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.

Summer editing

I strolled across the University of Washington campus yesterday afternoon.  The temperature was in the low 80s, working its way up to 85.  The campus seemed relatively deserted for a Thursday -- it was either a slow time of day during summer quarter, or perhaps the university was still between quarters.

The heat, the quiet, the beauty of campus brought back student memories, memories that strengthened as I walked past Gowen Hall, standing across a walkway from the main library.  In the 1970s, the building was still called Condon Hall.  It then housed the law school.

I spent most of my days and many of my nights in and around Condon Hall the summer following my second year of law school.  Looking back, that may have been -- all things considered -- the happiest, most consistently enjoyable summer of my adult life.  

I was summer editor of the law review.  That sounds impressive, but it primarily meant that I was the only one of the incoming editors, now "3Ls" (third year law students), who hadn't bothered to seek out a summer internship downtown, and who was also attracted to the job of writing and editing.

My editorial duties consisted of editing the "case notes" prepared by hopeful applicants for law review membership from the class behind us (incoming 2Ls).  Invitation to membership on the review was based on both the quality of their case notes and their first year grades.  But the best case notes were also published in the review, once whipped into publishable form.  

Whipping them into shape -- that's where I came in.  Occasionally over the protests of their authors, with their inflated pride of authorship..

Interspersed with my editorial work, I was also researching and drafting a far lengthier student "comment" of my own for publication.  Work on my own comment probably took as much time as my formal editorial duties.  Between the two, I spent almost every day in my law review office, and in the law library for which I had a key for night time access, as well.

It sounds exhausting, but I was doing work that I enjoyed doing, and in which I felt confident in my ability to do well.  That's one recipe for daily happiness.

But back to the hot days and lightly populated campus.  Each morning I'd arrive early on the sunny campus.  The law review offices were in a "daylight basement" area with windows opening onto a walkway at ground level.  Across the walkway was the university's main library.  I'd enter my office, check the mail, open my window to let the office cool down in the morning air, and finally walk a hundred yards or so to the student union building.  

A cup of coffee and two maple bars.  I was a skinny kid who as yet had developed no concern with weight or cholesterol levels.  

Fortified and caffeinated, I'd return to the law school, enter my office through the open window, stepping lightly onto my desk and then jumping to the floor.  For some reason, this daily breach of professional dignity stands in my mind as a symbol of all of the pleasures of that summer.  Something that my law review classmates, clad in coats and ties in stuffy downtown offices, had neither the opportunity nor the desire to imitate.

All those hot summer days in my office, and all my long hours of research and writing, alone, bent over a desk in the darkened library at night, paid off.  We put out an excellent publication that year, including articles by faculty members from the UW and from other schools, comments (including my own, thank you) researched and written by us 3L editors, and well written and edited case notes from our incoming 2L members.

I have a bound copy of all our issues.  I sometimes take it out of my book case and admire it.  I sacrificed a summer when I could have been out hiking and camping, but there were many years in the future for those summer activities.

But only one summer in a lifetime as a summer editor.
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PHOTOS:
Top -- Condon Hall (now renamed Gowen Hall)
Botttom -- The magical windows into my office!

Making hay while the sun shines

The Fourth of July is upon me, and I'm unprepared.  No personal fireworks this year, although I may show up for the city's display tonight, viewed from the north shore of Lake Union.  No July 4 family gathering and picnic, although I just returned Sunday from a wonderful gathering of the clan in Idaho.  

Facebook pulled up a photo that I'd posted four years ago, reminding me of a highly entertaining Fourth with friends in San Diego, which leaves me feeling a bit alone and isolated.  Although the Fourth has never been that major of a holiday in my family -- not since the magnificent gunpowder explosions of my childhood.

No, this year the Fourth mainly serves to remind me that we're already edging past the half-way mark of 2023.  How did we ever get here so quickly?

It doesn't feel as though I've had that many adventures so far this year, although by the standards of most folks I've done pretty well.  January on Maui; February riding Amtrak from Los Angeles to Chicago; April out of season on a resort in the North Cascades; last week, hiking, rafting, and visiting with family in central Idaho.  

And, especially, two weeks in May in Italy -- the Cinque Terre, Florence, and Rome.

Enough for most of us -- including me, during most of my lifetime.  But not quite enough for me now, as the realization gradually creeps over me that the future is not inexhaustible.  My future.  If I want to do something, I'd better do it soon.  Despite my claim that I'll live to at least 110. 

All of which leads up to my revelation that the month of September will be spent outside the country, in something of a modified version of September 2022.

I depart for Scotland on August 27, where I'll meet up with my friends Jim and Dorothy, and with Jim's brother and sister, for another Scotland trek.  This time, we'll be  hiking the Rob Roy trail from Drymen (near Loch Lomond) to Pitlochry (in central Scotland).  This is another of a number of unguided hikes I've done in Britain, beginning with my hike along the entire length of Hadrian's Wall in 2010. 

As with all these British hikes, the same company has already reserved accommodations for us each night, and has arranged to have our baggage transported from one B&B or small inn to the next while we are on the trail, carrying only a light daypack.  It's a genteel way to backpack, traveling through a genteel countryside -- somewhat different from the more rugged hikes of my younger years, storming through wilderness and carrying our food and tents on our backs.  But then, I'm a more genteel sort than I was in younger years!

We'll be hiking for eight days, with nine nights accommodations reserved.  Hiking in Britain is always fun, the scenery and history are fascinating, and the diversity of the sleeping arrangements, with hearty breakfasts included, is always exciting.

At the conclusion of the hike in Pitlochry, Jim and Dorothy will return home, but their brother and sister and I will travel by train to London, where we'll stay a night and then catch a plane to Milan the next morning.  In Milan, we'll meet up with John and Anne's respective spouses, hang out for a couple of nights in the city, and then proceed north to Lake Como.

Yes, this will be my third consecutive year on Lake Como, staying each year at the same wonderful rental house, right on the western shore of the lake, about five miles north of Menaggio.  The five of us -- all of us repeating our Como stay together last year -- will stay for a week.  Then for the second week, I'll be joined by my sister and by my brother and his wife.  Just the four of us, for a Sibling Vacation on Lake Como.

These two experiences -- Scotland and Lake Como -- should make up for any supposed lack of excitement during the half of the year just completed.

If not, I may spend a week in Thailand in October, visiting a nephew and his family.  That's another story, a possibility not yet decided upon.  But, as Hillel the Elder famously asked, "If not now, when?"

Each day a leaf falls withered from the tree
Whose leaves make up the life of thee and me,
⁠The leaves are counted and the last is there—
Ready to fall before thy destiny.

--Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Our own private Idaho

Yeah, I know.  You thought your favorite correspondent, essayist, blogger, whatever, had died.  Or, should I say, passed away.

But no.  It's just been a continuation of my post-pandemic inability to sit down and focus on any writing of any length longer than a Facebook entry.  Not because of any kind of Covid brain fog, but just because the isolation enforced by the pandemic is no longer present to encourage such concentration.

Actually, I have just recently recovered from my first and only bout of Covid.  Symptoms for five weeks, approximately. No worse than a bad cold, and in fact I spent my two weeks travel in Italy under its curse without realizing the reason that I was coughing so much and napping so often in the afternoons.  I'm grateful that masks and great care kept me from contracting the problem for the first year, and super grateful for  the shots and boosters that make a potentially deadly disease now no worse for me than a "bad cold."

But I no longer have Covid as an excuse for my mental laziness.  And you'll have to wait one more week to see if my writing bug starts biting again.  I leave tomorrow for the depths of Darkest Idaho, for a family gathering.  A world where political views are revolting, but the people are personally warm and friendly.

My family is a liberal anomaly existing uneasily within that environment.

As you know from earlier posts, my sister lives near Challis Idaho, which lies between Stanley and Salmon, if that helps you non-Idahoans.  The primary reason for this week's gathering is that my nephew Denny, who has been teaching for several years in Chiang Mai, Thailand, will be vacationing back in the States with his wife Jessie and his daughter Maury.  Maury has just completed the equivalent of American eighth grade, and starts high school in Chiang Mai in the fall.  She is American born and mainly reared, but -- I'm told -- by now speaks Thai as fluently as she does English.

My brother and his wife are driving up from Los Angeles, and there will be others present, but I don't recall exactly who. 

Challis is always fun to visit, winter or summer.  My sister has horses to ride -- I think she now has seven -- and a big house on fifty acres of woodland and pasture, with a just-completed one-room cabin hide-away, where company can lounge about and live off her family's hospitality.  We are bonding -- as if we needed it -- over a group rafting trip on Saturday.  I return to Seattle on Sunday.

So, here is my second blog entry for June 2023.  It doesn't really count as an essay, and probably is of no interest to anyone but my future self when I try to reconstruct the year 2023!  While you await something more meaty, more substantive, from me -- have a nice summer, y'all!

Return from Cinque Terre

Past life regression: A method that uses hypnosis to recover what practitioners believe are memories of past lives or incarnations.

--Wikipedia

I had a birthday celebration planned, for May of 2020.  Thirty persons joining me.  In the small town of Levanto on Italy's Ligurian coast, immediately to the north of the Cinque Terre National Park.  But the Covid virus had other plans, and by March 2020, we were all confined to quarters. 

Three years later, and we're all traveling again -- statistics show we're traveling with a vengeance.  Someone called it "revenge travel."  And that missing birthday blast kept preying on my mind.  How much did I miss out on?

No way I could round up thirty friends and relatives for another go at Levanto, but that needn't stop me from exploring Levanto -- and the Cinque Terre -- for myself.

And so, on May 10 -- three years almost to the day after the Birthday Celebration of 2020 that did not occur -- I boarded a plane in Seattle and set off for Rome.  

One of the major attractions of the Cinque Terre that we  had advertised in 2020 was its hiking opportunities.  Hiking in May, when the weather would be at its best -- sunny, warm, but not hot.  Unfortunately, as I left Seattle, the forecast was for cool temperatures, with a better than fifty percent chance of rain virtually every day I was in Levanto.  Not promising, but I promised myself that I'd be flexible, that I'd adjust to whatever weather the Gods of Irony should throw at me.

Also, I flew off with a bad cold and a hacking cough.  In fact, I had, after three years of evading Covid-19, finally been tackled as I left the country.  But I didn't know that until I returned to the States and tested myself, surprised at the longevity of my pesky "cold," and at my odd need to nap for an hour or two every afternoon.

But I digress.  I arrived in Rome on Thursday, May 11, and spent two nights in the Eternal City, visiting favorite haunts about town while waiting for my body to adjust to a new time zone.  On Saturday, I departed by train to Levanto on one of Italy's excellent high speed trains.  As planned, I then spent the next six nights in Levanto, which served as my base for exploring the Cinque Terre (which the Italians sometimes call the "5-T').

Levanto is a pleasant small beach town, stretched out between two headlands along the Ligurian coast.  I stayed in an excellent B&B -- free plug: Villa La Marguerita -- located some distance from the center of town where most other hotels can be found.  But distances are small in Levanto, and the B&B was within easy walking distance of both the train station and the beach/"downtown" area.  Only eleven units, nice garden, quirky architecture, friendly staff, and good breakfasts.

My first full day, as predicted, it rained.  Hiking guides I read in advance had warned against hiking into the hills when the ground was wet, because of the danger of slipping on the smooth wet rocks.  I exercised at least adequate caution, and decided to make an "urban" visit to the first Cinque Terre town south of Levanto -- Monterossa.  Monterossa is a fairly long town, squeezed between the sea and the hills, and divided by a headland into a "new town" and an "old town."  I hiked around the headland, visited the old town, and returned over the top of the headland.  This hiking/walking was all rather tame, but interesting.  It rained lightly most of the day, but I had a light rain jacket, and I'm from a state where hiking in the rain is not considered bizarre.  The town had an interesting history, and, in good weather, good beaches -- but was not particularly scenic.

The next day dawned bright and sunny, and I was eager to hike.  I chose the trail from Levanto itself back to Monterossa, climbing up and over a large headland separating the two.  The hike took about three hours, and was rated as moderately difficult by the guidebook I was using.  It was quite steep climbing to the top of the headland, and steep descending into Monterossa, but was hardly a difficult walk for anyone used to hiking.

The third day, rain was threatened but never arrived.  More critically, there were major disruptions to the train service.  I chose to visit Vernazza, the next town south after Monterossa.  A small town, with brightly painted buildings clustered around a boat harbor.  Highly scenic, a great place to have lunch and interesting narrow streets to explore.  But after eating, walking, and people-watching, not much to occupy me except wait for the next train.

The fourth day, I had hoped to visit both Manarola and Corniglia, but the train problems didn't allow enough service to reach both towns.  But Manarola met all my expectations of what a Cinque Terre town should be like.  The town is built around a main avenue that winds from the train station down to the harbor.  You learn that this main avenue is actually a concrete cover over the creek that has formed the deep valley in which the town is located, a creek that was open and crossed by small bridges until after World War II.  Many good restaurants, at one of which, at the harbor, I had lunch.  The sides of the canyon are very steep, and the houses appear stacked one on top of another.  From below, or from the opposite canyon side which I climbed, these houses appear to be a solid mass of construction.  It's not until you investigate on foot that you discover that the wall of homes is honeycombed by small, cobblestone streets, often barely wide enough to walk through single file.  

I prowled around, and happened on the Church of San Lorenzo near the upper end of the canyon, with its tall, adjacent bell tower.  

The fifth day was another beautiful day, and the most enjoyable of my days in the Cinque Terre.  The trains were back on schedule -- running about every half hour -- and I took the train from Levanto to Corniglia.  The train arrives at a station at sea level, of course, but the town itself is perched 275 feet above, and is reached by a long series of stairs and switchbacks.  Once I reached the town, my plan was to hike back into the hills, ending up back at Manarola.  This hike was slightly more challenging than the earlier one, with a certain amount of exposure to heights in places as it wound its way through terraced grape fields.  The trail continues north, working its way back into the hills until it reaches the town of Volastra.  From Volastra, the route is mostly paved -- steep, but easily negotiated until you find yourself at the outskirts of Manarola.

The views from the Corniglia-Manarola trail are magnificent, and it's impressive to look down at both small towns, far down beside the sea, almost as though one were flying overhead.

My five days in the Cinque Terre were completed, although only four of the five "lands" had been visited -- I had to save Riomaggiore for a later trip.  The next day, I took the train to Florence, where I had a spacious  room in another small hotel, this one in the San Lorenzo area, not far from the Duomo.  Florence has a special place in my heart.  It was my first experience with Europe when, as a college junior, I spent six months studying (and traveling) at my school's overseas campus.  I know the town quite well, but I never grow tired of wandering its streets.

Then a return for a final night in Rome, before flying back to Seattle.

It was the Cinque Terre that was the focus of this trip, of course.  Although traveling solo, I wanted to get some idea of what I had missed three years earlier -- I anticipated a form, I suppose, of "past life regression."  The weather this time was atypically cool and wet, and I suffered throughout (but not badly) from my "cold."  I don't overlook the irony that I tried to duplicate a visit that had been doomed by Covid, but did so while for the first time unknowingly suffering myself from a mild Covid infection.

I'm sure that the 2020 gathering would have been successful, if held, just because of the kind of people who would have been there, and the chatting and catching up we all would have enjoyed.  Many, perhaps most, of the participants would have been hikers, and we would have found many enjoyable hikes to pursue.  But a large minority were not hikers, and after my visit I'm not sure there would have been enough of interest to absorb those people for an entire week.  I note that many or most guides suggest a visit of two or three days to the area.  The towns are dazzlingly scenic -- especially Vernazza and Manarola -- but, as noted above, once you've seen them, and had a leisurely meal, there might not be much else for the non-hiking visitors to "do."

But I may be pessimistic.  Being bored shows a lack of imagination, and I think most of our guests were sufficiently imaginative to keep themselves amused, and were mature enough not to require being force-fed "fun" as on a cruise or at Disneyland.

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PHOTO -- Manarola. Taken from high up on the opposite side of the harbor. 

"Sunny" Italy

My long awaited flight to Rome, and thence to the Cinque Terre, leaves Seattle on Wednesday at 6:18 a.m.  I had my packing list -- full of hiking gear, shorts, t-shirts, and other paraphernalia -- drawn up over a week ago. 

I'm now doing last minute packing list revisions.

I've been keeping my eye on the Italian weather, and unfortunately the country is in the midst of a long spell of wet weather.  The nine-day forecast shows rain, with occasional thunder showers, every day from the day I arrive until May 18 -- five days before I return home.  And I'm offered no reason to believe that those final five days won't be equally wet.

I spent the spring of my junior year of college in Florence.  It probably rained at one time or another, but my memories are of one warm, sunny day after another -- reading for classes in our little garden with a view of the Duomo in the distance.  Today's weather forecast leaves me feeling misled and betrayed.

The cliffside paths in the Cinque Terre -- which I read are brilliantly scenic, with views far below of the sea and of the small villages on the shore -- do come with a caveat.  They are, every one, steep at the start and at  their conclusion -- and they are built on rock which becomes very slippery when wet.  Hikers are advised to save their hiking for days when the paths are dry.

But when in my two weeks will they be dry?

I stay only six nights in the Cinque Terre -- the remainder of my time will be in Rome and Florence.  But those six days, my days of hiking, were my reason for traveling to Italy at this particular time.  My vacation has been built around those hikes.

One must be flexible.  Certainly in the big cities there are many things to do that don't require perfect weather.  But I'm not so sure about the Cinque Terre -- I'll just have to wait and see.

A fellow hiker who has hiked with me on other trips has little patience with my complaints.  She, essentially, tells me that I have high class problems.

Hmmm ... wine, cheese, pasta, espresso, gelato, tiramisù .. is there really a problem here?

She may have a point.

I'll try to survive the horrors of a wet Italian vacation on a rainy shore, and return to Seattle with a smile on my face.  Seattle -- a city that's anticipating an 88 degree Monday next week.  That's a little too sunny for this Pacific Northwest lad.  By contrast, I may find a gentle shower or two to be refreshing.

Examination of conscience

 I came alone and I go as a stranger.  The instant which has passed in power has left only sorrow behind it.  I have not been the guardian and protector of the Empire.  Life, so valuable, has been squandered in vain.  God was in my heart, but I could not see him.  Life is transient.  The past is gone and there is no hope for the future.  The whole imperial army is like me: bewildered, perturbed, separated from God quaking like quicksilver.  I fear my punishment.  Though I have a firm hope in God's grace, yet for my deeds anxiety ever remains with me.

So wrote Alamgir Aurangzeb (1618-1707) in a letter from his deathbed to his son.  Aurangzeb was the Muslim Emperor who presided over the Mughal Empire as it reached its greatest power and glory, stretching from what is now Afghanistan, over virtually the entire Indian sub-continent, and across Bangladesh.  

Unfortunately, for his peace of mind, he lived long enough to see the Empire be built begin to collapse.  The vast expenditures necessary to subdue southern India drove the Empire to near bankruptcy.

I had been reading once more William Dalrymple's City of Djinns -- one of four Dalrymple books that I have read and discussed on this blog -- when I decided to check and see what else he had written.  I discovered The Anarchy.  It's a highly ambitious work.  I already feel I've been instructed on the full history of the Mughal Empire. but I see on my Kindle that I'm only eleven percent of my way through the book.  What else lies ahead?  I'll find out, but it may take awhile.

I mention the book so prematurely now simply because I'm so impressed by Aurangzeb's deathbed confession.  A man who has finally conquered all  of the world worth conquering, at least from his point of view, views his life's work as probably a form of vanity -- an accomplishment not only threatened by ruin, but, considering its cost in human suffering, perhaps one that should never have been undertaken.

Life, so valuable, has been squandered in vain. ...  I fear my punishment.

My first reaction, perhaps, was to seek analogies in our time.  The Ukrainian war hasn't yet run its course, but regardless of outcome, will Putin someday wonder what he was seeking, and why, and questioning its cost in the human suffering he caused?   Will Trump wonder to himself what it was all about, whether whatever he thought he wanted was worth sacrificing the human joys of friends and family?   Well, probably not, but, as always, Trump is unique.

But then I thought about us common people, those of us with no interest in or pretensions of Imperial Glory.  Don't we nevertheless wonder along with the Mughal Emperor?  Have our precious lives also been "squandered in vain"?   Don't we respond viscerally to the Episcopalian prayer:  "I have left undone those things which I ought to have done; and I have done those things which I ought not to have done; and there is no good in me"?  If we are honest with ourselves, as we near the end of our lives, don't even the best of us feel some response to that pessimistic appraisal of our lives?

By coincidence, I read today my 2020 discussion in this blog of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa's historical novel The Leopard (1958), the story of the life of a nineteenth century Sicilian aristocrat.  At the end, as the priest approaches to administer the last rites, he muses about what to confess:

Not that he felt himself innocent; but his whole life was blameworthy, not this or that single act in it; and now he no longer had time to say so.

He tries to recall all the happy times of his life.

I'm seventy-three years old, and all in all I may have lived, really lived a total of two ... three at the most.

I draw no conclusions.  I don't insist that everyone ends his life disappointed at his life's futility.  I don't know that I believe so myself.

But certainly for some people -- people whom we may all envy for their accomplishments -- experiencing such disappointment does seem unavoidable.  Maybe a tendency toward severe self-criticism is genetic?  Maybe some people, outwardly successful, have actual reason to judge themselves harshly?  Aurangzeb himself murdered and executed freely, and ruled his Hindu subjects oppressively.

But at least, he ended his life with humility.

How to change a flat tire

I guess it's just one of those things that happens to everyone now and then.  Yesterday, I hopped in the car with the idea of taking a dirty blanket to the cleaner's -- about five blocks away.  The car made strange noises, and kept pulling to the left.  

On the highway, I would have immediately diagnosed a flat tire.  But the tire hadn't been flat the night before, and I was puzzled.  After getting my blanket checked in, I took a look at the car.  The right front tire was so flat that I'd been driving on the rim.  I slowly drove back to my house, parked in the driveway, and resolved to think about it the next day.    

Yes, rather than immediately tackle the problem, I procrastinated.  And having no car, I walked 45 minutes to reach breakfast this morning. 

If it's not one thing, these days, it's another. Right?  

Although I've had my little Toyota Corolla for twenty years, I'd never had to change a flat tire.  I knew there was a jack and a lug wrench in the trunk.  And under the flimsy floor of the trunk, I discovered the spare tire, sitting in about three inches of water.  Don't ask.  

I rolled up my sleeves, metaphorically, and loosened the lug nuts.  Before jacking the wheel off the ground, I suspected it would be a good idea to first remove the spare from the trunk.  The tire, as is typical, was secured on a center pole, and pinned down in place by a wing nut.  I twisted the wing nut  Ol' Brer Nut, he don't move, he don't say nuthin'.   I tried pounding the wings with various blunt instruments.  No luck.

I had no tool that would move the immobile wing nut.  I reviewed the twenty steps of "How to Change a Flat Tire"¹,  an excellent and exhaustive on-line, step by step manual tackling the title question.  None of the steps addresses the critical issue of how to remove the spare tire from the trunk when the wing nut is stuck in place.

I had seemingly reached an impasse.

At the back of my mind were tragic memories of the day, as a 16-year-old, that I received my drivers license.  To celebrate, I took my younger brother for a spin through the countryside surrounding our home town.  In our dad's Buick.  I quickly, of course, blew out a tire.  While my brother watched with narrowed eyes, I breathed deeply and tried to be calm and competent.  I removed the jack, placed it under the body of the car near the affected wheel, and jacked 'er up.  The jack indeed rose, but the wheel remained, fixed solidly to the ground.  I noticed that I had placed the jack under the soft metal of the fender, which was folding up like an accordion.  

But wait, there's more.  While I was removing the spare from the trunk, I had laid the car keys inside the trunk for safe keeping.  After the jack fiasco, I slammed the trunk in frustration.  

The tire was flat, the keys were in the trunk.   In those days, there was no clever little lever under the seat for opening the trunk.  It was quite a walk to the nearest pay phone to summon parental assistance.  It was not a comfortable conversation.  My brother listened, hanging on every word.  There were no spare keys.  The car had to be towed to a dealer, awaiting for several days arrival of the appropriate key.  

My brother's thirteenth birthday arrived a day or two after the flat tire fiasco.  Unfortunately, our folks had -- for reasons I don't recall -- placed most of his presents in the trunk for safe-keeping.  They weren't available after his birthday dinner, when the cake and ice cream were served.

He gazed at me again, with hooded eyes.

That emotional trauma has always left me uncomfortable contemplating the possibility of flat tires and their consequences.  As I was today.  

But tell us, you plead -- how did you get the spare tire out of the trunk?

I telephoned a professional, of course.  For a mere $169, he was on the scene within an hour, and within minutes had the tire changed, a feat that I suspect most drivers could accomplish themselves with their eyes closed.  By that time -- to me, at least -- it was worth the cost.

Luckily my brother wasn't there to watch.

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¹https://www.bridgestonetire.com/learn/maintenance/how-to-change-a-flat-tire/

Don't mess with the Mouse

"Mickey Mouse" has to come to mean wimpy, soft, weak.  It wasn't always so.  My first acquaintance with the Mouse was in a little compact book entitled "Mickey Mouse, the Mail Pilot."  Published back when private pilots often flew the U.S. Mail, Mickey ran into a gang of bad guys -- very bad guys -- holed up in a dirigible.  Things looked bad for Mickey for a while, but he kicked their butt.

Now Mickey is locked in combat with a smoother villain -- one with degrees from Yale and Harvard, a governor who wants to turn America into a larger version of what he's doing to Florida.  While America begins to turn away from Donald Trump, this fellow hopes to win national office by out-Trumping Trump.  A Trump who speaks in complete sentences.  An ingratiating Mussolini.

I'm not sure how attacking the world of Disney fits into his plans.  I suspect it doesn't.  But like his Trump mentor, this guy has a thin skin, and he can't stand losing.  Rather than lose a fight he himself gratuitously started, he'll kill the goose that lays Florida's golden eggs, and his own goose as well.

Because beneath Mickey's easy-going facade, the Mouse is a fighter.  A happy warrior.  And a winner. 

As the Mail Pilot book concluded:

"Ya know, Minnie," said Mickey, as they walked happily homeward, "flyin' the mail has taught me a lesson I'll never forget!"

"What's that, Mickey?" asked Minnie.

"Whenever you have a job, no matter how hard it is," he replied, "or how much you hate to do it, just buckle down an' remember, the mail must go through!  Before ya know it, th' job's done -- an' ya feel just swell!"

Hey, I'll lay my money on the Mouse over the Yalie.  Go Mickey!