  I biked back the way I'd come, entered Callender and located the B&B where we would be spending the night, and then returned to my novel.

The next two days --to Strathyre and then to Killin -- were the most fun of the Rob Roy experience for me and my bike.  Part of the time I was biking along with my fellow hikers, and at other points I was off on my own, following a bike trail that ventured far away from the trail followed by the hikers.

In Killin, we were scheduled to spend two nights, because of the lack of accommodations available at Ardtalnaig -- a van was to take the hikers back at the end of the first day, and return them to the same spot the next morning.   But apparently the hike into Killin had been exhausting, and everyone chose to take a day off hiking and just hang around Killin.  Which was fine with me.

I studied carefully the route for the final two days, from Ardtalnaig to Aberfeldy, and then to Pitlochry, and realized that even the bike route was beyond my present abilities -- because of steepness and roughness of portions of the trail, and the difficulty I was having in my legs and the symptoms that I hadn't yet learned were symptoms of Covid.  So I turned my bike over to the van company, who agreed to return it to the rental facility, and happily rode with my fellow disabled traveler to each city.

It's easy to focus on the logistics and pain in getting from one day's rest to the next, rather on the beauty of the country in which one travels.  And most of the country was truly beautiful, even -- or maybe especially -- in the drizzle.  I have only to look back on my photos to marvel at how little much of the Rob Roy Way and its villages have changed over the decades.  I'd love to go back, in better physical condition, and do the actual walk, as planned.  

So "gang agley" doesn't always result in "grief an' pain."

The fact that I feel so satisfied with the my Scotland experience this year, despite all that went "agley," was largely made possible by the advice and help offered by the company that organized the hike and lined up our accommodations.  I'll give them a free plug -- Mickledore Walking Holidays in Keswick, Cumbria.  This was the ninth walk in Britain I've done with assistance from Mickledore, beginning with the Hadrian's Wall hike in 2010.  They have never disappointed me.  

We assembled our last night in Pitlochry, after which three of our group took the train to Glasgow, from which they flew home.  We three others, however, took another train to London, from where we flew to Milan.  But that's another story, to be told in the next post!

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Photo -- Shot from my bike, en route to Killin.

Achilles troubles

Sunday I fly out of Seattle to London, with a tightly connecting flight to Glasgow.  Ah, yes, were it only that tight connection that was of concern this vacation season.

Four weeks ago to the day, I blogged on the horrors of my pulled groin muscle, and its potential effect on my travel plans.  I foresaw that I might not always be able to complete the eleven miles (on average) required on each day's walk, over a seven day period, as our group of six trudged along the Rob Roy Way in southern Scotland.    But I rejoiced that this would be one of the easiest hikes I'd ever attempted in Britain, and that I'd usually be close enough to a road to complete the day's journey by summoned taxi, if necessary.

Well, the groin strain isn't entirely healed -- I still get twinges with exertion -- but something funny has happened since that post.  Even as I drastically reduced my walking distance each day, I developed inexplicable pain in my Achilles tendon, pain that has increased in intensity day by day.

I really don't see how I could even get started on an eleven-mile walk now.  Especially when the night passed swiftly and the time for the second day's walk began.  I teetered on the brink of canceling my trip to Scotland.  I might well have done so if I didn't have a two-week stay in Italy, at Lake Como, attached to the end of it --  a situation where I'll be with others and in charge of our accommodations and, to some extent, although far less than I like to believe, looked to as the source of everyone's daily adventures and entertainment.

My original Plan B was to rely entirely on taxis, probably not even trying to begin a day's walk.  But after much study, and a happy discussion by phone with the British organization that puts these walks together, I've decided to change the Hike to Bike.  The Rob Roy Way -- the walk I have scheduled -- has been designed to accommodate both walkers and bikers.  The more rugged and steep portions of the hike -- i.e., the most scenic portions -- mainly the final two days, are bypassed by paved bike trails with fewer changes in elevation.

I won't have a bike until the end of the second day of hiking, at Callander, where there's a large bicycle shop and rental facility.  I've been assured that the company that hauls our baggage from one B&B or small hotel to another will be happy to carry me those first two days if I don't think I can walk them.  

Once we leave Callander, I hope to be able to coast along with the walkers, on a route that primarily follows small roads or abandoned railway rights of way.  The last couple of days, the bike trail diverges considerably from the hiking route -- hikers leaving well-defined trails behind and climbing across boggy moors and over small creeks -- but then joins up with it again as we near the end of each day's journey.

This alternative sounds perfect, given my new disability -- although I'm aware that biking is also a source of irritation to the Achilles tendon.  But at least I'll be on somewhat easier terrain, and with more mileage gained per each stretch of my tendons.  My last long-distance biking was in 1998, when my nephew and I biked with a guided group in southern China.  We rode 50 miles the first day, in 95 degree heat.  But I was younger then, and injury-free..  In 2023, I'm holding my breath about negotiating eleven miles in 60-degree Scottish drizzle.

On advice of one of my fellow hikers, I've also discovered the hitherto unknown existence of Lidocaine topical patches.  They don't cure a strained Achilles tendon, but they dull the pain to the point that you hardly realize the damage you're probably doing to your body.

And on that happy note, I bring this post to a close.  If I can just survive the next couple of weeks, I will find myself stretched out contentedly in the sun on the shores of Lake Como, a glass of soothing Italian wine in hand.

Vaccine choices

One week ago, I had a Covid booster shot.  This was my sixth Covid vaccination, my fourth booster, my second "bivalent" booster.  

I scheduled it for when I did, knowing full well that it was designed to meet the variants current in October 2022, when I had my first bivalent vaccination, and that updated vaccine would be available in September.  

It was a difficult decision, but it had been over ten months since my last booster shot, and I will be leaving for a month in Europe a week from Sunday.  The shot I received a week ago will reach its maximum effect on my immunity in another week -- two days before my departure.  On the other hand, I had a mild case of Covid, of whatever flavor, two months ago, which supposedly reinvigorated my immune responses.

The variant now predominant in the United States is the new EG.5 mutation.  One of its features is a change in its structure that helps it to evade the antibodies developed in response to prior vaccines and from exposure to prior variants.  Nevertheless, experts so far have seen no reason to believe that it is more contagious than prior variants, nor more serious in its effects.  It's just there, with our having less ready-made immune protection from it.

It's hard for a layman to decide how to respond, especially when experts so far have little data on which to rely.  Within minutes of receiving the vaccine, I was already second-guessing my decision not to wait until after I had returned from Europe, when the updated vaccine would be available.  I now won't be able to receive the new vaccine before mid-December.  

The day after I received my vaccination, the New York Times quoted Dr. Eric Topol of Scripps Research in La Jolla, California:

“My main concern is for the people at high risk,” Dr. Topol said. “The vaccines that they’ve had are too far removed from where the virus is right now and where it’s going.”

Well.  Thanks, Doc!  I'm certainly old enough to be at "high risk."  And I already find myself blaming "long Covid" from my May infection for my recent lack of blog productivity!  

Of course, life is full of hazards, and we can't escape them all.  But I think I'll go back to wearing masks.  Maybe not as compulsively and automatically as I did before the first vaccine was released, but at least in seriously crowded indoor contexts.     

Lahaina Town

From the 1970s until my mother's death in 2003, our family enjoyed a long succession of family vacations on Maui, almost always at the little bay of Napili.  In the early years, there was little development -- touristic -- between Napili and the nearest town, Lahaina, about 6½ miles to the south.

I have hundreds of photos of all those visits, but they are photos primarily of the ocean scenes viewed from our beach; our hikes, especially into Haleakala crater; and the ever changing faces of our family members -- our middle aged parents becoming older, ourselves becoming middle aged or older; and our children being born, one after another, and transforming into first teenagers and then young adults.

Lahaina was always our big landmark, after arrival on Maui, telling us that we were three-fourths of the way to Napili from the airport.  No matter how young or how old we were, we felt the excitement grow.  And at least once during our Napili stay, we would venture down to Lahaina Town, just to look around, mingle with the crowds, immerse ourselves in what we took to be the "real Hawaii" ("real" to us, despite the swarms of tourists); and read signs on historic buildings, dating back to whaling days and maybe even days before Hawaii became an American territory.

Often, but not always, we would have a beer (or other libation) and a burger in what eventually was named "Cheeseburger in Paradise" -- an upscale dive bar (if that makes sense) sitting on the second floor of an old wood-framed building, open to the trade winds, with a view of the ocean waves rolling ashore.

But for some reason, we don't have that many photos of Lahaina.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe we tended to focus on photos of ourselves and of our ever-evolving bodies and faces, and of the hikes we went on, while we still had the strength and enthusiasm to undertake hikes, sensing that we would not always be young, nor some of us always alive.  And photos of the beach and ocean and sunsets, because that's what one took photos of when he went anywhere in Hawaii. 

But Lahaina, beloved Lahaina, seemed a permanent fixture, its best features preserved by regulation.  For us, it had always been there, and would always be there.  The people changed, the density of the crowds definitely increased, but Lahaina itself remained unchanging.  Recognizable in old photos in the same way as Paris and Rome are seemingly eternal and unchanging, while the society occupying them may change radically.  As permanent a sight as the islands of Moloka'i and Lanai across the straits.

I last visited Lahaina this past January, celebrating the 80th birthday of twin college friends who over the years had become virtual family members.  We walked the streets -- well, Front Street, which was the street -- more crowded than ever, and yet always the same.  We visited the parrot man, who has showed off his parrots to at least a generation of tourists, standing in the same location.  Did he ever sell a parrot?  Did he want to?  I never knew, and now I'll never know.

We visited an art gallery, displaying a number of interesting paintings exhibited for sale.  The gallery owner spent a lot of time with us, discussing the art, although it was obvious that we had neither the money nor the inclination to make a purchase.  Now it's all gone.

The great banyan tree, at one end of town, spread its branches over an entire park, providing shade and beauty to the people below.  Up in flames, although I understand that some have hope that it may still live on in some form.

The historical buildings along the waterfront, reminding us that Lahaina was a royal capital, a governmental outpost, and a whaling port long before it became -- like so many other important cities around the world -- primarily a tourist destination.  Important reminders of the history of a kingdom, a territory, and a state wiped off the face of the map in minutes.

And of course Cheeseburger in Paradise?  In a wood building on Front Street, surrounded by other wood buildings?  It never had a chance.  I had my last burger and drank my last drink there ever in mid-January 2023.  I'm glad I didn't realize it at the time.

Lahaina.  We should have appreciated you even more than we did, back when we had the chance.  We should have visited you more than once per visit to Maui.  We should have taken more photos.

But we thought you'd always be there.  We thought you'd never change.  You'd remain in place forever, placidly overlooking the harbor where whalers once docked, even while we and our own loved ones changed and passed from the scene.  

Lahina Town.  R.I.P.

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Photos: 
Top -- Our last meal at Cheeseburgers in Paradise
Middle -- A cheesy mural over the bar in the Pioneer Inn
Bottom -- The beloved Parrot Man displays his wares  

Youth hostels

Tuesday's New York Times contained a story entitled "European Cities Pile on Tourist Taxes."  Cities across the continent are developing ways to obtain money from tourists who admire the cities' historical and scenic sights, and may or may not spend much money while so doing.  Of special concern have been the passengers on cruise ships who sleep on board, and come ashore in vast numbers to crowd the streets and irritate both the residents and the more traditional hotel-oriented tourists.

Cities, both in America and abroad, have long charged hotel taxes, which are tacked onto your bill and may or may not be revealed in advance.  But now many cities -- the article mentioned Barcelona, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, and Dubrovnik -- are imposing or considering visitor taxes on all non-residents who visit the city.  How will the visitor taxes be enforced?  The article didn't discuss that question.  Clearly, visits by cruise ship passengers can be assessed to the ship as passengers disembark.  And hotel guests can be assessed tourist taxes along with the accommodation taxes they already pay.  What about "homeless visitors," the kids who (like me in my youth) slept in a park and hoped to evade police harassment? 

And how about youth hostel guests?

Which brings me to my real topic -- what will these taxes do to the kids who visit Europe on the cheap?  Who in the 1970s were called the "Europe on $10 [or $5] a day" crowd?  The ones who stayed in youth hostels, cooked some of their own breakfasts, did "chores," and moved on -- all for what in, say 1970, would be only a couple of dollars or less a night?

Youth hostels first originated in 1909, but really caught on in the 1930s.  For Americans, hosteling became known -- by those few who traveled to Europe -- not long after the end of World War II.  By the time I first traveled to Europe, as a college student in 1961, hostels were well established internationally, with a branch in the United States.  The American hostel association had few actual hostels, mainly in New England, and existed largely to provide reciprocal privileges in European hostels to American kids.

And it was "kids" who primarily used the hostels.  They were "youth" hostels, after all.  The European hosteling movement promoted hostels as places where German and French young people, rich travelers and poor travelers, young people of all sorts, could rub shoulders, meet, talk, and develop a sense of solidarity.  Early photos show users of hostels as mainly young bicycle riders.  Off-road hiking was less prevalent, and travel by automobile was prohibited, or at least discouraged, by hostel rules.

I obtained my first hostel membership card in 1961.  With three other friends, I had my first hostel experience staying in Interlaken a couple of nights.  We rented bikes and biked around Lake Thun.  It was an exciting and memorable experience -- both the biking and the hosteling.  I spent three weeks between terms traveling solo in England, and found hostels to be easily accessible, full of people my own age, and less intimidating than normal hotels.

In 1970, I traveled for six weeks in Europe, staying almost exclusively in hostels.  In 1961, I had been a bit of an oddity in European hostels.  By 1970, American young people were flooding Europe, and found common ground with European youth with similar social and political ideals.  Traveling alone, as I did in 1970, I would have felt often quite lonely if it hadn't been for the camaraderie among hostel visitors, many of whom were also traveling alone and looking for company.

The new visitor taxes are running about $3 per night.  This sounds minimal, but for a kid bumming around Europe on a tight budget, it could be nearly prohibitive.  But then I wonder whether that type of young tourist still exists.  The prevalence of iPhones makes it easy to avoid our practice fifty years ago of simply arriving in a city and hunting for the nearest hostel (or lining up at the tourist office for assignment to a cheap hotel).  Everyone, I assume, today can find hotels in any price range on-line and reserve them in advance.  

But more to the point, really, is the fact that everyone -- including the kind of college students apt to travel in Europe -- has far more available cash -- or credit card resources -- than we did in 1970.  Everything's different.  I sent frequent post cards home, but was essentially cut off from my family for however long I was traveling.  Kids now can call home, without charge, whenever they feel like it.  And their parents can call them.  Do kids still want the companionship of other kids of all nationalities and social statuses that hostels provided?  Are they still willing to sleep in bunk beds in large dormitories?  (Although some hostels were already beginning to offer smaller rooms for increased prices by 1970 (see inset above).)

A brief survey of articles on-line convinces me that hosteling is still very much alive.  The social advantages derived from group  housing are still appreciated.  In fact, hostels are no longer "youth" hostels, but are sought out by travelers of all ages, young and old, including many who could easily afford a conventional hotel.  Today's more affluent tourists -- of all ages -- can probably afford another three bucks a night in order to help host cities maintain the atmosphere and facilities that attract tourists in the first place.

My fears on behalf of youth hostels probably are merely the nostalgia of an old-timer, looking back on the joys of his youth, when things seemed "different.".  And a reflection of the fact that he himself hasn't taken advantage of the warm hospitality of hostels for too long a time.  Young people change, but their basic needs and desires remain pretty much constant.  

Three cheers for hostels!  And for the kind of people, young and old, who choose to use them.

Rob Roy

Rob Roy.  The name rings a bell.  As well it might, since I'll be hiking the "Rob Roy Way" in Scotland in another month.

But what do I know about Rob Roy.  And why is the Scotland trail named after him?  I've done a little research, just enough so that I have some idea of who the gentleman was.  But it all still seems somewhat nebulous.

Rob Roy was a member of the MacGregor clan.  He was born in 1671, and was named Robert Roy MacGregor.  Or, as the Scots put it in Gaelic, Raibeart Ruadh MacGriogair.  "Ruadh" means "red" in Gaelic, and Rob Roy had reddish hair, so I'm not sure whether "Roy" was his name from birth, or whether it was a later descriptive.  

Rob Roy and his family were quite wealthy.  He had at least seven houses scattered throughout the area east of Loch Lomond.  He was a cattle drover (or dealer), and also ran a protection racket with respect to the herds of his neighbors.  This was like insurance, except that if the insurance premium wasn't paid the "insurable event" mysteriously occurred and cattle "disappeared."  This racket was apparently quite common, and was no more frowned upon than were smuggling and shipwreck salvage among the coastal residents of Cornwall.

The MacGregors were Jacobins -- supporters of first the "Old Pretender" and then Bonnie Prince Charlie as kings of Scotland, in opposition to the successors of James II of England who had also ruled as James VI of Scotland.  After the MacGregors participated in a losing battle with England in 1689, they were banned from using the MacGregor surname, and any legal documents using that name were void.

The proscription of the MacGregor name was an outrage, of course, but Rob Roy's troubles appear to have arisen from more local problems.  His own cattle ran afoul of someone else's cattle rustling, and he became bankrupt in 1712.  His creditor had him outlawed as a result, and his property was seized and many of his houses were destroyed.

As an outlaw, Rob Roy wandered through "Rob Roy country," evading capture.  He was captured twice and escaped custody twice.  Eventually, he was pardoned by King George I in 1725, and apparently lived out the remaining nine years of his life in peace, dying at the age of 61.

He is considered a folk hero in Scotland, and the story of his life was popularized by a number of authors, arousing romantic sentiments that resulted in increased nineteenth century tourism from England to the Rob Roy country.  The very country through which I'm about to hike next month.

The most famous of the accounts of Rob Roy's life is Sir Walter Scott's fictionalized novel Rob Roy (1817).  I've somehow spent my life avoiding any attempt to read any of Sir Walter's novels or poetry, and I don't have the stamina to begin now.  (I have watched Donizetti's opera Lucia di Lammermoor, based on Sir Walter Scott's The Bride of Lammermoor.  Beautiful opera, but I don't think that counts.)

More accessible, perhaps, is Disney's 1953 movie Rob Roy, the Highland Rogue.  Maybe before I fly off to Glasgow, I'll check and see whether that film is available on Amazon.  I'm traveling with friends (fellow Americans), and I don't want my ignorance of the history of Rob Roy country to appear complete!

The spirit's willing, but ...

A few months ago -- I can't be more precise -- I tried rising from the floor with my legs crossed.  A maneuver that I've performed easily since childhood.  A sudden pain in my left leg startled me, but it seemed to ease off.  Nothing to be concerned about.

Or so I thought.  The pain became more and more frequent, centered on the inside of my thigh.  After a while, I developed a separate pain in my left lower abdomen.  I didn't connect the two problems; I instead was concerned that I had some problem -- hopefully not cancer -- in my bowels.  

Eventually, however, I realized that the two pains were connected, and seemed to merge. 

Some of us would have immediately seen a doctor, or a physical therapist.  I have my own way of handling such problems, which is to ignore them -- confident that the pain will go away if I think happy thoughts.  This time, my confidence was misplaced.  Continuing to walk daily between four and six miles did not solve my problems.  Arguably, it intensified them.

Walking itself -- for a long time -- remained painless; it was only other motions of my body that were painful.  Such as, significantly, touching my knees together.  Which is, of course, a characteristic, almost diagnostic symptom of ....

Groin muscle strain or injury!

In 31 days, I fly to Scotland for a week's hike, joining four friends with whom I've done similar hikes in the past.  At the conclusion of the hike, I fly to Milan, and thence to Lake Como for two weeks. This will be my third consecutive year hanging out at Lake Como with friends and relatives, the third year staying at the same rental house on the western lakeshore.  A significant activity during such visits to Lake Como has been day hikes -- along the lake shore and into the hills behind the lake.  

Beginning yesterday, I ceased my daily walks, in the hope that increased rest would hasten signs of improvement, signs that so far have been sorely [sic] absent.  Even if successful, this strategy will have the unfortunate side effect of weakening the leg muscles that I need for hikes in Scotland, hikes averaging ten miles a day.  

Luckily, however, this Scottish hike -- the "Rob Roy Way" -- will be one of the least demanding of the many British hikes I've undertaken over the past twelve years.  Also, it will be no pioneering expedition into the depths of wilderness.  As I've pointed out to my fellow hikers, at no point along the hike will we be far from taxi service.  If worse comes to worst, I can alternate hikes and taxi rides from inn to inn, still enjoying the evening meals and conversations in the company of my friends.

Still, after decades of hiking in foreign climes, I have to wonder whether my travels are now hexed.  Last year, a dislocated shoulder while -- humiliating to admit -- emerging from a Milan hotel bathtub.  This year, a groin strain before the hike even begins, while merely attempting to stand up.  Where does it all end?  Is my body offering pointed warnings that I should observe?  What next?  Will I be "hiking" by use of a walker?  Or merrily rolling down the trail in a wheelchair?

How can a young lad like myself end up so betrayed by his own well-conditioned body?  So I delude myself, ignoring my actual age.

The hike goes on.  The lakeshore stay remains scheduled.  More details as events warrant.

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Photo: Stock photo, not the author!

Progress on the Montlake lid

Tonight at 11 p.m., the Montlake Boulevard connection between the Montlake neighborhood (and neighborhoods to the south) with the area north of the ship canal will be severed.  

For me, this means that for ten days I'll be unable to drive north to University Village shopping center or to Burgermaster -- my go-to place for leisurely breakfasts and tasty lunches -- unless I make an absurdly long detour through congested traffic to cross the University Bridge and navigate the traffic of the University District..  I doubt that I'll bother.  As I complained on Facebook, going for breakfast or shopping for groceries at my usual venues over the next ten days would be like driving from Seattle to Chicago, by way of New Orleans.

So what's happening and why?  Unless you live in Seattle, you're really not interested in the details.  But the Montlake lid project is a portion of an on-going, multi-decade reconstruction of the State Highway 520 connection between I-5 in Seattle and the communities on the east side of Lake Washington.  

We in Montlake rose in outrage at the disturbance expected as this project plowed its way through our neighborhood.  To pacify us, the state agreed to a number of amenities, including a lid over a portion of the new 520, an extensive network of bicycle/pedestrian pathways, and attractive landscaping.

The Montlake lid work began in November 2018, and should be completed some time next year.  I drive and/or walk through the heart of the mess -- with traffic funneled through a contorted re-routing of Montlake Boulevard -- virtually every day.  Following the progress of the construction has been interesting, but its completion will be warmly welcomed.

The reason for the ten-day closing that begins tonight is primarily to restore Montlake Boulevard to its normal non-contorted route, and thus open the full extent of the lid space that will ultimately be landscaped as a park.

I've never quite figured out all the routings planned for the various lanes of SR 520's through traffic, for the surface streets in the neighborhood, including Montlake Boulevard and Lake Washington Boulevard, and for the much-welcomed pedestrian and bike paths.  Not even careful study of the map above fully satisfies me.  But, once completed, I know that all will become clear, and most of us in Montlake will happily welcome the changes.

I eagerly look forward even to simply the re-opening of Montlake Boulevard on July 24 -- not just for return to convenient access to  the north, but also to visualize more clearly -- on the ground, rather than just on maps -- where this project is heading.