"Just a cold"

I feel like Lazarus -- dazed, shaking off my shroud and bindings, blinking in the light of day, and wondering, "What hit me?"

Well, that's an exaggeration.  On the long spectrum of human illness and suffering, I've barely inched my way on board.  Having measles in first grade was probably the "high" point of my acquaintance with human illness, ameliorated by ample middle class comforts, bowls of chicken soup, and the attention of a loving family.  

So, of what do I now complain?

The common cold.

"Serious" illness is judged by what you're used to, right?  Everything is relative.  Me, I haven't had even a common cold for several years.  Occasionally, I've felt one coming on, but, before I could really worry, I'd suddenly snap back to normal.  I made the reasonable deduction that I had a killer immune system, one that was routinely flexing its muscle and freezing invading viruses in their tracks.  And maybe I did, and it was.

Or maybe I'd just kept myself so cosseted in masks since the winter of 2020 that my "killer" immune system hadn't really put to the test.  Sort of like the Russian army.

But I'm wandering.  There's something else I want to mention. In my last post, some five days ago, I explained that I was about to have an upper molar extracted.  Let me tell you that oral surgery is pretty amazing nowadays.  I had the option of general anesthetic, which I declined.  I'm glad I did.  As in most dental procedures, the worst part was the shot of Novocaine, or whatever local anesthetic he was using.  After that, it was just a physical struggle between my extremely pleasant Asian-American DDS/MD and my tooth.  Brute strength.  I was merely an interested observer to the prize fight being conducted inside my mouth.

The tooth lost, of course, and the struggle lasted no more than ten minutes.  I was put on a regimen of ibuprofen which, after a day, I converted to Tylenol.

But even as the good doctor was struggling with my tooth, the insidious cold viruses were working their way through my system.  By the end of the day, I could hardly force myself to attend to the various post-op precautions prescribed by the doctor -- antibiotics, pain medication, saline mouth-washings.  My head was hurting, my nose was flowing like the Columbia River, I was coughing continually, and I was sneezing more times per day than I ever had before, at least within my memory.  I lay awake half the night; I slept half the day.

I was a mess.

The constellation of symptoms clearly suggested Covid.  Friday I had a PCR test run, which came back negative the following day.  I almost had hoped for it to be Covid -- at least my misery would have an impressive name.  I knew that a negative test result, even from a PCR test, can be undependable, and should be repeated after a day or so.  And so I thought I'd have myself retested today after the virus had become more virulent (so to speak) and detectable.

But this morning, I woke up rested.  Still coughing occasionally, still sneezing a bit, but obviously past the crisis stage of a cold and into my antibodies' mop-up operations.  I've felt fine all day -- still blowing and wiping my nose occasionally, but not every five minutes.  I went for my first walk, just before writing this little essay -- a mere one mile, a mile that left me exhausted and breathing a bit heavily.  But a mile that I wouldn't have attempted 24 hours earlier.

So, to paraphrase Dr. Freud, sometimes a cold is just a cold.  I look forward to being completely back to normal in another day or two.  And I've already planned a drive to the beach next Monday.

You just can't stop a guy with a Killer Immune System.  Said Lazarus, grinning as he walked into the bright sunlight.

Dental surgery

Two hours until "dental surgery."  That means yanking out one of my molars.  "Extracting" it, to put it in polite dental terms.

Why, you  may ask?  Your curiosity at fever pitch?  Because one of the roots, beneath the gum line, is badly decayed.  It's never really bothered me; but when I use a dental pick at night, I have to be careful where I stick it or I do get a jolt of pain.

My dentist told me it was either an extraction, or, for considerably more money, a root canal and crown.  But I had long ago lost the opposing molar -- at the far rear of my jaw -- and the tooth served no functional purpose.  In other words, I didn't chew with it.

I mulled the choice over for several months.  I like the cheaper price, but I hate losing any portion of my body, a valued part of me ever since my "12-year-molars" began coming in, a large number of decades ago.   (The offending tooth is #15, in case I have any curious dentists among my readership.)  And the dentist recommended the extraction.

So I went to the pharmacy and loaded up with antibiotics (of which I've just taken the first two pills), ibuprofen, and heavy duty opiates (yikes!)  Just fifteen pills of the latter, along with grave instructions on the various dangers to which even proper use of the drug could subject me.  Plus a jug of evil-looking mouthwash.

So.  I've taken my first pills (the antibiotics).  I've had what I refer to as my "last meal"  (I was advised to eat before the appointment; the instructions declined to give reasons for this, but I can read between the lines.)  I have opiates in hand.  And I'll soon be on my way to meet my Doom.

In case this, my 1,477th post, should be my last -- it's been fun guys.  Have a nice life, and chew while you still can. 

Padded book reports

Ever since I began this blog, I've written "reviews" of books I've read and enjoyed -- or at least of books that have stirred my interest.  I wasn't a literature major in college, and I don't have a mastery of the technical terms used in analyzing serious fiction.

What I have done is talk about the story, the plot.  Sometimes I tie certain aspects of the book into my own life experiences.  Sometimes I question the believability of portions of the plot, or of the dialogue of the characters.  But mainly -- since I rarely write about books that didn't seem worth my time by the time I finished them -- I just want to give my readers an incentive to read the book themselves, to be attracted by some of the same features that grabbed my own attention.

Only once have I been publicly criticized, and that was on Goodreads.  A reader of one of my reviews once commented, nicely, that it wasn't really a "review."  I sort of agreed -- too much summarization and too little critiquing is what I think he meant.  I worried a bit.  Lately, I find myself more often calling my reviews "impressions."  Which is what they really are.

Today, I read a letter to the editors of the New York Times Book Review, dealing with this issue.  The correspondent complains in part:

I read books to immerse myself in the world and characters the author creates, and I know that others read for the same reason.  So why do you publish reviews that summarize the plot?  And why do you expect so little from your reviewers that they seem comfortable turning in what amounts to a padded book report?

Ouch!

As for the failure to offer "spoiler alerts," mea culpa.  Consider this short essay to be a general spoiler alert for all my reviews, past and future.  If you're worried that I might give away too much of the plot, read them no more.

But my general reaction to this letter was happiness.  Happiness to discover that the reviewers of the prestigious NYT Book Review are being criticized for the same failings as those I suspect of myself.  I'm in good company.

Please continue to enjoy my occasional "padded book reports."

Unreachable Acadia

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley.

If my travel scheme hadn't gang a-gley, I would, as I write this, be flying home to Seattle from Newark, New Jersey, after a joyous 2½ days of frolic amongst the bucolic pleasures of Acadia National Park, and the more sophisticated delights of adjacent Bar Harbor, Maine.  Instead, you find me sitting at home in Seattle, churning out this dismal blog essay.

I've described my proposed trip in earlier posts.  I would fly Monday to Newark on Alaska Airlines, transfer to United Airlines for a connecting flight to Portland, Maine, and drive the following day to Bar Harbor.  On Friday, I would reverse the order and arrive back in Seattle tonight (Friday).

Instead, as I was aboard my plane, about to depart Seattle, I received a text from United advising me that my flight to Portland had been canceled because of "severe weather conditions."  Oddly enough, these severe conditions did not show up on either my Apple weather app, or on Yahoo! Weather.  

United had been cancelling evening flights to Portland for several days, because of "severe weather conditions," and so I wasn't surprised.  The night before, I had located one seat available on a Tuesday morning flight, and had booked it as a back-up.  Unfortunately, when I reached Newark, booked a hotel near the airport, and settled back to review the situation, I discovered, lo and behold, that I had booked the flight not for Tuesday but for a later date.  I turned to Expedia to find out what was available on Tuesday, on any airline.  The cheapest flight available would set me back over $1,700.  A flight back from Portland was available at a reasonable price, but on Thursday, not Friday.

I gave up.  I booked the earliest Alaska flight back to Seattle that was available at a reasonable price, which required an overnight in San Diego.  Yes, that city down by the Mexican border.

So the summary of my definitely not inexpensive week is as follows:

Monday flight from Seattle to Newark;
Overnight stay at airport area hotel in Newark;
A full day in the Newark airport, after checking out of my hotel, on Tuesday;
A 6 p.m. flight to San Diego;
A 9:30 p.m., Tuesday night, check-in at a downtown San Diego hotel;
Arising at 3:45 a.m. for a 6 a.m. departure from San Diego to Seattle on Wednesday.

It's been an exciting week.  Some Alaska algorithm had mercy on me, and bumped me into First  Class for the final flight home from San Diego.  For this kind gesture, I give thanks.

My conclusions?

1.  Travel is always an adventure.  Take nothing for granted.  Go with the flow, and make the best of things.

2.  United is suspect.  Last year, readers may recall, United lost my luggage and didn't get it to me until the night before I left for home.

3.  2022 is not 2021.  Everything is more expensive.  

4.  Everyone is traveling.  Each of my three flights on Alaska was totally full.  And United had no (or few) seats between Newark and Portland available on short notice.  (And Newark is a major United hub.)

5.  Newark airport is not a terrible airport, but once inside security, you find yourself in a small space with fewer than ten gates.  This breaking of the area inside security into small units limits available food facilities, and especially sit-down dining.  I've never minded Newark airport on past visits to New York City, but then on those trips I wasn't spending a full day trying to amuse myself.  Riding the inter-terminal air-train is fun once, to while away a few minutes, but it's located outside security.

6.  San Diego's airport is excellent, with far more facilities available to the stranded traveler than Newark's.

7.  Alaska Airlines is always a pleasure to ride.   And not just because they bumped me to first class, from San Diego to Seattle, and to premium coach class from Newark to San Diego.

8.  Don't expect your fellow travelers to care for themselves or for you and others by wearing a mask.  I'd say that fewer than ten percent of flyers on the planes and of those mobs milling about inside the airports, were wearing any form of mask.  Wear a mask, and preferably an N95.  

9.  My eagerness for travel is only whetted.  Next time, I hope that my efforts will result in my actually arriving at the planned destination!!!  I've had enough of ganging a-gley.

Robed in royal silver

Rushing through the forest,
Pelting on the leaves,
Drenching down the meadow
With its standing sheaves;

Robed in royal silver,
Girt with jewels gay,
With a gust of gladness
You pass upon your way.

--Bliss Carman

Yesterday was beautiful.  The cats and I lounged on the back deck in the warm sun.  In the afternoon, I went for a little walk.  I ended up at Green Lake Park, circled it, and -- exhausted -- rode part of the way home on light rail.  My total mileage on foot -- eight miles.  The air was a bit cool for May, but the coolness was pleasant, and was offset by the direct rays of a late Springtime sun.

Today?  Today it's raining.  Raining since I got out of bed, raining now, and forecast to rain until late tonight.  Today, my cats and I take turns standing vigil at the windows, watching the steady rainfall.  Our rooms indoors are dark, the darkness of the overcast skies enhanced by the thick foliage growing close outside my windows.  

I'm a native of the Northwest Corner, but even I tire of the rain as we drag our way through the long, dark winter.  But in the spring, in May as the days grow longer, the rain -- occurring sporadically, interspersed with sufficient sunshine -- can feel softly soothing.  

Our love-hate relationship with rain is a Northwest thing.  David Guterson perfectly evoked the atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest when he entitled his best-selling novel Rain Falling on Cedars.  No cedars in my yard, but I have tall spruce and birch behind the house, and my windows are hemmed in by lilac, Western azalea, rhododendron, laurel, holly, Japanese cypress, and butterfly bush.  Sitting indoors, reading, I often feel I live deep within a forest -- even though my house is on a rather small lot not far from downtown Seattle.

Especially today, as the rain falls quietly but steadily.  A few minutes ago, I was sitting at a table, reading.  I looked up, out the window, and stared transfixed, as though hypnotized.  The rain steadily fell, hitting the leaves of the foliage, merging into larger drops; those larger drops bent the leaves, and fell to the ground.  Repeatedly, over and over.  The rain was not, as you might expect,  an irritation, but a blessing from the skies above -- watering all the growth surrounding my house, doing a far more effective job than I could ever do with a hose, and supplying dissolved nitrates to the soil as it fell.

Most of America seems to be suffering from drought -- even our cousins across the Cascades in Eastern Washington.  We are one of the few areas in the nation that has an abundance of rainfall.  Enough so that Seattle can collect reservoirs of water, large enough to supply all the water the city needs even if the coming summer turns out to be -- like last summer -- unusually hot and dry.  

How long will this abundance continue?  I don't know.  The world seems destined to grow ever drier and less habitable, even as the Earth's population multiplies.  I can't see how it will end well.  I may be living in what proves to be one of the last livable areas of the world.  Not really a pleasant thought, but better than living in one of the vast areas of the country where rainfall and snowfall are decreasing, rivers and lakes are shrinking, and aquifers left over from the ice ages are being rapidly drained dry.

Good things come in tiny packages

Planning travel is half the fun.  Who said that?  If you check Google, you'll find that almost everyone -- at least, every travel writer -- has said it, in so many words.  Often in those very words.

But it's true.  A variant says that planning a trip is a third of the fun, the actual travel is another third, and the final third is the talking about the trip afterwards.  Which is also true.

But what's interesting, and less commented on, is that a traveler can have roughly the same amount of fun planning a weekend trip as planning a travel extravaganza that will last a month or so.  Which means, I suppose, that if you had three weeks of vacation a year, you'd maximize your satisfaction by breaking those three weeks into a number of short trips, spaced throughout the year.

I've been planning a four-week combination hike in Scotland and subsequent lakeside loafing at Lake Como for this coming September.  I've loved organizing it, and am still loving it.  But I've had almost as much fun planning a three-night trip next week to Acadia National Park in Maine.

My interest in Acadia was first aroused at the age of about eleven, when I was an avid stamp collector.  I discovered that the U.S. had issued a set of National Park commemoratives in 1934, back when the park system was far smaller than it is today.  The series contained ten stamps, ranging from one cent to ten cents; postage was obviously cheaper in those days.  The following parks were represented, listed by each stamp's face value.

1 cent -- Yosemite
2 cents --Grand Canyon
3 cents -- Mount Rainier
4 cents --Mesa Verde
5 cents --Yellowstone
6 cents --Crater Lake
7 cents -- Acadia
8 cents -- Zion
9 cents -- Glacier
10 cents -- Great Smoky Mountains

I was geographically sophisticated, for an eleven-year-old, and knew my national parks.  I thought.  But who/where/what was "Acadia"?  I looked it up, and discovered that it was a small smudge on the Maine coast.  I remember my reaction -- that people back East needed to have one of them there national park thingees for themselves, and tiny Acadia was about all that could be found or afforded.  

I learned that Acadia was on the coast, and I probably saw a photo or two.  I had no further interest, other than to add its seven cent stamp, along with the other nine, to my stamp book.  (Which I took down from my bookcase and perused in preparation for this little essay.)

It was many decades later that I visited Acadia for the first time.  I had attended a nephew's wedding on an island off the Maine coast, somewhat south of Acadia.  After the wedding, I decided to poke around the coast in a rental car, and Acadia was one obvious destination.  I was impressed!  Yes, it's small; yes, the park is a bit fragmented; no, there's no real wilderness.  But it was beautiful and intriguing.

And so, last year, celebrating my vaccination and the supposed end of the pandemic, I paid a two-night visit to the park and the adjacent town of Bar Harbor.  I vowed to come back soon for a longer stay.  And so I plan to do.

But I began this essay talking about preparation.  Although Acadia seemed miniscule to my eleven-year-old mind -- and indeed it is: 47,000 acres compared to Yellowstone's 2.24 million acres -- there is a lot to see, a lot of trails to hike, a lot of peaks to climb, and several large lakes to gaze upon.  It would take many visits to exhaust the sightseeing possibilities.  And most of those sights are well worth viewing more than once.  I recall the hiker I met on Mt. Washington who told me that he had come back to climb that same mountain every year for decades, bringing one of his kids with him each time.   

So I've been preparing, just as I'm preparing to hike the West Highland Way in Scotland, and to explore the environs of Lake Como in Italy.  I have before me a thick guidebook to all the trails in Acadia, put out by the Seattle Mountaineers.  I have a beautiful, waterproof, two-sided map of the park.  I have the little free map of Acadia that I obtained at the park headquarters a year ago --the same format as the Park Service uses for each of its many properties.  And, should my curiosity lead me beyond the park boundaries, I have a waterproof road map of the entire Maine seacoast.

With these items, along with my hiking shoes and a hopefully unneeded raincoat, I will be well-prepared.   I fly Monday, May 16 to Portland, Maine, and drive the next day to the park.  I'll have about 2 1/2 days at the park and Bar Harbor -- still far too little time.  But there will be other visits in future years, I'm convinced.

-------------------

P.S. -- The USPS issued a new Acadia National Park stamp in 2016.  It's beautiful, in full color, showing a lighthouse overlooking the ocean.  But stamps today just aren't the same as when I was a kid.  That 1934 seven-center, man, that had class.  But I maybe I'm just showing my age.

Castor on the lam -- redux.

Just one year ago this month, I wrote a short saga ("Return of the Hunter") about the wanderings of one of my two black cats, Castor.  He had wandered outside after dinner on Wednesday, and still hadn't returned when I went to bed Thursday night.  Like any parent of an irresponsible teenager who isn't home by 3 a.m., I was prone to worry.

Worry?  I was frantic.  But there was nothing I could do.

The story had a happy ending.  Castor returned between the time I went to bed at 10 p.m. and the time I arose at midnight to search the house once more for him.  He once was lost, but now was found.

Not all such stories have happy endings.  Sometimes the errant teenager swerves in front of traffic.  He doesn't return.  

Of such are now my dark thoughts.  Castor, once again, is the "bad kitty."  After dinner (my dinner) last night, he kept begging for more food.  He's certainly not prone to fatness, at least at this age, so I kept feeding him.  Finally, he was no longer interested in the food, but kept staring at me and mewing.  He responded enthusiastically to being petted, and we frolicked together for much longer than usual.  Both of my black cats are a bit stand-offish, except for those times when they aren't.  When they are quite cuddly.  So I was pleased, but not surprised.

Now I have those dark thoughts.  Was he stuffing himself with food in preparation for a long journey?  Worse, was he, as dying cats are wont to do, bidding me a fond farewell?  An earlier 16-year-old cat, Theseus, who was to be tested for a possible tumor in a few days, woke me up one night, lying on my chest, and purred unusually loudly for ten minutes.  Then he went downstairs, out the cat door, and out of my life.  Never saw him again.

But he probably was dying and knew it.  Castor is a happy, lively, healthy cat -- aside from his past urinary obstruction -- and hasn't yet turned two.  He isn't dying of old age.  But he still hasn't shown up.

I like to think that history repeats itself.  That I'll wake up at midnight tonight and find him lying beside me, sound asleep.  That we'll be back to normal, and will rejoice while I slip rich bon bons into both cats' mouths in celebration.

And that's probably what will happen. (Well, not the bon bons.)   If not tonight at midnight, sometime in the next five days, which the internet assures me is a normal time for a normal cat to wander off on adventures of his own.  Adventures whose nature you'll never learn.  But adventures that never strain the mutual bonds of familial affection that hold your household together.

We'll just wait and see.  Darn cat!

--------------------

P.S. (5-5-22) History repeats itself. Castor appeared on my bed at 2:30 a.m. last night, hungry but otherwise in good health. I broke our rule against preparing middle-of-the-night meals.

Travel through Ladakh (2005)

In 2005, my young hiking partner Pascal and I signed up for a trek through the Zanskar Mountains of the Ladakh area of northern India.  After a couple of days in Delhi on our own, we met with the rest of our group -- which turned out to be just two young women, each traveling independently, Loren and Lydia.  We flew with our guides from Delhi to the Ladakh capital of Leh at 11,483 feet elevation.  Because of the rapid change of elevation, we took Diamox to combat altitude sickness.  The following excerpt from my journal begins shortly after our arrival in Leh.  

July 19, Tuesday, 4 p.m.
Leh

Sitting in bamboo chairs in front of the Kanglachen Hotel, having concluded a couple of losing gin games with Pascal, and listening with amusement to a bunch of English public school boys talking in very upper class accents.  They came up in the plane with us, and will eventually climb a 21,000 foot peak near here.  First major trip for most of them – it sounds amazingly ambitious.

We had a very nice Indian dinner [in Delhi] at “1911” last night.  We were missing Loren, who was having a memorable dinner at the home of an Indian family – friends of friends.  Had to get to bed fairly early, after packing – getting ready for a 2:45 a.m. wake-up call.

Left the Imperial at 3:30 and headed for the airport where we checked in for our 6:30 flight at the very small domestic terminal.  Only about four gates, serving all domestic flights out of Delhi.  We flew on a 737 with Jet Airlines, India’s largest domestic airline.

Leh is small, but full of an amazing number of small shops either selling souvenirs or catering to trekkers, and there were a fair number of trekkers wandering the streets.  We were told to rest, because of the altitude, and ended up sleeping until lunch at 1:30.  After lunch, explored town and watched Pascal make many purchases.

Back to the hotel for 4 p.m. tea out here on the lawn in front of the hotel, and here we are now.

The view of the Leh Palace on a crag above the city dominates the view from all parts of town.  It also is the view from my bed as I stare out the window while propped up on my pillow.  And in the other direction are snowy peaks, including the one the British boys plan to climb.

Sun’s dropping low.  Birds chirping.  Yard has poplar trees all around, shimmering in a slight breeze.  The palace glows golden on its rocky cliffs.  (Lydia’s just returned and has shown us the fortune’s worth of miniature paintings she has bought.)

July 20, Wed., 6 a.m.
Leh

I never tire of lying on the bed looking out the window at the monastery in the changing lights.  Call from the mosque, at the foot of the Buddhist monastery, went on and on at about 4 a.m., but I enjoyed fully the exoticism.

After dinner last night, we just read for a while.  Pascal caught up his diary, and went to sleep about 9:30.  The Diamox is kicking in, and I got up a lot during the night and drank a lot of water.  Slight headache, but not bad.  Wake up call will come at 6:30, and then we go exploring monasteries in this area, including Thiksey which was featured in photos accompanying an article on snow leopards in a magazine I got just before leaving home.

July 20, Wed., 4:45 p.m.
Leh

Sitting in front of the hotel relaxing – we go to another monastery in about 15 minutes.  (Ah!  Someone walked by and served me a pot of tea – didn’t even have to ask!)  Returned a short time ago from walking around with Pascal and Loren, watching Pascal’s interminable shopping.  Also sent emails of greetings to Kathy and others in the family.  Very warm day today.  I gather they had cloudy weather in Leh until the day we arrived.  It’s been beautiful since we’ve been here.

We visited three monasteries this morning, getting back in time for lunch at 1:30.

July 23, Sat., 6:15 p.m.
Kargil

Sitting on our third floor balcony waiting for late tea, with Loren sitting next to me – looking over the sunlit city of Kargil.  Large green onion-shaped dome of a mosque immediately below.  (Yay!   The tea just arrived.)  The Suru River winds noisily through the town.  We began following it upstream today – leaving the Leh-Srinagar Highway – that 1½ lane strip of blacktop we’d been traveling on the last two days.

I’m way behind on my entries – sorry.  Essentially, from Leh to Kargil we saw one gompa after another.  I’ll describe in more detail at a later date, when I have more time, and have my itinerary containing place names to help me!

The first day … wait!  Looking back at my last entry, I should mention that we had a great walk after I wrote that entry, up to a gompa overlooking Leh.  Beautiful plaza surrounding a building, with many tourists watching the changing light on the city.  We met our first American, a boy from Kentucky who had been away from the US for three years, first as an employee for some company in Vietnam, and then just traveling.  He had come up the highway, hitchhiking by truck from Srinagar and had been in Leh for three weeks.  Sounds like a hippie nomad, but he looked like the proverbial fresh-faced boy from next door, with a quiet sense of humor.

The first day leaving Leh, which was Thursday, we visited three monasteries.  The most enjoyable to me was one that featured a Kashmiri style of art.  More naturalistic and fewer bizarre “protective deities.”  We stayed in a tented camp that night.  Full of tourists, most of them seemed to be German or maybe Scandinavian.  Pascal, Loren and I went out to a little gazebo overlooking the Indus River after dinner.  Sat there a long time, talking and watching the full moon come up over the Indus, creating strange and beautiful shapes and shadows below in and around the river.

Yesterday (Friday) was a long driving day to Kargil.  We visited a very picturesque gompa at Lamayuru, perched on a craggy rock jutting out of the landscape – much of which was a “moonscape” of eroded mud forms.  Exploring the gompa meant going up and down many uneven steps.  Stopped at a little town for lunch, where we ate across from a large carved-rock Buddha.  People by now – this far west from Leh – were becoming more Moslem, and we watched a group of about six or seven boys energetically playing drums while one played an oboe-sounding instrument (Pascal reacts with immediate interest to any music with suggestions of “double reed-ness”).

Drove over a 13,000 foot pass before coming down to Kargil at about 9,000 feet.  This is as low as we’ll be until we return to Delhi.  Walked around downtown with Pascal, taking pictures of small kids, old people, and exotic street scenes.  Everyone is very friendly.  Ran into some marooned trekkers (would-be), who are having trouble arranging a trek from this city.  Kargil has virtually no tourist infrastructure, such as travel agencies or guide services.  They should have made their arrangements in Leh.

----------------------------

Kargil probably had little tourist infrastructure because, just six years earlier, it had been the center of a war between India and Pakistan.  The following day, we followed a road to the southeast, leading to the trailhead from which we began hiking northward across the Zanskars.

-----------------------------

Photo:  Boys playing instruments along Leh to Srinagar road.

Bottle of pop, please

In a story I read a few days ago, a guy from Los Angeles, visiting relatives in Minnesota, was asked if he wanted a bottle of pop.  He thought to  himself, "Pop.  I'd forgotten I was in the Midwest."

And yet, I grew up in Southwest Washington -- also on the West Coast -- and I always called a soft drink "pop."  So did everyone I knew.  It wasn't until I attended college in California that I heard those around me calling pop "soda."  It was one of those multi-cultural learning experiences, like learning not to pronounce "creek" as "crick."

What do I call it now?  I haven't called a soft drink "pop" for years.  But I don't call it soda, either, at least without feeling somewhat self-conscious that I'm speaking a foreign language.  I guess that what we called "pop" in my neck of the woods as a kid, I now call "a soft drink"

But the meaning really isn't the same.  When I think of "soft drink," I think of one of the several brands of cola.  And maybe root beer, or, for some folks, Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew.  It's easier to just say "Coke" or "Diet Coke" or "Pepsi."  "Pop," on the other hand, encompassed a vast spectrum of colors and flavors.  

It's like saying that the French expression "une tasse de café" means a cup of coffee.  Literally it does, but -- at least before globalization and Starbucks appeared on the scene -- what a Parisian visualized as une tasse de café was something very different from what an American visualized as a cup of coffee -- which was usually, a large mug of black liquid poured out of a percolator. 

So, if "pop" didn't mean quite the same to me when I was a kid, how was it different from today's "soft drink," or "soda"?  Coke and Pepsi, were pop, of course, but pop wasn't reducible to cola drinks or root beer -- it came in many flavors.  Beyond that, a bottle of pop differed visually and tactilely from the usual can of soda one gets today in a store or out of a machine.

Pop came in bottles, unless it was served in a glass in a restaurant.  (Or "soda fountain," a term we used routinely, but mentally identifying "soda" with "ice cream soda," not with pop.)  They came in bright colors -- orange, lemon-lime, grape, cream (a light coffee color), raspberry, cherry, etc.  Moreover, the bottles usually were found resting in a bath of cold water -- either to be removed and paid for at the counter, or to be worked out of the water through a coin operated mechanism.  When you were thirsty, which as kids we usually were, nothing could beat that moment of anticipation as you held a bottle of brightly colored liquid in your hands, feeling the ice-cold water dripping off the bottle -- that moment just before you popped off the cap.

Before you got to the store, you would debate in your mind which flavor of pop you were going to buy, but it wasn't until you actually saw the bottles lined up in their cold water bath that you made your final decision.

So far as I know, pop doesn't come today in the full rainbow of flavors that it did when I was a boy -- although I like to think that in some dusty, small town store, a full array might still be found in an ancient pop dispenser.  Like much in our culture, the voice of advertising has smoothed out the voices of those multitudes of kids with disparate tastes.  "Soda" is California-speak, and that term may have the same connotations for Californians and their ilk as pop does for me; "soft drink," on the other hand, sounds like sales talk, an attempt by advertising folks to iron out the cultural differences among different parts of the country. 

To "blandify" us.  No kid ever begged for "a soft drink."  Many kids begged for "a bottle of pop."

But, as I say, I've abandoned "pop" from my vocabulary.  If I decline a beer today (rarely!), I'll say, "No thanks, but could I have a soft drink?"  I can't say, with a straight face, "How about a bottle of pop?"

Besides, true "pop" no longer really exists.

Hooray! Covid is Dead!

Strange, isn't it?

Within a few hours of each other, most of America's airlines on Monday abandoned all requirements that passengers be masked.  At the same time, the shopping mall near my house became full of unmasked customers, whereas a few days earlier most customers had been masked.  Same with Safeway this morning, where I buy my groceries.

All because a federal judge in Florida -- a judge appointed by Trump, who ignored a rating of "not qualified" by the American Bar Association in making his appointment -- ruled that the C.D.C. had overstepped its legal authority and had not followed proper rule-making procedures, and that therefor the federal rule was invalid.

No one waited to see if the ruling was to be appealed, or if the judge would be asked to stay her ruling pending appeal.   Within hours, not only all major airlines, but also Amtrak and transportation authorities in a number of cities across the nation stopped enforcing the masking requirement, and, in most cases, dropped their own requirements.

It's as though this one Florida judge had declared the pandemic over -- even as Covid incidence has been rising in most states, in response to the BA-2 subvariant -- and that we have returned to the pre-pandemic days of 2019.  "Let the good times roll!" the populace exults.  Let's dance through the tulips, with happy Disney birds flying and singing joyfully about our heads and squirrels exchanging kisses in the background.

No thanks.  Not for me.  My mask stays on whenever I'm indoors in a public setting, except while eating.  It stays on especially in crowded airplanes, trains, buses, subways, and light rail.  It stays on and I'll glower at those of my un-masked neighbors who blow their possibly virus-laden breaths in my direction.

My fellow Americans often strike me as a class of mindless kindergarten children, totally lacking in self-discipline.  I probably strike them as a cruel, forbidding, kill-joy headmaster in a nineteenth century British school.

We'll see who laughs last.

Here we go again!

Will it be a new ritual, two or three times a year?  I mean the Covid booster, of course.

I finished my two-shot Pfizer series back in February 2021.  Seven months later, I was boosted (or "boostered," as I like to say).  And now, yesterday, I received my second booster.

The U.S. government seems rather ambivalent as to whether the average American needs a second booster, at least this soon after the first booster was given, presumably sometime last fall.  But the government experts seem more enthusiastic when it comes to the "elderly," which now apparently includes everyone over the age of 60 or 65.  

The CDC itself recommends first (Pfizer) boosters for everyone aged 12 or older, and leaves it up to individuals aged 50 and over whether to seek out a second booster.  The CDC does require that a second booster come no earlier than four months after the first.  I hardly know anyone under 50, so it feels like the entire universe is eligible for that second booster.

I have no question at all as to the safety of the booster, and I conclude that it's at least more probable than not that the second booster will provide me with an increase in immunity.  The medical profession is devoted to the distinction between increased immunity from severe illness or death on the one hand, for which the first booster supposedly still provides protection, and increased immunity from even "mild" contagion on the other.  It's those words "mild" and "severe" that disturb me.  I have no interest in testing their boundaries with my own health.  I was happy to err on the side of caution by getting that jab in the arm on Thursday.

My only concern is that in another four months I'll be headed for Scotland and Italy. Both of those countries are now experiencing an incidence of Covid much higher than that in the United States (but far below some of the levels we've seen over the past two years).  Their numbers do seem to be moving in the right direction at present, although we now have the new BA-2 subvariant to haunt our minds.  

Will I need a third booster before setting off for Europe in August?  I'm sure the experts will still be arguing, and I'm also sure that -- unless Covid has become a trivial concern by that time -- I'll be wanting that additional protection.  If the same standards exist for a third booster as for the second, I won't be eligible for a third booster until August 13 -- just two weeks before I fly to Glasgow.  That timing will work out ok for me, assuming I can get the shot as soon as I qualify.

Side effects?  As I've mentioned before, I've had no side effects from my first three Covid shots -- or, for that matter from my last two flu shots.  Twenty-four hours after my second booster, I still have no symptoms.  Either I no longer have any effective immune system at all to be disturbed by these shots, or I have an extremely competent immune system that gives each shot its  immediate attention without getting all riled up and giving me irritating symptoms.  Symptoms that might -- to a frustrated and undiscerning mind -- seem almost as bad as Covid itself.

Anyway, I'm pleased with having received my second booster, and after a week or so -- when enhanced protection kicks in -- will feel quite brave as I rub shoulders with my fellow man.

But I'll still wear a mask in enclosed public places.

The Man in the Attic

My bathroom has a combination bath/shower.  With the usual selector knob -- you turn it one way, and you get water through the spout into the tub; you turn it the other way, and you get a shower.  On mine, if you turn it half way, water comes out in equal proportions from the spout and from the shower.

At the end of my shower, after turning off the water, I routinely turn the knob half way, to totally drain the pipes.  But sometimes I get distracted and forget.  My last shower was such an occasion, apparently, because when I tried to turn the selector knob to tub to obtain the right temperature before turning it to shower, I found it already on the tub option.

The normal response, of course, is -- as I said -- I forgot to drain the pipes last time I showered.  And this was my rational response today.  But deep inside, I felt alarm.  My instincts told me, "The Man in the Attic has taken a shower while I was out of the house."

Who is this mythical attic dweller?  And whence cometh he?  

Back when I was a kid, I was much smaller and the photo supplements in the Sunday newspaper -- notably Parade Magazine -- were much heftier.  One Sunday, I read about a couple who had discovered that some guy, without their knowledge, had been living for a long time in their attic.  He would come out for food and water, and possibly exercise, only when the owners were safely gone.  You might say he was an early example of homelessness, except he wasn't -- he had found a home.

The hair on my young neck stood up when I read this.  Our house didn't have an attic, as such, but it had a lot of dark crawl spaces emptying through cupboard doors into the upstairs bedroom that I shared with my brother.  My reaction was similar to my terrified reaction when I read a "comic" book about a mirror through which our hero's evil double came out at night and created havoc.  For years, I made sure my desktop mirror was covered, or at least turned to the wall, before going to sleep.  But that's another (embarrassing) story.

My brother and I reinforced each other's courage, and we would occasionally examine the crawl spaces by flashlight.  I'm happy to report that no outsider was ever discovered.  But they might have been.  It could happen.  It happened to those folks in Parade Magazine.

I grew up, of course, and put aside childish things.  Or did I?  I now live in a two story house, with an attic of sorts.  Not an easily accessible attic.  While I was in college, my family lived in a  house with a serious attic, where one opened a trapdoor and a nice set of stairs slid down.  The attic interior was more or less finished, according to photos I've seen of it, but I don't remember ever investigating it.  Or being concerned about it.

No, my present attic is accessible only through a small covered opening in the ceiling of the hall adjoining my bedroom.   If you were fat, as many Americans are, you might get stuck trying to enter it.  And you would have to stand on a chair, push the cover aside, and lift yourself by your arms into the attic.  A fairly athletic endeavor.  And not one I've ever attempted.

Not because I'm too weak or too lazy.  Mainly out of an absurd sense of fear, fear of what I might find up there.  Maybe not a person currently living there.  Maybe just an old sleeping bag, a lot of empty food cans, various drug paraphernalia?  I've lived in this house for 35 years -- what are the odds that no one has ever lived in my attic in all that time?  Did I tell you what I read in Parade Magazine ....!?

Several years ago, my brother was helping me with various issues of home maintenance.  I mentioned that I'd heard rats scurrying about at times in the past, and that a neighbor had claimed to have seen an opossum slipping his way into the attic through a presumed opening to the exterior.  My brother had no qualms about slipping through the narrow entrance and checking it out.  No rat droppings.  No openings to the outside.  And most surprising of all, no signs of human habitation.

I'm sure he gave me his honest opinion as to what he'd seen.  Or thought he saw.  But he isn't a trained inspector of attics, is he?  Seeking out evidence of human habitation isn't one of his many abilities.  Maybe the Man in the Attic isn't really the cause of the knob's position in my shower -- I'm a rational fellow, and I realize I may be absent-minded at times.  (Although I checked my towel and washcloth before taking my shower today -- just a precaution, to see if they were suspiciously damp.)

But there's been someone up there at some point.  (And I'm just as sure of that as Trump is sure of election fraud.)  There may be someone up there right now.  In fact, didn't I just heard a creaking up in the attic........????

Ritorno al Lago di Como

If you recall, I returned from Lake Como last September, ecstatic about the experience.  My sister, our cousin, and I had rented a house for a week on the western shore of the lake, about three miles north of Menaggio.  I so enjoyed the house, the lake, the entire experience that I was determined to repeat it -- to repeat it, I said at first, "soon, but "soon" soon became, in my mind, this year, 2022.

Unfortunately, the agent who had rented us the house told us that the house was not available for rental in 2022, advice that was confirmed by another agent.  We tried finding another suitable rental, until I suddenly discovered an agent who did represent the house's owners -- and yes! the house was available.

Deposits were quickly paid, agreements were signed and voilá!  I found myself renting the house for not one, but two weeks in 2022.  In September, at exactly the same time as I had enjoyed it last year.  

I do try not to be too exuberant in my hopes, recalling Heraclitus's warning about stepping in the same river twice.

Renting was easy; finding the right occupants -- besides myself -- was more difficult.  I've finally assembled two groups, one for each week.  The first week will consist of a close friend from graduate school days, and his extended family.  Six persons, besides myself.  Possibly seven, if my friend's son is able to get away from work.

The second week will consist of myself, my sister, and various family members and friends from Sonoma.   Seven persons besides myself (with one of those persons still uncertain).

Both weeks will be quite a change, as far as occupancy goes, from our group of three in 2021.  But the house is reasonably spacious, and I think it will work out fine.

Our return to Lake Como is still five months away, of course, but it comes to mind now because I've just spent quite a bit of time lining up a hotel room in Milan for all of us First Week-ers, for the night before we jump on the train to Como city, and then transfer to the ferry from Como to Menaggio.  This exercise has not been as easy as anticipated.

Not only is our rental house in far greater demand this summer than last, but so are accommodations in Milan.  My sister reports that hotels she and our cousin rented in Milan last year are now going for three times the rental this year.  If any of my readers are thinking of European travel this season, they should be forewarned!

Not only are the rentals more expensive, but the rooms available are increasingly scarce.  I located a moderately priced hotel close to Milan's central railway station yesterday, and snapped  up the last three standard double rooms available.  We needed one more single room, and were forced to rent a double "deluxe" room for about $50 more than the others.  Lining up rooms acceptable to everyone has been a bit trying, but actually I've always enjoyed being a "travel agent."  

I also secured a single room for two nights, just for myself, after my two weeks at Lake Como were over, at a different but similar hotel; that passing of two weeks, taking us into the last week of September, made a big difference.  Rooms were cheaper and much more available, at least at that one hotel.

I'll just note, and probably will describe in more detail later, that getting to Milan at the appropriate time before we go to Como will be complicated for my friend and me, both of whom will be hiking for ten days in Scotland, a hike that will not be completed until very close to the day we have to be in Milan.  We are still trying to find an appropriate flight from Glasgow to Milan.

All a bit complicated, all wonderful, all keeping me excited in the months to come.  My readers will be subjected to additional details in the near future.                           

Sonoma ghosts

Home towns are where our ghosts live.  Ghosts of relatives, now dead, and of friends, now lost.  But especially ghosts of ourselves and our siblings -- ghosts of ourselves at every age.  For me, perhaps, the ghosts I see most clearly -- my ur-ghosts -- are of myself at 13, my brother at 10, and my sister at 5.  

My home town was a medium-sized city on the Columbia River in Southwest Washington.  That's where we three kids grew up, from birth through high school.  Even after I had left town for college and graduate school, I considered that home town my "home."  Not until I started law school, at age 31, did I begin looking elsewhere -- ultimately, not so far away, in Seattle.

But sometimes, we also acquire home towns of adoption, towns that come along later in our lives, towns in which our lives become so ingrained that they also are haunted by our ghosts.  For me, such a town is Sonoma, California.  

I've never lived in Sonoma, which makes calling it my adopted "home town" a bit awkward, but such is the reality.  When I visit Sonoma, I do see ghosts.

My sister, her husband, and her oldest son moved to Sonoma in the mid-70s.  Sonoma now, of course, is nationally known as a center of wine-tourism, its central Plaza surrounded by hotels, fairly expensive bars and restaurants, and purveyors of luxury goods.  And a much-utilized ice cream shop.   Our oldest ghosts, however, arose out of an era when the town, although already a tourist attraction with many reminders of Californian pre-Gold Rush days, was also still a town with a more decidedly agricultural flavor than it possesses now -- a town where you could find a feed and seed store on the Plaza.     

My sister's two younger sons were born in Sonoma.  She, her husband (a physician), and her three sons lived -- and held court -- in a pleasant, but not extravagant, house on a hill above Sonoma Valley.  I visited them probably twice annually.  Over the years, I became acquainted with their friends, scattered around the valley.  I played uncle to her kids, taking them with me on hiking trips, once they reached their teens.  Today, I know my way around Sonoma better than I know large parts of my own home town in Washington.

These paragraphs are all introduction to the fact that I spent the past week attending a de facto family reunion in Sonoma.  The occasion was the return to America, for the first time since before the pandemic, of my sister's middle son Denny, an adventuresome sort who has spent several years teaching middle school in Chiang Mai, Thailand.  He arrived with his wife Jessie, who is also a Sonoma native.

Greeting Denny was the occasion for our gathering, but -- like a wedding or a funeral -- the gathering also served as an excuse to meet up and socialize with folks we see all too seldom.  Couples and individuals were coming and going during the six days I was in Sonoma.  Besides all the relatives, an old friend, Chris, who Denny and I met during a trek in Peru 25 years ago, came up from San Francisco, and we visited one of my sister's oldest friends, Francine, who we found confined to quarters by a poorly-timed broken ankle.  We also had a chance to visit with Pascal -- whose name appears in numerous reports on this blog of our foreign treks together -- and his wife.  They moved back to Sonoma from San Francisco several years ago.

The six days passed all too quickly.  We all love to eat, and we were in the right town for that activity.  Several of us love to hike, and we did a couple of hikes in the hills -- hills beautifully garbed in the temporary green of Spring -- surrounding Sonoma.  Many of us, in addition, enjoyed a short walk through hills to the remains of Jack London's "Wolf House," in near-by Glen Ellen.  I tried to tell myself that these hikes were working off the calories consumed during our many meals, but my bathroom scale, once I was back in Seattle, just laughed at my presumption.  

Both meals and hikes were opportunities to do the one thing most of us enjoy more than eating and hiking -- which is, of course, talking.  Subjects ranged from the early days (early, for us, that is) of Sonoma, through our more recent adventures, and forward into our plans for the future.  All served up, spiced and well seasoned by our family's famously bizarre sense of humor.

I find many ghosts in Sonoma.  Ghosts of loved ones with whom we once shared meals but who are no longer with us; ghosts of ourselves as children, and as young people; ghosts even, perhaps, of friends who have drifted away to other parts of the country.  As with all families, some of those ghosts represent unhappy times.  But most of my own family's ghosts move happily about the city.  This week, we found ourselves surrounded solely by ghosts who were not only happy, but ghosts who gladly joined in our general hilarity.

We need to do stuff like this more often.  As do all families.

Getting high in Delphi

As I review travel journals from my past, I often whine about how -- unlike us at their age -- kids nowadays don't do anything but sit at home and play with their electronic toys.  I was happy to learn, however, that a friend's 20-year-old twin grandchildren are spending their one week spring break on a whirlwind trip to Amsterdam.  No, not part of a tour group, or a study program, or a group of Dutch food enthusiasts.  They're doing what we used to do at their age -- just showing up someplace foreign, and seeing what  happens.

In commemoration -- despite my recent sneering at my occasional posts copied from old travel journals -- I offer the following extract from the journal I kept during a six-week backpacking trip through Europe.  The year was 1970, the year that the press discovered and remarked on the hordes of American kids traveling on the cheap.

I had traveled by bus for five hours (including repair of a flat tire) from Athens up to Delphi on the lower slope of Mount Parnassus.  I had barely emerged from the bus when the proprietor of a hostel grabbed me and bid me enter.  Decent hostel.  Bed in a room shared with three others for 18 drachmas -- just 60 cents in American money.  Yes!  This is what travel in Europe by young people was all about that year!  I met a couple of English lads who shared the room with me, along with a Swiss guy, and we made plans for the next day.

-------------------------------------

Friday --31 July [1970]

My two Lancashire friends and I got up early Monday and started the long hike up the slopes of Mt. Parnassus.  We were quite lucky in that the sun was often behind a cloud and so we could escape some of the heat.  Even so, it was slow going, and we lost a lot more water than we had along to replace it.  But the views were fantastic.  We climbed to what I believe are called the Shining Rocks, on either side of the Oracle and Apollo's temple.  To get from one to the other required a long walk back into the hills and up the slopes until the canyon became shallow enough to cross.  Had some good conversation during this, and discovered and photographed a land tortoise. 

Then we made the mistake of trying to descend the cliffs on the right side of the oracle.  There was quite a tricky bit of rock climbing, which became steeper and steeper as I descended -- in the process of which I got separated from my companions.  Finally, I succeeded in thoroughly scaring myself, and carefully retraced my steps back up the cliff and tried to work my way back to where we had crossed the canyon.  My legs were bare and were getting semi-burned (not very bad -- but I didn't know that) and scratched with the prickly gorse I was climbing through.  I made at least one false start down the canyon and had to retrace.  I was having panicky worries of being trapped without water, and I was feeling quite dehydrated.

But all ended well, and I made my way back down, returned to the youth hostel, stuck my mouth under the water tap, and took a cold shower.  The other two didn't get back for an hour, and I was afraid they might be stranded, but they had found a way down the cliff after being thoroughly scared.  It was all in all a memorable hike.  The beauty and wildness and loneliness of the area will, I hope, come out in my slides.

Being recovered, I went over to the ruins and, using their guide book, did a careful study of them.  Saved the museum for the next day, it being close to sunset.  I had dinner alone in the youth hostel's restaurant, and was joined for a beer afterward by my mates, who were preparing their own meals.  A wild bunch of English started a party going, record-playing, dancing, singing and all, and we watched with amusement, nursing our beers.

I seem to have an interesting affinity for the British --seem to be accepted by them as English with an unexplainable U.S. passport.  They were alarmed because an American had replaced the Swiss [in our four-person room] this night, and [the American] wanted me to change places with his friend so they could be together (nothing came of this -- guess they changed their minds).  They said I couldn't do it, they would be overwhelmed with Americanism.  "You're not anti-American, are you?"  "Well, yes, of course!  And these are archetypical Americans!"  Turned out to be a Beach Boy type from Berkeley.

-------------------------------

Not great literature, but my journal captures some of the excitement of the time.  Reminding me not only of the iconic places I visited, but also of some of the people I met.  I hope my friend's twin grandchildren have as much fun in the Netherlands.