The Engineer and I stand in the back of the ferry breathing diesel fumes and watching Culebra disappear into the distance under the late afternoon light. On deck the aging boat is crowded with weekenders from Puerto Rico and elsewhere and we’re anxious to escape their sullen stares. The bored, bovine gaze of fellow passengers is enough to send us toward the aft of the boat. Their vacation is over, at least in their heads; they’ve moved into Monday like time travelers. But we know better, another bonus that comes with being a part of the Middle Period. It’s taken us years of multiple choice exams to learn that the vacation is this ferry ride and all the awkward places in between—the seat-gripping turbulence, the unexpected overnight in Cleveland, the room in the tropics with the stubborn air conditioner. Maya Angelou once wrote “you can learn a lot about a person by the way she handles a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.” I cherish the rain, always travel carry on, but the Christmas lights get me every damn time.
The Engineer and I are pleasantly tired after two days of exposing our pasty white bodies to the Caribbean sun. How I love the liberation that comes with being old! I want to scold the 20-somethings who saute their skin in the name of vanity but it’s just not my place. Better to sit back and slather on the 70 SPF from the comfort of our umbrella. And the day has been good. Over colorful drinks we’ve discussed at length the plan to fetch Kiwi and begin life anew aboard a sailboat in this restful corner of the world.Suddenly, two men approach us in our section of the boat as we stand watching the bow spray warm sea surface water in the direction of Culebra. They’re an odd couple– one tall and slender with the intensity of an eagle, an excellent likeness to Peter Krause in “Six Feet Under”. The other is stouter, an aging, California surfer with perfect, small teeth. They are grinning, and seem harmless, but I self-consciously shift my few possessions to the opposite side of my body. Casey stares them down.How are you guys doing? asks Krause, his eyes wide and intense.Great! We respond, a little too gleefully, almost nervously.We just came over to say hello. We saw you on the boat earlier and you seemed so joyous and happy, explains Krause. The surfer smiles in agreement.
The Engineer and I have frequently been accused of smiling too much, mostly by strangers and in similarly safe contexts where it’s unlikely we’ll be shot or mugged. Of course, this is the greatest compliment we could receive. It reminds us that we are akin to award-winning actors. Equipped with an arsenal of breezy smiles and circular banter we somehow manage to deflect attention away from what writer Richard Ford called “our own idiotic miscues”.Our initial reticence subsides. And suddenly, the conversation blazes forward (Krause has adopted several kids from the Dominican Republic)! Time passes (this, despite the overzealous conversational emphasis on the Bible), and before we know it we’ve disembarked and are scuffing our flip-flops gleefully as we trod back toward the parking lot. This impromptu double date has come to an end. We exchange cards, handshakes, talk some more, shake again, say good bye. And once again, we collect a memory of our travels grounded not in landscape or seascape but in people. Because it’s always about people. The Maori had it right.
Happy belated Thanksgiving, family and friends! I'll aim to add a short post on Tuesday, but for now, wanted to share with you a picture from our journey up to Estes Park this past weekend. We are home safe in Fort Collins now, plum out of pecan pie, a fully stocked freezer full of squash soups at the ready for the frosty month of December, poised for the last dash toward final exams week. The Engineer is exhibiting some radical nesting behavior, having spent two days hanging Christmas lights and banging in hooks for the stockings that now adorn Kiwi's sleeping nook (it's a truly tragedy that we fire-loving folk don't have a fireplace).
I discovered the black binder in our closet while looking for a decent road map of Kentucky. Inside, I found the old syllabus outlining the first geography field course I taught at UWW. Sheathed in plastic, it was entitled, Kentucky’s Roadside Caves, Karst, and Kitsch. Poring over the details of the itinerary, I remembered our journey traveling south across the rumpled plateau of the Cumberland, eight geography students in tow who didn’t know one another until they stepped foot inside the passenger van. By the end of our travels, the students had christened themselves the Breakfast Club, after the 1980s, John Hughes flick of the same name. Much like the Cumberland Plateau as it meets the Appalachias, it was a trip of tremendous highs and lows - flooded campsites, unrequited love, the birthplace of Colonel Sanders, the gravesite of Floyd Collins, bourbon distilleries and fire and bats and cement-made Wigwams – it was perfectly goofy and all very life changing. I’ve kept a photo of the Breakfast Club in my office ever since. 
So it came as a great delight when we discovered that Kentucky would be on the horizon for November for altogether different reasons than in ‘02. And it did not disappoint.
Here are the highlights of the weekend: (1) Pulling over to grab water out of the trunk and discovering a perfectly good pair of vice grips tossed aside the road. (2) Stumbling upon a 1-hour, National Endowment for the Humanities lecture near Lexington featuring a Daniel Boone reenactment by historian Scott New. In character, and in full regalia. (3) An impromptu visit to a Civil War site thanks to the good people at the Berea rest stop. Hallowed ground, wild turkeys, and gauzy lighting made it extra surreal. (4) The Ale-8-One ginger soft drink bottling company in the one and only Winchester, KY. 
Elmo accompanied us for the early part of the journey until Casey handed him off to a small child. We’ll miss you Elmo, but we’ll see you again, Kentucky.
Apologies to our 10-person fan base regarding the lack of posts but we’ve been swamped on this end with some exciting work related projects/travel, a set of mounting family obligations, and a dog that keeps landing herself in the hospital due to seemingly uncontrollable dietary indiscretions. The good news is that we managed to take advantage of last weekend’s 80 degree weather to camp up the Poudre River at the lower Narrows walk-in site. Nikon finally repaired the camera lens (broken by the young Ghanaian in June) after a mere three months of having it in the shop, so we used the weekend as an opportunity to test the camera using the “white faced” black dog as the main subject.
Despite having just attended a presentation on Rocky Mountain Elk populations, when we hit the trail for Saturday’s hike we’d forgotten that it actually was elk season. Foolishly (and wrongfully), we’d taken Kiwi off leash for a few minutes once we got into the back country and were startled when we observed two orange-vested hunters atop an ATV off in the distance. We scared the heck out of Kiwi when we frantically called her back to the pack. I’ve reconciled my feelings toward hunting in situations where populations are neither threatened nor endangered, but the method of the hunt (an ATV?) still seems a slippery slope. Had they shot my dog or my husband I would’ve done far more harm than shove a banana in their tailpipe.
On the upshot, on Saturday the Yanks won against the Halos in extra innings. We lost the signal on our hand crank solar radio shortly after Jeter hit the first homer of the night and didn’t discover the game’s outcome until Sunday. In the meantime, we enjoyed a warm fire and marveled over our spectacular bed of coals just in time for the anticipated drop in temperature. Half way through the night, the Chinooks did an about face and brought strong, warm winds through the valley and into our little tent, waking us while the black dog slumbered.
Apologies for not posting in awhile, but things have been crazy around here. Last night Casey and I rendezvoused with John Habis, my high school friend (and prom date), for dinner at a lovely little Caribbean restaurant called "Tortugas". We time traveled back to the easy-breezy days of leg warmers and tuxedo shirts in dazzling Orange County, California.
I stroll across an unusually green campus yesterday en route to a meeting with my Study Abroad group. We are heading to Peru soon. It’s hot, and I scramble to make a pit stop at the departmental office where a box of new Flip cameras awaits. The cameras are for an ongoing video and photography project, and I speedily pick them up now in an attempt to squeeze every last minute out of this shrinking lemon of a day. Glancing to the left outside the building, I see three young men sheltered under a Russian olive tree, and one of them looks astonishingly similar to the guy I’d wrongly profiled as a terrorist on board my May Lufthansa flight to Spain via Frankfurt. (For those of you who read the story of the presumed terrorist, you’ll recall that the man proved to be a harmless but nervous flyer with a penchant for Disney films like Bolt). It’s him. I’m sure of it. But can it be him? Is it just my imagination working overtime, trying to pick up a summer shift or two in these topsy-turvy economic times?I make a deal. I’ll head into the main office and back, and if the Bolt fan is still here, then I’ll make contact. Heck, I’m already late. Box of Flip cameras in hand after the office rendezvous, I return to the Russian olive and see that now four young men are huddled around the bench stationed neatly below the welcome shade of the tree. They’re likely on break from a summer school class.And so I promptly make my move. Seconds later, I find myself speaking aloud to a young, dark haired, smiling man of around 20 years of age:Excuse me, I know this may sound strange, but were you recently on board a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt? My speech is fast, I’ve hastily down shifted to a New Jersey dialect.Nervously smiling, he replies: I’m sorry, but my English is not so good, I am an international student from Saudi Arabia. Still smiling. I wonder if he’s scared of me.It’s him! I give it a second shot, this time much slower, and add: I remember you from a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt in May. Was that you? Back in May?With aid from his friends, he tells me that indeed, it was him on the flight! He was headed to Saudi Arabia and shares how I, too, looked strangely familiar. I explain that I’m a professor here on campus. Has he ever taken a geography course?No. Would you like to?Sure. (Though I suspect he could teach me a thing or two about geography).We introduce ourselves and shake hands. And just like that, I am speaking with the young man and his friends about their futures, about life in Colorado, about Saudi Arabia, and I am late, oh so late, for an appointment that is designed to prepare my own students for an educational, cultural, experience abroad. Under the hot Colorado sun, the irony lies naked at my feet.Did I tell him I thought he was a terrorist? No.Did I learn something from all this? Uh, yes. The Bolt loving terrorist is now stalking me.Kidding.
The Engineer and I stand in the back of the ferry breathing diesel fumes and watching Culebra disappear into the distance under the late afternoon light. On deck the aging boat is crowded with weekenders from Puerto Rico and elsewhere and we’re anxious to escape their sullen stares. The bored, bovine gaze of fellow passengers is enough to send us toward the aft of the boat. Their vacation is over, at least in their heads; they’ve moved into Monday like time travelers. But we know better, another bonus that comes with being a part of the Middle Period. It’s taken us years of multiple choice exams to learn that the vacation is this ferry ride and all the awkward places in between—the seat-gripping turbulence, the unexpected overnight in Cleveland, the room in the tropics with the stubborn air conditioner. Maya Angelou once wrote “you can learn a lot about a person by the way she handles a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.” I cherish the rain, always travel carry on, but the Christmas lights get me every damn time.
The Engineer and I are pleasantly tired after two days of exposing our pasty white bodies to the Caribbean sun. How I love the liberation that comes with being old! I want to scold the 20-somethings who saute their skin in the name of vanity but it’s just not my place. Better to sit back and slather on the 70 SPF from the comfort of our umbrella. And the day has been good. Over colorful drinks we’ve discussed at length the plan to fetch Kiwi and begin life anew aboard a sailboat in this restful corner of the world.
The Engineer and I have frequently been accused of smiling too much, mostly by strangers and in similarly safe contexts where it’s unlikely we’ll be shot or mugged. Of course, this is the greatest compliment we could receive. It reminds us that we are akin to award-winning actors. Equipped with an arsenal of breezy smiles and circular banter we somehow manage to deflect attention away from what writer Richard Ford called “our own idiotic miscues”.
