Creepy Like Unto a Clown

I have a fig tree in my back yard. I have long wanted the fig tree cut down to a much smaller size. This thing is out of control. And with this year's unseasonably wet spring season, there are about ten billion figs on my fig tree. That's about nine billion more than normal.

Normally birds eat up all of the figs and I never get any (which is fine by me because the only way I really like figs is in the newtons... and even then I like the raspberry flavored newtons. So figs are fairly useless to me all around.)

But the birds get an epic fail this season on their fig-eating-ability report card.

So now, with an abundance of pesky fruit in my overgrown tree, which I can reach out and grab from my bedroom window, a new fruit-predator has deigned to enter my backyard and partake of the fruitage.

Racoons.

Really.

I prefer the birds.

The racoons are loud, and disease-ridden (I'm convinced) and creepily cute with their flashy little eyes and paws and bushy tails.

And they make big noises while I'm lying in my bed, trying to fall asleep and they scurry all around my fig tree, breaking branches and chattering.

So I opened my window wide (not before taking a moment to wonder if they would come flying into my bedroom like furry ninjas) and yelled at them.


"HEY! You jerks!! Get outta my tree!"

And they turned their furry little masked faces and stared at me and shined their eyes like flashlights.

So I got out my headlamp and shined it at them.

And then I froze.

Because.

There.

Was.

An.

Albino Racoon.

For real.

And It was the creepiest of all creepy things creeping in my tree last night. I'm pretty sure.

And I yelled again and took pictures with my camera, the flash causing a mass-exodus from the fig tree of FIVE racoons (including whitey-ford, the albino racoon).

And they all ran into my tomato garden.

Fail.

Calistoga Field Trip

I was born in the Napa Valley. (Yes, as in snooty-falooty "Nah-pah, dah-ling.") And though I grew up in a neighboring village, I spent quite a bit of time out in the valley at various church and social activities during my childhood and teen years. (Think: cars full of teen friends driving down a dark highway verrrrry fast with the windows rolled down, howling at the moon on their way to dancing activities and Denny's for french fries dipped in strawberry milkshakes... yum!)


You never value what you grow up with while you're doing the growing. 

That's really my point. Well. For now.

You take it for granted. Childhood, that is.

SO.

Imagine my surprise, when I moved away, at learning just how much EVERYOOOOONE else and their dog loved the San Francisco bay area, especially Nah-pah and the surrounding area.
I mean, I knew it was pretty, but pretty much could care less.

Ya know?

When I moved back here three years ago, I made sure to go on expeditions back in the Napa hills and reacquaint myself with my old stomping grounds. But I really haven't gone back since.

Until last weekend. It was time. I hit the road, fully intending to go hiking at Point Reyes along the beach.

But.

Instead.

I turned left. 
Because I felt like it. And isn't that really the only reason for a thirty-year old single woman with time on her hands and a full tank of gas to do something fun? I think yes. (Narcissism is mandatory on pointless, spur-of-the-moment expeditions, you know.)

And I went out towards Napa. And at a loooooooooong stop light I googled hiking places in the Napa hills and ended up driving along lovely highway 29, out past Napa. Through St. Helena and Oakville and Yountville. Right on to Calistoga.

And let me tell you, I could have done just the drive alone and been a happy camper. Gorgeous! Stunning! Breathtaking! I sure don't drink, but I LOVE me some wine country.

I stopped at two fabulous places on my drive: Oakville Grocery, where I had the (hands-down) best sandwich I've ever eaten in my life. Truly. When you're out that way be sure to stop for the Roasted Chicken and Gruyere panini. It changed my life. Okay, just kidding. But sandwiches will never be the same again.

Lunch. Check. Delicious. Check.

Hike. Fun!

I am an accident-prone girl.

It was a good bleeder. Not serious. Patched it up with Neosporin and a bandage. 

Nothing like hike triage.

Seriously cool and not-shy lizard.

The tree in the middle is my favorite.

After my hike I stopped in at my first Dean and Delucca in Sonoma. What an experience.
Okay.
I live literally a block away from a Whole Foods Market.
Soooo... Dean and Delucca just seemed like a slightly posher version of a Whole Foods. It didn't exactly live up to the Felicity-hype that I thought it would. And the people in it!  

Holy funny circus, Batman:

It started in the parking lot. I hopped out of my cute Jeep. Bandana on head, hair in two messy, post-hike braids, wearing a sweaty t-shirt and cargo shorts coated in fresh blood from my knee injury. As I'm walking into the store, I walk past a couple exiting their Mercedes and the woman looked me up and down with disdain. I just smiled at her and went into the store. The kind of smile that was really me laughing at her because of how silly she was. Dare I call it a smirk? Yes.  

Because, really, pretentious people deserve nothing more than just to be laughed at.

And then inside! Oh! A store full of frenetic people trying to convince themselves that they beloooong in that yuppy store, dahhhhling! I walked around with my face all scrunched up as I observed silly human behavior.

And then I was distracted by the pastry counter. Like any good girl ought to be.

 


I have a ridiculously demanding sweet tooth. Normally I only feed it sugar on Fridays. But there are exceptions, such as this particular Saturday. Because clearly a trip to Napa (and the afforementioned pastry counter) was an exception to the no-sugar rule, I couldn't resist buying two things: A petit Gateau to rival any desert at the Cheesecake factory, and a brownie concoction that was actually a shortbread cookie covered in vanilla custard and topped in hardened chocolate. DEEEE-vine! I was seriously sugar high driving home. And for the rest of the day after, as I fed my inner sugar-monster bites of the day's take over a video-type time lapsed blur (in my mind). Yum.

Go to Napa, people. Better yet, go to Calistoga, Yountville, Sonoma. Explore Northern California's wine country. It's gorgeous. Eat. Hike. Drive. (But obviously don't Drink. Drive.)

And maybe you'll figure out for yourself why the region inspires the overly-voweled use of the word darling.

4th of July

This 4th of July (and yes, I realize this posting is seriously delayed!) I ventured back to my old hometown, Vallejo, California. AKA "the model city for Bankruptcy in the USA." That's where I lived until the age of 17 (which was a long while ago, if you must know).

It seems that my dearest friends, the ones who I grew up with in Vallejo, and I are forming a tradition. This is the second year that we've gathered around this time of year for BBQ, games and general goofiness. These gatherings never disappoint.

Friends are good.

I showed up late. By the time I arrived the food was ready and the charcoal was on it's way to becoming cooled cinders. Problem. I brought Pineapple to grill. So, as I laid the brown-sugar coated pineapple on the grill to try and soak up the last of the coal heat I joked with my friend Nelia "You woulnd't happen to have a blow torch, would you?" Her eyes lit up and she ran inside, coming back out with a Creme Brulee torch.  

Score!!!

I only got so far as to grill about three pieces of fruit before the inevitable happened. (I wondered how long it would take as I stood there playing with fire.) One of the guys hopped out of his chair, wandered over and said as casually as a kid in a candy store to me: "Whatcha doin?"

Really, what he was asking was: "CAN I PLAY WITH THE FIRE? CAN I? CAN I? Please, oh please, oh please!!!"

So I let him. He finished off the entire grill full of pineapple and then handed the torch back to me with a grin. Typical.

But that wasn't the end of the torch use for the day. Most fireworks are illegal these days in California. So all we had were little poppers to throw around and some bottle rockets.
Kinda tame.
So, you guessed it, Creme Brulee Torch + poppers + Bottle rockets = Way more fun!!

I love my friends. They're pretty much the awesomest.

As the hour grew later we moved the party inside and played endless rounds of Phase 10 and "Mormon" quarters (with water... the object of the game is to not pee!)

Bedouin Wedding, Part 2

Entering the Women's tent was a bit like knowing you're about to walk into your own surprise birthday party. You know what's about to happen, but you don't know what the details will be.

When the men in our group walked all of us women over to the women's tent we passed several men who stopped us to ask the perpetual query and give a greeting: "Whereareyoufrom? You are welcome!" And then they would add, as we walked towards the somewhat camoflauged entry to the tent "You go to the Women's tent?" We said yes and they would say with awe and wonder in their eyes "Oh you are very, very lucky!"

What were we walking into? A lavish oasis with plush carpets and women in belly dancer costumes having pillow fights with satin pillows? I mean, why was everyone so excited about the Women's tent??

Well, honestly. 

I still have no idea.

There were some carpets laid out in certain areas, but none of the decor present in the men's tent - none of the neatly arranged rows of carpets and pillows. Just masses of tent-like women in a small room with children all clustered together closest to the stage area (which was on the men's side of the tent partition).

Oh and a massive vat of tea. Like a huge plastic trough. When we entered, the Women eyed us suspiciously, but several were standoffishly friendly. They pulled us over some carpets to sit on and warmed us some tea from the trough over a small fire. The younger, unmarried women were less suspicious of us and came over to chat with us quickly. One in particular, Fatima chatted with us. She told us of her disdain for getting married. She wanted to finish school and then become a nanny for travelers. "Why should I get married and become like a servant? I could have a good life and make my own money; have an apartment! I do not wish to marry!"

 

Fatima, the second from the right. These girls were the only ones who would allow their picture to be taken. And they were so excited to see the photos on the digital screen once taken! They wanted to take more and more photos! And then they would look and comment about how bad they looked and sigh! I guess girls are girls no matter where you go. Fatima, at one point placed her arm next to mine and said "All my life I have wanted skin like this", she stroked my white skin. I pointed to her beautiful bronze arm and said "All my life, I have wanted skin like yours!" She sighed and replied "You always want what you don't have."

I have to say that I'm with Fatima. I'd want that too had I grown up in a Bedouin society in this day and age. 

Western clashes with tradition. 

Another woman, whose name I have long forgotten, brought a video camera over to my travel companion, asking her to fix it. She was immediately referred to me (I'd established a reputation for being not only the responsible, prepared one on tour, but also the resident techophile.) The language on the device was set to English and the Woman could not figure out how to switch it to Arabic. So I took it and had it set up in Arabic in a few minutes.

Little did I know what that simple transaction would bring. She sat with us. She brought other women. And children. We were "Okay" and much more welcome that we had been a few minutes earlier. We'd helped and were appreciated. Also, we always asked before taking photos, which established us a respectful bunch. After chatting with us for a few moments, she invited us all to come to her house for lunch the next day.  It was nearly impossible to convince her that it would be impossible for us to join her. (We were already an hour's drive away from Beach camp and had no idea how far she lived from there!)

 

 This girl taught me a game similar to jacks, played with pebbles.

That Woman provided me with amazing insight that night. I'll share it with you.

The backstory:

You see, the stage in the Men's tent had been set up to host the night's extravagant entertainment, something absolutely forbidden in everyday life, except this one night per year: Belly Dancing.

The video camera Woman sat with me and expressed her concern. She was a bundle of nerves! Said she:

"I did not sleep last night! I was so worried. Because of the Belly Dancer! I am afraid that my husband will want her and not me any longer! The belly dancers are (She made a face) not good women. They wear only (she draws a bikini top outline in the air on her form)... bikini! They are not good women! I am afraid that my husband will like it too much. He has never seen me with so little clothing!"

Wait, WHAT?

It was a conversation that I was both completely unprepared for and stunned into silence by.

1. Bedouins apparently don't get naked. Ever. And yet this woman had children.

2. I thought Mormon society was conservative. Apparently not so much.

3. What???

Wow. What a moment. Reality check for this American. It would be easy for anyone who grew up in Western Society with Western ideals to simply dismiss this as primitive, uneducated or backwards. But there is also beauty. In the preservation of culture and tradition; in simply respecting modesty.

And I respect that the way of life for the Bedouin people is not my own. And the fact that I was able to venture into a world so protected and experience that moment astonishes me.

--

The evening moved on and on. The belly dancers arrived HOURS late... And we all just waited around. And honestly they were terrible!! Yes, their costumes looked like a bikini top and sheer flowy pants (like the ones you see in movies), they were lined with skin-toned fabric - so these girls were actually completely covered. The worst part by far was the dancing. It was as though the real dancers canceled and the people in charge of picking them up knew they couldn't return to Dahab empty-handed so they borrowed some costumes and wandered the streets for hours trying to convince a couple of girls to wear them and come and act like belly dancers for a night... 

Bad. Bad. Bad.

Even our guide, Ghandi, said they were the worst dancers he had ever seen.

After we'd seen enough of the "belly dancers" we left the tent area and made our way to the "parking lot", where we found, at last, the traditional Bedouin wedding festivities happening. Tribes were gathered in large groups dancing traditional dances and singing. A line of men would stand and clap and sing together, swaying in unison. And a single female dancer, covered in an ornate veil would flirt with them all - swaying and moving, teasing with her veil and her motions. It was all very ethereal looking. The men feigned peeking under the veil and the dancer would move away coyly The line of men was always moving as one, snaking along in a life of it's own. It was beautiful and fun and yet always absolutely respectful. 

This was my National Geographic night. A night in the Egyptian desert at a Bedouin Wedding party.

Treadmill Stalker, part Deux... this is getting creepy

Dear Treadmill Stalker guy,

I saw you yesterday. And I know you saw me. I saw you walk into the Apple store shortly after I did. I saw you walk around, peruse the mactastic products and look at me while I was waiting for the repair geeks to give me back my laptop. (Which was under warranty... Apple Care! Score on saving a $1350 repair!)

I SAW YOU. AND YOU'RE CREEPY. And I made eye contact with you and purposefully looked away in annoyance. Did you miss that?

Ugh.

When I'd secured my laptop and finished chatting about all the great things to do in Israel with my mac tech geek (He's half Israeli) and learned how to pronounce Haifa with a gutteral H sound, I saw you in the far corner of the store, still glancing at me and trying to look like a shopper; Trying to look nonchalant.

And then I snuck out the front of the store and into Barnes and Noble, and I saw you walk past, sans Apple products.

Look buddy. Go away and stop creeping me out.
Or the next time I see you I will revert to my ghetto-fabulous roots and wail on you.

News Flash!

Have you heard?
Jet Blue has brought back their All-You-Can-Jet travel pass for the month of September! How exciting is that???

Between September 7 and October 7, for as little as $499 you can fly anywhere JetBlue does, as much as you want!!

Check it out here:
http://www.jetblue.com/aycj/?intcmp=HPHero1Eng_AYCJ2010

So that trip I never knew I wanted to take... you know, the one that goes to NYC, Richmond, Bermuda, Aruba, Barbados, Grand Caymen and Puerto Rico all in thirty days could actually happen in September.

I know. I just pulled that itinerary out of nowhere. I hadn't in a million years conceptualized a trip like that... until thirty minutes ago. But you get my point. Sky is the limit here, kids! Get going!

Happy traveling!!

Travel Love

Amore.

There are many forms. No?

Oui.

I love my family. I love my friends. I have been in gut-wrenching, gorgeous, head over heels love a couple of times.

And I have been in travel love dozens of times.

Do you know what I mean?

There was Matt, the beautiful British sailor-playboy who had dimples in his cheeks and told me I a had a dead-sexy wink. He asked me for my phone number in Morse code.

There was Alan, the blonde South African photographer. We played video games in the Ship's crew arcade and he told me stories about South Africa. He was a joker and told my friends that everyone in South Africa lived in houses built on stilts so that the Giraffes could walk underneath.

There was Marco. Oh bello Marco! The Italian sailor. (What? I had a thing for sailors. Obviously...) We spent an afternoon on the beach in St. Lucia playing in the waves and flirting in the sand. He told me about the Nocciola (hazelnut) Gelatto his family made back in Italy. He would shout at me: Baccia mi baby! Kiss me baby!

Another Italian, Danielle, worked as a concierge on a different ship. He loved Spinning and had been a professional Volleyball player. He gave me a Lei in Hawaii ( ;) ). He cried when the Pope died and asked me about the differences between Catholicism and Mormonism.

Dale from Canada. Who I still adore to this day. I think he would make one helluva Mormon. That is, if he would ever give up the Tequila. He is like family to me, that one. He taught me about Crest White strips and how to avoid schmoozing with passengers by sneaking into the movie theater and watching movies with him.

Mark from Holland. But Mark doesn't really fit into the travel love category. Because Mark was a real love. I just happened to be traveling when I fell for him.

There were many others. Rob the Dutchie. Sean the Irish, Heath the Texan... Beautiful men, gorgeous people. On my last trip across Egypt and Jordan were a couple of adorable men that I hit it off with. One who, in a drunken passion made it a point to write on my facebook wall today that he loved me.

See:

Two weeks ago he told me that if I'd take up drinking beer that he'd propose marriage to me. I told him that if he'd give up beer, I'd say yes.

We're both still single.

But.

All of these travel men I could look at and see fitting into corners of my life.
Maybe even drawers or closets.
(But I couldn't see them sitting next to me in church.) And that's really not enough, is it?
These men I could look at and say to myself: You have wonderful qualities, and here, now, we are enjoying these beautiful pieces of a journey together. And we would see something in each other that we would admire, and wonder if there could be more; if there could be a whole life there. And sadly, the answer has always been a resounding no. With a bit of (But Maybe... if) sprinkled in for good measure.

These are my lost boys. My travel loves. I can't call them "What-if's." Because time with them was never THAT deep; That lasting.

And yet it was. 

And yet we connected on levels that I've rarely connected with anyone - the levels in which you appreciate the fullness of life and beauty together and breathe it in and bathe in it.

And that is a powerful bond to share.

And I think of those men with reverence and happiness and love.

And I cherish our time together.

You Know You're a Traveler When...

I have a backpack. Well. I have several. But one in particular is my favorite. I bought it back in College. It's nearly eight years old. A scroungy looking, black Northface sack. I love it. Dearly.

On my last big adventure the main zipper broke and the rest of the little zippers rusted out. So I sewed the main flap halfway shut; just enough to get things in and out and deter thieves from helping themselves.

And then the zipper started working again. It was a miracle. I was very, very happy.

So I took said backpack to Utah with me last month. And the zipper broke again.

Ugh.

When I got home I decided to take it to be repaired. Brilliant, eh? Did you know you can have zippers repaired? In this on-demand, throw-away society it was hardly the first thing to cross my mind. In fact, I went out and bought a new Northface backpack a few months ago. But new pack just wasn't the same. It hadn't hopped flights with me to five countries, been bled on, dragged in dirt and scuffed up in the thick of hiking through rainforests.

Sometimes I am a creature of habit. Travel requires people to get out of their habits and look outside themselves, to stay on their toes and adapt. So you will understand why having something familiar and comfortable while traveling is important. It's an anchor.

Before dropping my old pack off to be repaired, I unpacked it rather ceremoniously. I took out the mini-maglite I stashed in it years ago. The one I got while working for Holland America line. I took out the shells from countless beaches worldwide that I'd stashed into mini-compartments all over the bag. And with the shells fell multi-colored sand; black, white, pink, beige. A tiny first-aid kit. A pack of fruit snacks (still good!).  An ace bandage. A travel bike pump and tire repair kit. Several empty zip-lock baggies.

I lovingly ran my hand over the scabs and tears in the black fabric and then pulled one final item out. A ziplock bag containing a half roll of toilet paper.

And I thought to myself, "Ha! that's the sign of a traveler if ever there was one!"

A Night in the Egyptian Desert, pt 1

Dahab. That's the name of the place my tour cohorts and I found ourselves driving toward in a taxi-van. It was dark. And late. We'd just finished a gorgeous candle-lit meal on the beach by the red sea. The stars were bright overhead and the moon had just begun to rise.

The drive took nearly an hour. A long hour ambling down nearly eerily-deserted roads along the Red Sea Peninsula. Fifteen minutes into the ride something extraordinary happened: the moon came out in all of it's full, silvery splendor over the waters of the Red Sea. It was a giant ball of light, bathing us in glimmering luminance. It seemed to be resting just on the sea bed. I've never in my life seen a moon so near or bright. There were no lights around us anywhere, just open sand dunes, beach, and stretches of road. On the opposite side, the Sahara desert. The light was of such soft intensity that we could see everything around us crisply, perfectly. The driver of our taxi turned off his headlights and just enjoyed the scenery. (Can you do that in the US?! I think not.)

It was one of life's perfect moments. But looking back, the only problem with the situation was that there was no way to capture the moment on film or video. And so we all sat in the cab in hushed reverence, simply basking in it.

Soon enough we reached Dahab. It is a place I'll never be able to find on my own. You see, the taxi driver all of a sudden pulled off the road and onto the desert floor, veering out into a large, entirely unmarked expanse. We drove a few yards and then found our destination: Hundreds of white cars, all with red pinstripes and checks etched in the side ("It is sexy!") sat parked in no particular order. Rocky walls surrounded an open area and in the center, a tent formation decorated with bright carnival lights.

This was a Bedouin Wedding.
Our tour guide, Ghandi accompanied us and soothed our collective nervousnesses as he explained some of the ins and outs of the event. You see, while we were welcomed guests, we were also very aware that we were foreigners amongst some of the world's oldest and most time-honored traditions and cultural happenings. A misstep could cause irreparable offense and quite possibly, a dangerous situation for an outsider.

Truly, it felt as if we were representatives from National Geographic, exploring an exciting new world!

The camp was divided into two tents. The largest was the area for the men. Carpets and cushions were spread out over the floor and at the head of the tent was a large, strangely-high platform for a stage. I would find out the reason behind the odd height later. Adjoining the large tent was a smaller, completely enclosed tent (the walls of the Men's tent were open on all sides). This smaller tent was the Women's tent. As outsiders, the women in my group truly had the greatest amount of freedom (technically) at the Wedding. You see, Men are NEVER allowed in the Women's tent. a local man familiar to the customs of the Bedu would be executed for entering. Ghandi told us of an instance the previous year when a local had gotten lost and wandered into the Women's tent. His punishment? He lost a hand. It was chopped off.

Likewise, Bedouin women didn't go into the Men's tent. It wasn't verboten in the same way as a man entering the Women's tent, just not done. 

These people don't mess around. Which is probably why their culture and traditions are so well preserved.

Foreign men would be severely reprimanded for breaching the confines of the female tent, and asked to leave the party. But, as a foreign woman, I was allowed to enter the Women's tent as well as the Men's.

Molto interessante, no?
To be continued...

(Read Part 2 here:  http://www.departurediaries.com/2010/08/bedouin-wedding-part-2.html )

Treadmill Stalker

Dear guy-at-the-gym-that-I'm-not-interested-in:

I'm sure you're a nice fellow. I'm just not interested.
I don't know why. I take that back. I do know why. I have my reasons. They're legit.

So, just, no.

It was a no when you approached me three months ago offering to "Spot" me on the bench press when I was lifting a whopping fifteen pounds (really?).

It was a No when you tried to strike up a conversation with me two days later when I was doing squats on a balance ball.

And then the following Tuesday it was a NO (raised eyebrow and annoyed look included) when you straight pissed me off by trying, yet again, to chat me up at the bench press.

I was relieved when you left me alone two days later, that blissfully uneventful Thursday.

And then I didn't see you for a couple of months.

And then last night happened.

For some reason you decided that not seeing me for a couple of months meant that all of my hard work at getting you away from me was for nihil and you stalked me at the treadmill with a "HEY! Haven't seen you in a while! What have you been up to?"

Ugh.

And when I turned and had to unplug my earphones from my ears and disconnect the new Secondhand Serenade album from my head I was not happy and you received a curt reply: "I only come here two nights a week." You said "I feel you."

And then you mistook my looking out for you from the corner of my eye for interest and got on the treadmill next to mine.

Clearly, no, no you don't "feel me."

And twenty minutes later I exited, silently, without looking your way, hoping you would get a clue.

Still a NO.

Feel me now?


Sigh. I guess a wide-eyed stalker might be better than the tiny stinky-man who insists on running next to me.

I think I might need a new gym. One that keeps a healthy stock of this guy on hand to flirt with me:

We'll Always have (Cafe) Rio...

I went to Utah.

I went to Utah this past weekend. I went for a wedding. Let me just say that very little in this world will entice me to go to Utah.
I simply do not like it there, Sam-I-Am.

You see. I went to school there. Against my own wishes. But according to my better judgement. I went to "The BYU," which is an entirely sound and delightful institution of higher learning. I received a great education there, hands-down, no-disputin' it. But I never really enjoyed the "College Experience" that BYU had to offer. And the campus, while clean, just didn't live up to my expectations of a college campus after having attending Indiana University (Beautiful campus!!).

As for Utah in general: I never really enjoyed the "Culture." (Call me crazy but I hate Jello) And there are just SOOOOO many Mormons in Utah! Geesh.

(Yes, I am Mormon also. So you could conclude that I ought to have fit in there... but I grew up in Northern California with *shock/horror* cultural diversity! And Berkeleyonite hippies. And call me crazy again, but I like diversity. And most hippies. And I want to grow old wearing long, flowy pants and tunics and scarves. True story.)

Anyhoo... Things that could get me to go to Utah include:

1. Skiing. It's pretty much awesome there. Great powder! Brighton. Park City. Love them!
2. Family doing stuff there. (Luckily I don't have much family there, so...)
3. A dear old college roommate getting married there.
4. Stopping there on a layover in the Salt Lake airport (grudgingly).
5. Not freaking much else!

Oh.
6. Zion National Park. I want to go.

So, that's it.

Wait!
Number 7 (lucky 7): Cafe Rio! YUM.

Can you guess what dragged me up there this time?

Bingo!!! Numero Tre.

A wedding.

And ya know what? I had fun. And when the wedding was over I found myself with an entire extra day. So I took two field trips.

I'll tell you about the first in another post.

The second field trip was to The Great Salt Lake! It's a real place you know. It's salty. And great. And a lake. Not unlike the Dead Sea.

And when I went (for the life of me I don't know why I'd never been, what with going to BYU for three years and all.) the sky had just finished a putting on a gorgeous display of lightning and rain and moody cloudiness, and was in the process of clearing all that away AND bringing on the sunset. What a lot of work all at once, right?

Well, that whole mess looked pretty much amazing.

See?

Concrete Ship and a Carcass (Yuck!)

Last weekend I headed down the coast to Santa Cruz, California. It's about a 1.5 hour drive from where I live (depending on traffic). I met up with a group of friends and spent the day relaxing, sleeping, exploring and grubbing on potluck food.

My exploration phase took me on a four-mile walk down the beach to a pier. At the end I found one of these:

(Not my photo...)

Yup, a dead seal. It was really sad. Just flopping around in the surf. I reported it to a sun-baked blonde lifeguard dude, who replied with a glazed-over look in his eye "Oh, yah, we just let nature take it's course." 

Right. Yuck. I get it, but still... yuck.

Eventually I reached the next beach over, Seacliff beach, which boasts a long pier with this at the end of it:

The SS Palo Alto. But it's called the Concrete Ship. It's very stinky. (Birds, seals, all sleeping and pooping there... you do the math.)


Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it:

The Palo Alto was a concrete ship built as a tanker at the end of World War I. She was built by the San Francisco Shipbuilding Company at the U.S. Naval Shipyard in Oakland, California. She was launched on May 29, 1919, too late to see service in the war.^[1] Her sister ship was the SS Peralta.
She was mothballed in Oakland until 1929, when she was bought by the Seacliff Amusement Corporation and towed to Seacliff State Beach in Aptos, California. A pier was built leading to the ship, and she was sunk a few feet in the water so her keel rested on the bottom. There she was refitted as an amusement ship, with amenities including a dance floor, swimming pool and a café.
The company went bankrupt two years later and the ship cracked at the mid section. She was stripped of her fittings and left as a fishing pier. Eventually she deteriorated to the point were she was unsafe for even this use and was closed to the public. Today she remains at Seacliff Beach and serves as an artificial reef for marine life. (Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Palo_Alto)

Altogether a very interesting day of exploration.