Star Trek ("IRL")

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before!

Those of us who were sentient during the late 1960s recall the voice of William Shatner, in his role as Captain James T. Kirk, commander of the USS Enterprise, introducing each episode of Star Trek. Shatner was a household name back in the days of those first three seasons ("The Original Series").  Among certain groups of fans, he probably still is.

Shatner is still alive, over a half century later. Looking a bit stouter, perhaps, at the age of 90, but probably still capable of taking a starship out for a whirl.

We'll soon find out. Shatner is scheduled to blast into space on Wednesday, October 13, at 9:30 a.m. (EDT). He will be flying in the New Shepherd NS-18, developed by Blue Origin, the space travel company owned by Jeff Bezos. Shatner probably won't captain the ship, of course, but at age 90 he will certainly be an impressive and adventurous crew member.

Blue Origin's motto is “Gradatim Ferociter” (“step by step, ferociously”). I love it.

I'm impressed that Shatner is about to experience in real life the adventure he portrayed so memorably as a young man.

So impressed that I'd like to imitate his feat.  In high school, I myself played (I blushingly admit) a leading role in our school's grandiose production of Around the World in Eighty Days.  I'm tempted now to achieve the same feat in real life, just like Shatner.  Circumnavigate the earth in eighty days.  

Of course, in Star Trek, Shatner traveled throughout our galaxy.  Wednesday, he'll ascend only 63 miles above the earth's surface.

Maybe I should similarly lower my sights.  Maybe I'll just drive from Seattle to Spokane.  In one day.  

Tempting the Fates

Sometimes, I tempt the Fates.  Not through bravado.  Usually through stupidity, through not thinking through the consequences of my choices.

As I've discussed before, I more or less glided through my visit to Italy last month, testing negative both before flying to Rome and again before flying home from Milan.  I had endured eighteen months of pandemic, and had apparently escaped contact with the virus.  Two weeks ago, I prudently sought out the flu vaccine.  One week ago, I even more prudently received a Pfizer booster shot for my Covid-19 vaccination.

I seemed to be in great shape.  In great shape, and making choices.

Then, Saturday, I had a couple of sneezing spells, along with a tingling in my throat.  That night, after lying down in bed, I had some coughing, which was easily controlled by a cough suppressant.  My throat continued to feel odd on Sunday and Monday.  I was able to talk myself into imagining a mild headache. 

Some of these symptoms could have been side effects from my booster shot, but not the sneezing.  They all could have been simply signs of a cold.  But sneezing has, in fact, been one of the "breakthrough" symptoms afflicting those vaccinated against Covid-19.  Oh no, I thought, a breakthrough infection just days before my booster would have made me immortal.  Monday, I made an online appointment with a mass testing effort run by a partnership between the University of Washington and the City of Seattle.  Because I claimed I had "symptoms" -- real or imagined -- I was given an appointment just two hours after I applied.

Before I'd really thought this through.  Do I really want to risk a positive test result, despite minimal symptoms, shortly before I'm scheduled to fly to Boston?  My symptoms are so mild as to be ignored in better times.  But, of course, these aren't better times.  

So I go to the campus outdoor field where the tests are being administered.  I was assuming that I'd be given an antigen test, as I had for my Italy travels, with a result within fifteen minutes.  But -- I had "symptoms."  Therefore, I had to be given the far more sensitive PCR test, a test that picks up the slightest presence of the Covid virus.  And, because the lab work is more complex than that for the antigen test, I wouldn't know the result for one to three days.

Even with an appointment, the scene of the testing is crowded and has more the flavor of a county fair than a doctor's appointment.  But the lines move fast, and before I know it I'm given a swab and told to collect my own sample from my own nose.   Which I do.  It tickles a bit, but isn't painful.  

And then I wait.   Why did I do this, I wonder?  I wasn't ill, or close to it.  I didn't need to risk a positive test result, and be forced to stay in my house for ten days while feeling in perfect health.  Possibly risk my planned trip to Boston.

This morning, I receive a text telling me that my result is available.  I go on-line, using a secret code they provide me, and pull up a page.  The result:  "None detected."  "None" being no viruses, I surmise.  I read further, and am assured that this is a "negative" result.

I'm relieved, but I feel that I unnecessarily tempted fate.  The three Greek goddesses, the three Fates, continue weaving at their looms.  They smile gently at me and wink.  

They let me get away with it this time.  

Lee Quarnstrom, 1939-2021

In 1947 or 1948, Lee Quarnstrom somehow got his hands on one of my leather shoes as we were walking home from school.  He of course threw it into the nearest dense growth of blackberry brambles -- not out of malice, but simply because it seemed on impulse to be the thing to do.  We joked about it for the next seventy-plus years, with never an apology from Lee, despite my explaining how my mother and I had spent an hour among the blackberries, trying to find the errant shoe.

The joking has finally ended, however.  Lee passed away quietly, early yesterday morning, at his home in La Habra, California.   

The obituaries are now appearing.  They'll tell you how Lee was part of that group of followers of author Ken Kesey, called the "Merry Pranksters."  The Pranksters toured the country in a beat up bus, from which came Kesey's cryptic saying, "You're either on the bus or off the bus."  When not bussing the country, they were holed up in  a rustic cabin in the mountains above Santa Cruz, sampling the various drugs that were becoming popular with the sixties generation.  

Lee is credited as one of the originators of Kesey's "Acid Tests," and he readily conceded that, in his day, he had departed on roughly 150 acid trips -- until a final unnerving trip suggested to him that he'd had enough.  The group's experimentation with LSD was the subject of Tom Wolfe's best-selling book, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.  Inescapably, Lee was eventually the victim of a Bay Area drug bust in 1965, along with Kesey and Neal Cassady.

Lee more or less settled down with age, as most of us do, becoming first an executive editor of Larry Flynt's Hustler Magazine, and then -- more prosaically -- an editor and columnist for the San Jose Mercury News. 

In 2014, Lee looked back on his chaotic career in his memoir entitled, When I Was a Dynamiter! Or How a Nice Catholic Boy Became a Merry Prankster, a Pornographer and a Bridegroom Seven Times. His magnum opus not only was a memoir but has already become an original source material for research into the late 1960s sub-culture. The title pretty well sums it all up, although it ignores what became a rather solid and respectable journalistic career, as well as a very close and loving marriage -- yes, his seventh -- to his wife Chris for the last twenty years or so of his life.

It's all there -- in his memoir, in his writings, and in the obituaries that will be forthcoming. But beneath all the sensationalism, all the historical interest, lived a highly intelligent, witty, and thoughtful human being. After being out of touch for decades, Lee and I re-established our friendship at a gathering in our home town in 2008, after which we emailed each other two or more times a week throughout his final thirteen years.

A classmate who had known us both in elementary school commented to me recently that he couldn't imagine a friendship between two more disparate human beings. But I suppose he didn't know either of us well enough.

To me, Lee was never -- and never will be -- simply the wild guy of the legends, although he certainly was that, too. He and I were best friends from first grade through sixth grade, when his family moved back to the Washington, D.C., area. And we renewed our friendship each summer for another three years when he returned -- either with his family for the summer, or for a stay at my own family's house. When I was 14, I memorably traveled alone by train to his new home in a north Chicago suburb for a three-week visit -- the first blossoming, perhaps, of my lifetime love of travel.

During those years, through ninth grade, we spent hours poring over our stamp collections, sorting through our piles of comic books, playing lengthy and complex variations of Monopoly (did we invent hedge funds? I'm not sure), and talking endlessly about politics, philosophy, religion, and our dreams for the future. And joking hysterically about everything, as only kids of that age can.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, we seemed to live in each other's houses and shared each other's families. He was one person around whom I never felt any social discomfort. I could discuss any subject with him, argue any point of view, indulge in any fantasy -- as could he with me -- without worrying that I sounded crazy or "weird" or uncool. We rarely reached rational conclusions, eventually piling onto our arguments increasingly baroque embellishments that led us both into some crazy joint fantasy.

Meeting him sixty years later -- after all his acid trips, journalism awards, successful career moves, and numerous marriages -- we found that little had changed. Our conversations took off from where they had trailed off, back when we were a couple of 15-year-olds.

Lee will be justifiably praised and celebrated for his amazing life. I remember him best, however, as the close boyhood friend who -- I'm convinced -- cheated routinely at Monopoly.

And we never found that damn shoe!  Never mind, Lee.  Keep it to remember me by, buddy.

Grabbing that booster

Tomorrow morning, I'm scheduled to get my Pfizer booster shot at a local pharmacy.  It's been about 7½ months since I received my second shot, and I'm relieved to be able to get the booster at this time.

I'm convinced that the Pfizer vaccine itself is safe, and I've seen no evidence or suggestion that receiving it as a booster makes it less safe.  I'm less sure of the efficacy or need for a booster -- studies seem to go both ways -- but if it's safe and if it may possibly strengthen and prolong my immunity, I'm all for it.

Looking at boosters from a global standpoint, on the other hand, I certainly admit that there are ethical and epidemiological reasons to question giving any priority to booster shots.  There's a shortage of vaccine worldwide, and, in terms of ending the pandemic, I agree that giving the basic two shots to as many people as possible is more important than giving a booster to a guy who wants to be safe not only from death or serious illness, but from any illness at all -- and even from symptom-free infection.

But in this country, we have accumulated more vaccine than we can use, because of the incredible recalcitrance of a large percentage of our population.  We are donating some of that excess to countries that want it and can use it, but we need to keep a certain excess on hand to meet unpredictable demand.  But the vaccine has a fairly short shelf-life, and if not used within that period has to be discarded.

My own physician discussed the issue with me a month ago, during my annual physical.  He disagreed with the national policy of giving booster shots at this time, but -- on the personal level -- recommended that I get the shot if I had the opportunity.  The vaccine I receive wouldn't have been shipped overseas if I didn't receive it, he pointed out.  It would be trashed.

Kant's categorical imperative might suggest to me that this argument is rather self-serving.  What would be the effect on the world if every eligible American grabbed for the vaccine as a booster, as I'm doing?  

I'll mull that troubling question over later -- like after I get my shot tomorrow. 

Symphony in a time of pandemic

Despite having maintained my subscription each season, last night was the first time I'd attended the Seattle Symphony since February 2020 -- just before the Covid-19 pandemic reached Seattle via China and Italy.  The music, as always, was excellent.  But some things had changed.

Benaroya Hall has a number of food and drink establishments on the street floor, open to the public, before one enters the auditorium proper -- excellent places for a last minute cup of coffee to keep one awake past 8 o'clock.  These were all closed, and the hall which they line was dimmed.  Instead, I found something analogous to TSA checkpoints at the airport.  I was required to show my proof of vaccination and a matching proof of identity (driver's license).  Also, one could pass no farther without wearing a mask.  Which everyone of course was doing -- classical music fans, at least in the Northwest Corner, don't tend to be anti-mask rebels.

Ticket purchasers were also required to sign a waiver of liability at the time of purchase, although I don't recall that being a requirement last winter when I paid for my own season's ticket.  

Having survived this novel -- but reassuring -- set of requirements, we proceeded further to the auditorium lobby entrance, where we presented our tickets.  Also new this time, although unrelated to the pandemic, was our ability to avoid using paper tickets, and instead use an iPhone app to present a QR code.  A minor change, important only to people like me who also became ecstatic at being able to order Starbucks coffee on an app.

The program?  Interesting, but not one of my all time favorites.  It began with a contemporary work by Natalie Dietterich entitled (in all lower case) aeolian dust.  The music was atonal, but oddly soothing.  The composer described the work:

The idea of aeolian, or atmospheric, dust could be considered an analog to the passage of time within a world where unrelated events coexist and have potential to become something bigger than itself, or perhaps simply occupy a space together with nothing to bridge them but the moment in which they occur.

Maybe.  If one concentrates enough.  In any event, the work elicited some odd sounds from the full orchestra, sounds that I didn't realize were possible.  The composer was in the audience and came to the stage and took a bow at the conclusion.  I'd like to hear more of her work.

The second number was Ives's Three Pieces in New England, (1931), also atonal at times but at other times a rambunctious interpretation of various patriotic songs from the Civil War period.  The three movements are programmatic, and reading the composer's intent in composing each movement was helpful to appreciating the work as a whole.

After the intermission came the major work of the night, Schumann's familiar Third ("Rhenish") Symphony.  A crowd-pleaser that brought the audience to its feet at the conclusion.

It was a small audience, however.  The lobby -- usually packed during intermission -- seemed oddly spacious and quiet last night.  I looked over the crowd after most of us had returned to our seats, and estimated that the auditorium -- usually at or near capacity for a Saturday night performance -- was more like twenty or thirty percent full.

I think we're all still adjusting to being comfortable in large crowds.  Even the Mariners games drew sparser than average crowds, and they were held outdoors.  But we're getting there.  My next ticket is for November 6, featuring Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.  I suspect Pyotr's warhorse will draw a larger crowd.  

Happy days at Lake Como

"Wow, isn't it dangerous traveling to Europe during the pandemic?"

This was the response given by most people -- explicitly, or by facial expression -- when I told them about my impending trip to Italy's Lake Como.  It's a fair question, and a question that each person must answer for himself, based on his own reading of the evidence and -- especially -- his own tolerance for risk.

But I was convinced -- am convinced -- that travel to Italy is safe and reasonable.  The flight over?  Italy requires full immunization and negative Covid-19 test results, requirements enforced by the airlines.  And the U.S. also requires all passengers to be masked.  While in Italy?  Italy is now experiencing 6.9 cases per day per 100,000 population, down from 10 cases before I left for Italy.  America continues hovering in the 45 to 50 case range.  Even King County, including Seattle where I live, is experiencing 25 cases.

And there is the matter of national culture.  Italy's population is 66 percent vaccinated, compared with 55 percent in the U.S.  Italians treat masks as just another item of clothing, not a political statement.  Everyone is masked in stores, hotels, and restaurants.  Teenagers and children, less apt to be vaccinated, are commonly masked even outside while playing.  Adults usually mask up in outdoor crowds, and wear their masks on their arms otherwise, ready to be slipped on when entering a building.  Sanitizing of hands is emphasized far more than here, with hand sanitizer dispensers available everywhere.

Draw your own conclusion about the relative safety of the two nations.  I've drawn mine.

But let's talk about the trip itself.

I flew to Rome on September 8, where I spent a couple of days re-exploring some of my favorite places -- the area around Santa Maria Maggiore (where my entire family had stayed during a visit in 2001), the Borghese gardens, the Spanish steps, and, especially, the narrow, twisting streets of the Campo Marzio.  I left Rome early on Saturday, September 11, by high speed train to Milan, where I met up with my sister and our cousin.  

We had planned to rent a car in Milan, and drive that afternoon to our rental house on Lake Como.  Unfortunately, your correspondent managed to destroy the vehicle before getting it out of the parking garage -- the details reflect poorly on said correspondent, and will not be provided herein -- and so we stayed a night in Milan.  We left Milan early on Sunday for Como (city) by train, where we caught a ferry for the 2½-hour ride to Menaggio on Lake Como's west shoreline, some half way up its length.

The manager of our rental sent a taxi to Menaggio, which carried us another three or four miles northward to the village of Rezzonico, where we were escorted on foot through twisting cobblestone streets and steep stairways to what was to be our lakeside home for the week.

The ancient streets and houses of Rezzonico were apparently once included within the walls of the Castle of Rezzonico, built by the Counts Della Torre in 1363.  (The descendants of the Della Torre have been illustrious, including Pope John XXIII.)   The castle towers remain, rising high above the town, and are occupied by their owners.   The town is extremely picturesque, with narrow, cobble-stone streets winding up and down the hillside.

Our house was equally picturesque, with views of the lake from every window, balcony, and porch area.  Built into the hillside, its four floors contained three bedrooms, one of which had a loft with additional beds.

Not having a car proved highly beneficial, forcing us to master the lake's excellent bus and ferry services.  Rezzonico has a small convenience store, but the nearest supermarket was located back in Menaggio, and we made frequent use of the bus between the two towns.  (Menaggio also had excellent gelaterias, which proved a major attraction to our group.)

Much of our time was spent in our house, preparing meals and staring at the changing moods and colors of the lake.  But we also did a six-hour, 8½-mile hike from Menaggio up into the steep hills behind the town.  Part of the trail was a rugged and somewhat precarious climb, but other parts were strolls through small villages and farmlands.  We also spent one day taking the ferry across the lake to Bellagio, a hot spot for wealthy residents and visitors.  (No, as we have replied to many inquiries -- we did not meet George Clooney.)  From Bellagio, we ferried to  the pretty shoreside village of Varenna, which we all agreed was -- after our own Rezzonico -- our favorite town on the lake (not that we came close to visiting them all.

Our last full day, we took a ferry from Menaggio to the far end of the lake at Colico.  As you travel northward from Menaggio, the lake becomes less and less intensely populated and visited by tourists, and we did little in Colico aside from eating lunch.  But the scenery en route -- as the lake increasingly digs its way into the Alps -- was well worth the trip.  We returned to Menaggio by hydrofoil.

I felt sad leaving Rezzonico, and hope to return to the same house some future summer.  We returned to Como by ferry, and by train to Milan where we spent one final night together before I flew home.  My two companions planned to spend several more days in Italy after I left.

This was my first visit to the Italian lakes, and I was impressed.  A beautiful area, no doubt improved by visiting during September rather than at the peak of the tourist season, and at a time when the pandemic limited the number of foreign visitors.

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

Photo No. 1 (top) -- View of Lake Como from one of our several porches

Photo No. 2 -- Rezzonico Castle towers

Photo No. 3 -- View from my bedroom window

Photo No. 4 -- A street in Rezzonico

Photo No. 5 -- Hiking above Menaggio

Lago di Como

After 1,431 posts, I suppose you have to expect a certain amount of duplication.  Certain repeated themes whose posts all sound a bit the same.  One such theme is the "Soon I leave on my trip" theme.

You know what, though?  It's my blog, and I'll repeat if I want to.  Sometimes I just want to note an occasion to prompt future memories, not entertain you, my faithful readers.

So, yeah.  Wednesday, finally, I leave for Italy.  My flight to Dallas-Fort Worth leaves at 7:30 a.m., meaning I pretty much have to Uber myself to the airport at about 4 a.m.  Three hours in advance has always been recommended for international flights, but especially now when so many requirements for the flight have to be documented and verified.

Yes, I have had my vaccinations, and here is my white CDC card.  Yes, I've had my COVID-19 test (today, in fact), and it was negative; here is the lab report.  Yes, I have submitted my Passenger Locator Form, and here is the computer print-out acknowledging receipt by the Italian government. 

There are bound to be folks ahead of me in line at check-in who are horrified to discover that they are missing one or more of these documents -- as sure as there are folks ahead of you at Starbucks who can't decide whether to add caramel to their Frappuccino.   Hence, the three-hour lead time.

I haven't begun to pack, but I have drawn up a packing list.  Apparently, the list suggests, I'm moving to Italy for a year or so.  My sister advises me she is taking a dress (probably unneeded) and a pair of jeans.  My cousin is bringing a small carry-on bag, and all her clothes will be black.  We do have a washer and dryer in our rental -- I really don't need to bring a fresh ensemble for every day of the trip.  I recall my days of backpacking throughout Europe lugging a mammoth backpack; I should have learned my lesson.

My flight to DFW lasts four hours.  I have slightly over an hour to regain my poise in the airport, before leaving for Rome, a ten-hour flight.  I arrive in Rome bright and early in the morning, at 8 a.m.  Which of course is 11 p.m. and time for bed in Seattle.  My hotel has a check-in time of 2 p.m., which means a few hours of walking around the Eternal City in something of a sleep-deprived daze, melting in the Roman late-summer heat.  But I've done all that before -- and fortunately, hotels always allow early arrivals to check their bags until check-in time.

So I have most of Thursday and all of Friday to re-acquaint myself with the wonders and beauties of Rome -- I was last there two summers ago -- before taking an early morning three-hour train ride from Rome to Milan on Saturday.  My sister and cousin will have left San Francisco at about the same time I left Seattle, and will have been familiarizing themselves with the sights of Milan.  We will meet at their Milan hotel, a block from the train station, after which I'll secure my rental car, and the fun begins.

The initial fun will be trying to get out of Milan's crowded maze of streets, aided by my iPhone's GPS.  But the more substantive fun will be the drive to Menaggio on the western shore of Lake Como (henceforth, Lago di Como), and then proceeding three miles farther to the small village of Rezzonico.  Rezzonico, where our rental house awaits us --  three stories high, and overlooking the lake.

But I can say no more.  Once we arrive at our rented house, there is no further advance itinerary.  The itinerary will evolve over the coming seven days as our moods and interests dictate.  Hint -- for my own part, my moods and interests will dictate a couple days of lake exploration by the excellent village-to-village ferry system and at least one day hiking into the hills above the lake.  Our plans will be determined partly, however, by the weather: at present, there is a 50 to 60 percent chance of rain for at least four of the days we'll have our rental.  

Seven days of playing countless games of "Sorry!" as the rain pounds on the window panes?  Hopefully not.   

But all will be made clear, grasshoppers, upon my return.  Maybe even with some cool photos.  

Ciao, e fate i bravi!

Rachel Lake

Rachel Lake has to be one of the most beautiful lakes in the Northwest.  Either that, or fatigue was causing me to hallucinate the lake's virtues yesterday, as my friend Pat M. and I sat on a rocky plateau a few feet above lake level, eating lunch and taking in the view of the lake and the surrounding mountains.

The turn-off to the lake is on the east side of Snoqualmie Pass, not far beyond the Hyak ski area.  There's a bit of a drive in from the I-90 Kachess Lake exit, first on paved road and then on well-maintained gravel.  Once on gravel, there's a rather odd intersection with a number of Forest Service signs, none of which indicate the proper direction -- take the road to the right, which leads to the trailhead and a parking lot.

The trail is pleasant for some distance.  Pat and I naively remarked on how more trails should be so easy to hike.  And then it began -- long rocky patches, often steep, which made footing tricky.  When the trail wasn't rocky, it was often a mass of tree roots which had to be maneuvered through -- often threatening to grab your foot, especially as you were coming back down. 

On-line articles describe the trail as "heavily-trafficked," but on this first day of September we encountered only two other parties going up, and a few more coming back down.  Hikers may be hiked out by now, and are already looking forward to skiing.

I can offer no real advice on negotiating the difficulties of the trail, except to urge you to persevere.  The lake is large, a deep blue, and is surrounded by impressive peaks.  In most part of the country, you'd expect to hear the whine of motor boats, but Rachel Lake is well within the Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area (self-register at the beginning of the trail).  It's definitely doable as a day hike, but we saw at least one tent on the lakeshore.  

Another mile up the trail leads to Ramparts Lake, which would be fun if you still had the energy.  A good reason to camp at the lake, if you have the time.  The lake is  large enough to make a circumnavigation an interesting possibility, although the opposite shore, in places, presents a rocky cliff leading right down to lake level.  Some high level hiking would be required to work around those cliff areas.

The round trip to Rachel Lake is 8.2 miles.  The elevation gain is only about 1,600 feet, but it took us three hours to climb up, and 2 hours, 50 minutes to hike back down.  Those times reflect the difficulty and roughness of much of the trail.

But you finish the hike not only with good pictures imprinted on both your camera  and your brain, but a sense of exhausted accomplishment.  

Hopefully negative

We can only hope that no new lightning bolt hurled down by the travel gods wipes out our stay at Lake Como, Italy, scheduled to begin September 11.

--My Blog (Aug. 16, 2021)

Well, the nefarious travel gods have hurled yet another lightning bolt in my direction.  It probably hasn't wiped out my visit to Lake Como, but it sets up yet another hurdle for me to trip over.

Because the response to the Covid pandemic by a large segment of the American people has -- as it were -- sucked, Europe has grown increasingly nervous about allowing loud, laughing, gregarious American tourists, however free-spending, to traipse across their borders, accompanied by their nasty viruses.  Therefore, the EU announced this week that it was removing the United States from its "safe travel" list.  

And Italy responded.

Beginning tomorrow, vaccinated Americans also will have to present negative results to a Covid test, evidence that they aren't shedding Covid viruses despite being vaccinated and despite having no apparent symptoms of the disease.

It's a reasonable reaction by the Italian government.  According to the New York Times, Italy as a whole has, averaged over the past seven days, only eleven new cases of Covid-19 per day for every 100,000 in population.  The United States, by contrast, has 48.  And even my own county in the State of Washington -- one of the safer parts of the country in which to live -- has 28.

No, the problem isn't with the reasonableness of Italy's new regulation.  My problem is that it was imposed with about two days' notice.  I'm flying out of Seattle early in the morning of September 8, and will arrive in Rome early in  the morning (Italian time) of September 9.  Suddenly, I have to search for a place in which to be tested, make reservations to do so, and have the test completed and the result in hand no earlier than 72 hours before arrival in Italy, and no later than departure from Seattle.

Luckily, I think I've done it.  I've made a reservation for an antigen test at 10:45 a.m. on Monday, September 6.  The outfit offering the tests seems reputable, and is operating out of a Hilton hotel near the airport.  The price seems outrageous, especially when, with a little more time, I could have received free testing in my own neighborhood.  But you get what you pay for.  I hope.

The instructions assure me that if at any point during the procedure, I don't wish to continue, I will be free to leave with no hard feelings on their part.  That's very reassuring.  I can already feel their swab probing deep, ever deeper, into my nose.  "Oops, broke through to your brain!  Sorry if that smarts!"

Be assured you'll receive a blow by blow report of my ordeal.  Especially if the test results are positive.  With my trip thus canceled, I'll have lots of time to devote to this, my cherished blog.

Nature's art

Yesterday afternoon, I returned to Sea-Tac Airport -- a crowded scene of organized chaos.  The same scene I had left behind early Tuesday morning.

But sandwiched between those two airport scenes, I had existed in a totally different world.  Not only a different world, but a different time.  Seemingly, a rural life from the 1940s or 50s.

I've discussed my sister's Idaho home in past posts, in past years.  She and Andy, together with their son, live nine miles west of  the tiny town of Challis, abutting the Salmon-Challis National Forest.  Literally abutting -- from the window of my guest bedroom, I could read a sign indicating the National Forest border.  They live on fifty acres, fifty acres of greenery, surrounded by the dry, brown hills of late summer.  Two creeks pass across their property, one at present dammed by a family of industrious beavers to form a broad, peaceful pond.

A network of trails pass through groves of deciduous and coniferous trees.  At various strategic points, they have set benches and chairs for passers-by -- mainly themselves -- to sit, to ponder, to admire the scenery.

And the scenery is beautiful.  

But many scenes are beautiful, including parks near my own Seattle home.  What  is miraculous in this world near Challis is the quiet, the isolation, the sense of peace.  The road from Challis, after passing my sister's house, plunges almost immediately into the National Forest.  Little traffic from the "city" (population 1,081), nine miles distant, reaches this far.  There are neighbors, yes. Two.   From certain angles, you can see their houses, often through gaps in the forest.

But the more noticeable neighbors are the birds.  And the animals -- deer, beavers, squirrels.  And the family's own domestic animals -- two dogs (four while I was visiting -- they were caring for two dogs belonging to friends), one cat, five horses.  There also used to be twenty-five pet rats, but they came to a sad ending. 

But I'm giving you bare facts and data.  What I want to give you is a sense of feeling.  The feeling that at any time of the day, you can walk out of the house and stare off in any direction -- seeing a world unchanged not only from the 1940s, but, to a large extent, unchanged from time immemorial.  You can watch the sun rise or set behind nearby hills.  You can watch the shadows lengthen.  You can study the different colors presented by different times of day.

If one were an artist, which I'm decidedly not, he could paint a million canvases of the same scene, each

unique.  Like Monet, painting Rouen Cathedral or Westminster Bridge.

Not being an artist leaves me frustrated.  I can paint only with my eyes, on the canvas of my brain.  Which is like painting a masterpiece in disappearing ink on fragile newsprint.

But while the details may fade, my memory of my emotional reaction to those details remains.  And will draw me back for future visits.

Booster

October 18 is a date on my calendar that definitely deserves being circled in red:  The eight-month anniversary of my second Pfizer vaccination shot.  And as such -- the day I become eligible, under President Biden's announcement, for a third shot.  Eligible for the famous booster shot.  

(Actually, October 18 is a Saturday, and I'll be spending a long weekend in Boston, but as soon as possible thereafter.)

I've already reached the six-month point, and I'm already nervous about how well my immunity is holding up.  Studies in Israel show a fading immunity after six months, especially among older persons.  I'll be in Italy September 8-20 -- a somewhat risky plan in any event.  Although, according to figures in the New York Times, Italy so far is significantly less of a "hot spot" than is my own county here in Washington -- and my county is doing better than most of the U.S.  

But if I survive Italy's perils -- or, more to the point, if I'm able to get a negative antigen test that enables me to return to the welcoming arms of my own country -- I'll be first in line for the third shot as soon as it's available.

The original two shots of vaccine haven't totally prevented Covid infection as well as I'd hoped back in February.  The talk then was of 95 percent effectiveness, which we assumed meant that only 5 percent of those vaccinated would be infected after exposure.  But we've since learned that many "breakthrough" infections do occur, although most of them are either asymptomatic or result in only mild or moderate symptoms.

I've had innumerable experiences with sore throats, coughs, tiredness, and other potential signs of Covid-19 since February.  Was I experiencing an infection with minor symptoms?  Who knows.  I just don't want an asymptomatic infection to trigger a positive antigen test 72 hours before I head home.

Actually, I've read articles suggesting that if I have, in fact, "survived" minor Covid infections over the past six months, that might be a good thing.  Each infection gets the old immune system excited and eager to put out fires.  And if those infections came from different variants, so much the better -- I might now be a veritable fortress of immunity against all forms of attacking Covid virus.

Yes, as Hemingway once wrote. "Yes.   Isn't it pretty to think so."

A Passage North

The present, we assume, is eternally before  us, one of the few things in life from which we cannot be parted.  It overwhelms us in the painful first moments of entry into the world, when it is still too new to be managed or negotiated, remains by our side during childhood and adolescence, in those years before the weight of memory and expectation, and so it is sad and a little unsettling to see that we become, as we grow older, much less capable of touching, grazing, or even glimpsing it, ....

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In June, I described a trip that Pascal and I took to Sri Lanka in 2004.  I reprinted my journal's description of our ascent of Adam's Peak.  

I'm sure that during our tour throughout the southern portion of Sri Lanka, we were aware of the continuing struggle of the Tamils in the Northeast for independence, and of the terrorist actions by both the Tamils (mostly Hindu, some Christian and others) and the Sinhalese majority (Buddhist) in the south.  I don't recall being concerned about the struggle, even though we spent a couple of days visiting the ruins at Anuradhapura, which is near the south's border with the Tamil north.  I may have been lulled into a sense of security by the fact that a formal cease fire -- often violated -- existed between the government and the Tamils from 2002 to 2007.  After the cease fire ended, the government achieved total military victory in 2009.

This is all prelude to my having read a novel, set in the present, by Sri Lanka author Anuk Arudpragasam: A Passage North (2021).  It's an unusual novel, containing far more impressions and contemplations than plot.  But it offers a vivid image of life in Sri Lanka and among Sri Lankans, and an interesting illustration of the life and thoughts of a contemporary, intelligent Tamil.

Krishan is a Tamil who was born and raised in Colombo, the predominantly Sinhalese capital in the south.  He grew up in the same household as his mother, his grandmother Appamma, and Appamma's Tamil caretaker and eventual friend Rani, who had come to Colombo from the north to provide that care.   Krishan attended university in India, in the more cosmopolitan capital of Delhi, where he met and fell in love with an Indian student, Anjum.   He breaks up with Anjum, who is far more focused in her interests than is the somewhat dreamy Krishan.  Krishan's life is complicated when Rani, to whom he was somewhat attached, falls into a well during a visit back to her home village in the north and dies -- possibly but not conclusively a suicide.

Although set in the present, the characters' lives and thoughts are haunted by the violence of the war.  Rani had lost both of her sons to war -- her eleven-year-old younger son killed before her eyes by shrapnel in the waning days of the war.  She is kind and friendly with Appamma, but suffers from progressive depression and emotional detachment from the world about her.  Krishan, growing up in Colombo, had been shielded from personal contact with the war, but while a student in Delhi finds himself obsessed with accounts and photographs of its horrors, and a sense of survivors' guilt for not having shared his people's sufferings.

Much of the novel is given over to Krishan's thoughts and daydreams -- erudite passages that reflect Krishan's intellect and academic orientation, but also perhaps the concerns of the author.  Krishan gives a detailed and lengthy description of a Sanskrit "poem of yearning":  The Cloud Messenger, a tale of a divine spirit (yaksha) who had been punished by exile from his home and family, and who pleads with a passing cloud to carry a message to his beloved wife.  The poem describes the wife's city as a place where flowers of every season bloom at once, which Krishan construes as proof

that all seasons were collapsed there into a single season, that time itself stood still or that all times were contained in a single time -- as though, the narrator was suggesting, in ordinary life we are pulled in different directions by our contradictory desires, so that what we imagine as heaven is a place where these conflicting longings are somehow reconciled, in which the separate and seemingly incompatible times of their fulfillment are brought together,  uniting our otherwise divided souls. .  

Krishan, contemplating the ecstasy of being together with Anjum, concludes that it is only in such moments that one experiences reality, where the falsity of daily life becomes obvious .

Krishan was grateful that they were part of the same place and the same time, that for now at least they were together in the same moment, a moment that contained not only what was proximate and what was distant but also what was past and what was future, a moment without length or breadth or height but which somehow contained everything of significance, as if everything else the world consisted of was a kind of cosmic scenery, an illusion that, now that it was being exposed, could quietly fall away.

Krishan decides that, even when love dies, this knowledge that one acquires through love remains:

...the knowledge that the world we ordinarily partake in is somehow not quite real, that time does not need to pass the way we usually experience it passing, that somehow it is possible to live and breathe and move in a single moment, that a single moment could be not a bead on an abacus of finite length but an ocean that can be entered into, whose distant shores can never be reached.

The entire final section of the novel -- over a quarter of its length -- is devoted to Krishan's travel to the north to be present with Rani's Tamil family and fellow villagers at her funeral, and to witness in striking detail the cremation of her body.  He watches the smoke rising and dissipating into the sky, like a message to another world that would never be received.  Like the love-sick yaksha's cloud-borne message to his wife in the Sanskrit poem.

Summarized, the novel sounds abstruse and perhaps boring.  In reality, I found it gripping and fascinating.  The author, in attempting to follow Krishan's thoughts, describes his surroundings and his actions in great detail, bringing to life the often strange (to us) world of Sri Lanka life, a world that is often strange but in some ways very familiar as well.  A book worth reading slowly, and -- although I haven't yet done so -- reading a second time.

Dry river

The gods of travel have not treated me kindly recently.  How unkindly?  Let me count the ways.

1.  (2019)  Trip to Kashmir canceled three weeks before scheduled departure because of Indo-Pakistani conflict.

2. (2020)  Thirty-person birthday celebration in Levanto Italy canceled two months before departure.  Covid-19.

3. (2020).  Trip to Chiang Mai, Thailand, to visit my nephew.  Canceled.  Covid-19.

4. (2021).  Rescheduled birthday celebration in Levanto, Italy.  Canceled.  Covid-19.

And now -- my float trip down the Middle Fork of the Salmon river in Idaho.  The River of No Return.  

This was to be my first return to travel after being vaccinated against Covid-19.  A safe "first"  -- out of doors, in the wilderness, and in the company of a small number of vaccinated participants.  And, indeed, the culprit wasn't Covid-19 this time.

It was the weather.

We've been having very hot, very dry weather this summer in the Northwest Corner, as I've grumbled repeatedly in this blog.  My sister, who inspired this trip, has been sending me reports on the condition of the Salmon river.  The latest shows the river's average depth is down to 1.45 feet, where less than three feet is defined as "low."  I suspect that several people in a raft are going to have a rocky ride in 1.45 feet of water.

The outfitter has suggested flying us to portions of the river where the water is running deeper, and says that we may have to portage in places.  Unfortunately, that excludes the most scenic areas of the ride, together with bragging rights for having floated a continuous six-day route.  We are all older (not ancient) folks, and I suspect most of us are at least as interested in the wilderness experience as in running a fast river.  Under present conditions, however, we really would get neither.

So it looks like we're going to cancel the trip, which was scheduled to begin on August 26.  Or, more accurately, we hope to reschedule it for next summer, when we hope the weather will be closer to normal and the rivers flowing with more water.

I still have my plane tickets to Idaho.  Luckily my sister lives very close to the put-in point for the river trip, and I'll spend a few days visiting her and her family.  

We can only hope that no new lightning bolt hurled down by the travel gods wipes out our stay at Lake Como, Italy, scheduled to begin September 11.

Endless summer

My clock just chimed the hour: 3:00 p.m.  Three o'clock on a Northwest Corner summer afternoon in mid-August.  The chime prompted me to check the weather app on my phone:  Ninety degrees Fahrenheit (32.2° C), a recent uptick from the 88 degrees of the past couple of hours.  

A high temperature for Seattle, but not exceptionally high for mid-August.  What's unusual is that it's merely one of a long succession of similar days we've endured this year.  Last week, a laughable 0.01 inch of rainfall technically ended a dry spell of 51 days.  Our usually rainy June was marked by a string of days over 100 degrees, including one memorable day of 108 degrees (42.2° C).

I recall the Northwest summers of my childhood and youth.  Some were "dry summers" and some were "wet summers."  Even the dry summers had days when picnics were threatened, or washed out, by unexpected rainfalls.  I recall standing inside an open door in my garage when I was about ten, watching rain come down in sheets in mid-summer, while lightning crackled overhead.  Yes, we often had periods of consecutive days of sunshine, but just as often we had days with pleasant temperatures, no rain, but a gray overcast.  

A gray overcast -- in winter or summer -- has always been the trademark of the Northwest Corner.

Those childhood summers affected the wiring of the synapses in my brain.  Those sunny days, mixed with cloudy days and rainy days, represent "summer" to me.  Even though I knew even then that summers in other parts of the world were drier or wetter, hotter or colder, than our own.  Just like how, to me, a true forest was a forest of Douglas fir -- not one of pine, or maple, or saguaro cactus.

So this summer, even more than last summer and the summer before that, has befuddled my brain.  Summer is for hiking and camping, but I can't force myself to hike in 90 degree weather.  Well, let me amend that.  I probably could force myself to hike in 90 degree weather in California, or Morocco, or Greece -- but not in the Northwest Corner.  Because this hasn't really been summer.  I don't know what it has been.  I'm ready and able to prepare for rain or unseasonable cold.  I don't know how to prepare -- physically or psychologically -- for hiking in 90 degree (or even 85 degree) temperatures in "my" Northwest.

And so I haven't.  I walk four or five miles in the city in early morning or after dinner.  Beyond that, I sit inside and brood over the injustice of it all.

And so, I was happy to read a column by Margaret Renki in today's New York Times.  Like me, she worries about climate change, about the changes to our environment, about the losses of plant life and animal species that now seem inevitable.  Inevitable, now that experts predict an increase in temperature worldwide of another couple of degrees Celsius, even if we stopped pouring carbon into the atmosphere this very moment.

But Ms. Renki asks us to focus on the beauties of nature around us, and to appreciate them now while we have them.. I infer that we should remember that nature may be very different in tomorrow's world, but that it may still be beautiful in its own way.  We love our fir forests in the Northwest, but we can learn to love the Ponderosa pine that may some day replace them.  The earth will change in the future, but it has also changed in the past.  Only yesterday in geological time, the Northwest was covered with glaciers.  We would have admired them, if we had today's sensitivities, and would have been alarmed at their melting.

We are humans, and humans adjust.  Even to losses.

Renki writes from Nashville that the heat is "monstrous," and the air full of smoke (which Seattle so far has avoided this year).

The air is so thick, I can hardly breathe, but I can feel the breath of the earth on my ankles.  Heat rises from the sun-warmed soil.  Dampness pours out of the drew-drenched tangle of white clover and wood sorrel and mock strawberries that pass in this yard for a lawn.  The earth is breathing.  I can breathe, too, because it is still breathing.

Her assurance is not a cry to give up the fight for a better environment.  It is rather a plea that we not despair, even as we fight for the Earth, even as we see species die out, and forests dry up, and oceans rise.  We may lose much that is beautiful, but the Earth lives on and will create new forms of beauty for our descendants.  

Our own lives are short, but the Earth will endure in one form or another.  Our generation will soon pass away, but future generations will each make its own  peace with a changing Earth.  

Visiting Lebanon 1970

Another flashback to past travels. 

During the summer of 1970, I joined vast hordes of American young people in traveling about Europe on our own, with no (or only the sketchiest) pre-planned itinerary, with no advance reservations, and certainly with no iPhone contact with the folks at home. We traveled each day as the spirit moved us, as our curiosity led us, as rumors from other travelers inspired us. We carried our luggage on our backs, and our savings in the form of travelers checks.

Back in April 2014, I reprinted in this blog an article written for my home town newspaper (click to see article) describing a day's adventure visiting Damascus from Beirut.  I had arrived in Beirut near the tail end of my six weeks overseas. I had spent those weeks traveling by train and boat, staying in youth hostels and in dirt cheap hotels in Paris, Italy, and Greece.  

I had sailed by ferry from the Greek island of Rhodes to Cyprus, hoping to hop another ship from Cyprus to Beirut.  The following excerpt from my diary -- my last entry for reasons I can't recall -- takes off from that point.  Keep in mind that this was my first experience with life outside America and Europe.

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Thursday -- 13 August [1970]

Events happened quickly.  Arriving in Limassol involved an enormous amount of hassle at immigration -- the formalities taking place before we were allowed to disembark.  Everyone complained, even usually unflappable British.  You're aware that Cyprus isn't really prepared for mass tourism in any way similar to Greece.  Almost everyone on the ship was either Greek or Cypriot, or a Britisher on vacation or visiting friends -- and the British were a very small minority. 

Found a travel agent -- Scottish girl, 6 years in Cyprus -- and discovered that there would be no ship to Beirut for six days.  So on the spur of the moment, decided on a flight.  She got me my reservation -- cost about 9½ L [pounds sterling] -- and put me in a shared taxi to Nicosia, after buying me a Coke.

Interesting ride -- very hot, even the wind.  Same Mediterranean type surroundings, but a bit lusher near the coast.  Amazed at how many road signs were in English -- especially the "dining and dancing" variety.  Could see that British had been entertaining themselves on Cyprus for a long time.  Passed several armed U.N. checkpoints, but no one seemed  to pay them any heed.

 Arrived at Nicosia Airport with about a half-hour to spare -- actually though we left late -- and went quickly through customs again and filled out a couple of postcards -- I needed some proof I'd actually been there.  Then before I knew, we were off -- sat next to a Jordanian teenager on a M.E.A. flight -- many English.  Just had time to eat some very sugary -- but surprisingly good -- candies and drink a glass of orange juice -- i.e., 35 minutes -- and we were landing in Beirut.

Met a couple of girls at the airport -- Americans -- whose fathers worked at the American University.  (Gave me quite a start by talking about how they had just come back from visiting Europe!)  They filled me in, as we waited in lines, on various tips for survival in Lebanon.  Took a cab directly to the YMCA -- LL.7 -- and here I am.

Well -- it's something else, all right.  I'm not sure yet quite what generalization I could make.  In many ways, it's the most Americanized place I've been, not excluding Amsterdam  --especially here in the university district.  Bookstores carrying many of the same texts as at home, hamburger stands with milk shakes, banana splits, pizza -- the whole all-American bit.  Uncle Sam's Restaurant is practically an inexpensive Denny's.  Had fried eggs this morning, believe it or not.  Why live European when I'm no longer in Europe? 

On the other hand, the Eastern influence is very marked.  Downtown you run into men in fezes, in Arab head-dresses, in whole Arab gowns, in Turkish type clothes, stocking caps.  Women often in mid-calf peasant dresses with shawls over their heads.  One woman I've seen in complete veil -- couldn't even see her eyes.  Most, of course, are in western dress -- very like Italy and Greece.  But in the downtown market area this majority becomes rather slim, if it exists.

Just about every sign that you'd be interested in is in Arabic and English, or sometimes French.  Even license plates are bi-literal.

The markets are fantastic.  Everything imaginable for sale.  Meat carcasses hanging like skeletons, partially de-fleshed.  Fruit juice stands, packed with all kinds of fruits, and especially carrots.  Beirut must be the home of the Waring blender.  Passed one café and found it filled with grizzled old men smoking their water pipes -- tobacco, I trust.

One of the guys in the dorm room is French, but speaks good English.  He motored all over the Middle East, including Iran and Iraq.  He is very down on Beirut -- thinks it is completely uninteresting.  Also doesn't care for the allegedly money-hungry attitude of the natives.  I mentioned, "There seem to be a lot of TV antennae around here."  "Yeah, but it's not like in Europe or America.  The Lebanese would rather sip coffee and talk."  "Well, that's good."  "Yes, that's good -- but what do they talk about?  I don't know any Arabic, but when I listen to the conversations, all I hear is "Lire, lire, lire'!"

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It's maddening now that I didn't continue keeping my journal to the end of the trip.  Of course, I did document my day trip the following day to Damascus, by means of my newspaper article.  But I have only my undocumented memories, a half century later, of my travel by bus from Beirut, through Syria, to Turkey and Istanbul.  The bus was filled with Lebanese on their way to vacations on the Bulgarian coast.  The one exception was one American woman and her two young children.  Her husband worked for Aramco in Tehran, but she and the kids were traveling on their own.

Syria apparently didn't like being merely a conduit to Turkey, and so they required the bus to stay overnight in the coastal city of Latakia, where I shared meals with my American compatriots.  Then we had to wait for a couple of more hours at the Turkish border -- beautiful mountainous scenery, as I recall -- to meet the requirement that we and our bus had spent a full 24 hours in transit through Syria before entering Turkey.

I stayed at a youth hostel near the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul.  A city that I loved at first sight, and still love.   I loved it even though I became deathly ill from food poisoning -- from what I decided was a contaminated ice cream cone I had bought from a sidewalk vendor -- and vomited repeatedly over a day's time into the hostel's filthy toilets, a condition aggravated by water shortages that allowed toilets to be flushed only during limited hours each day.  

I stayed several days in Istanbul -- most of them in good health -- and flew to Rome, catching a train from Rome to Amsterdam where my chartered plane (by REI) awaited me for the flight back to Seattle.

Best six weeks of travel ever!

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Photo -- stock photo of pre-war Beirut