tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33859391061823178342024-03-14T07:06:24.907-08:00Alaska Bike GirlOn riding, writing and life in Anchorage and points beyond.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.comBlogger382125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-45502031350422583792014-05-27T23:24:00.001-08:002014-05-27T23:24:36.394-08:00gear checkIt's been a busy spring for me as I've been picking up more hours at the shop. The unusually sunny and warm May has been great for business, but it's also been mighty exhausting. When Memorial Day Weekend rolled around, we weren't sure just how many customers would visit the shop. After all, there was the annual <a href="http://alaskarandonneurs.org/2014/05/denali-highway-200k-gravel-grinder/" target="_blank">Denali Highway gravel-grinder</a>; people would be taking their boats to Seward or Whittier for the season. People have lots to do on a three-day weekend.<br />
<br />
Then there was <a href="http://www.adn.com/2014/05/27/3488208/as-rain-falls-on-fiery-kenai-peninsula.html?sp=/99/100/&ihp=1" target="_blank">the fire</a>. Over 180,000 acres on the Kenai Peninsula burned in the last week and even today's rain has not stopped it. We had a few days of smoke in Anchorage; more people stayed in town, their plans to spend time on the Kenai thwarted by the fire.<br />
<br />
The shop kept busy, but I tried to make plans. A Monday evening ride sounded like a great idea. So on Monday morning Jon loaded his mountain bike and a demo bike from the shop that I'd brought home to ride the other day into his car. We gathered our gear and drove into work. We would head out to Kincaid Park after the shop closed, ride a few trails and then head home. By the time five o'clock rolled around, a bike ride was the last thing I wanted to do. It was my "Friday" and all I wanted was to go home.<br />
<br />
Jon
still had work to do so he gathered his gear from the back of the car. I
headed home and quickly nodded off. Later, I went out to the car to
bring in the bike. That's when I saw that there were no pedals on it!
That's right. I had taken the pedals off and put them back on my
commuter the other day. When Jon loaded my bike he hadn't noticed that there were no
pedals!<br />
<br />
Good thing we hadn't driven out to Kincaid to
do the ride because without pedals, I would have been out of luck. And
it was a good reminder to me to always, always check out my bike before
leaving the house. Because as well-intentioned as Jon was in loading the
bikes, he has been working even more hours than I have and we're all
bound to miss something when we're tired.<br />
<br />
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No ride pictures. Instead, here is a visitor to our neighbors' tulip patch.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Check out the look of guilt on its face in that third pic! </div>
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bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-50306469585552427982014-04-09T14:24:00.002-08:002014-04-09T14:24:39.268-08:00knik glacier: a tale of two tripsA snowy April day was the perfect day to reflect on some recent bike rides. We had over two weeks of clear, calm weather in Southcentral Alaska, spanning from mid-March into the first week of April. Temperatures each night were dropped into single digits while in the daytime they soared into the low 40s. Those conditions, matched with longer days, meant it was time to visit Knik Glacier.<br />
<br />
I last did this bike trip back in <a href="http://akbikegirl.blogspot.com/2011/04/blue-ice-visits-to-knik-glacier.html" target="_blank">2011</a>, before my shoulder injury. Last year I didn't feel I had the miles under me to attempt the trip. But after a year of biking, I was ready. On the first visit (March 26), we began riding at 9 a.m.<br />
<br />
Along for the ride were Jon, our friend Alan who has done the trip several times, our friend and co-worker Peter and our Giant Bicycles product rep Paul who was visiting from Portland, OR.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw7p63KKfuv0S32iIxlpi618doEG2Bei83Z7pe4cJg7v5y2pnMYUnFmZ91V4zkAmpbWkQ77Gd9uynESF0V1m4N3IobYjQq0NjO9KIkH8viJ9Fi5LKRNgglXjsE2bUMruhdqdnDojJeBbdK/s1600/IMG_3661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw7p63KKfuv0S32iIxlpi618doEG2Bei83Z7pe4cJg7v5y2pnMYUnFmZ91V4zkAmpbWkQ77Gd9uynESF0V1m4N3IobYjQq0NjO9KIkH8viJ9Fi5LKRNgglXjsE2bUMruhdqdnDojJeBbdK/s1600/IMG_3661.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A light-snow year meant more biking on large river rocks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLi1NHMyxuGJhJgxO6bTualD4S9e7vrtinwzFE-2p8qH-akXrLDcScTpSCMPbiF_uE85UiV3YmKr6DffJRJMKsgJSXL8J3UpGqaTJN9n9L2k5Y3RWSuQvs2zDLI4AtBxwBhhkHtuTV_BU/s1600/IMG_3666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLi1NHMyxuGJhJgxO6bTualD4S9e7vrtinwzFE-2p8qH-akXrLDcScTpSCMPbiF_uE85UiV3YmKr6DffJRJMKsgJSXL8J3UpGqaTJN9n9L2k5Y3RWSuQvs2zDLI4AtBxwBhhkHtuTV_BU/s1600/IMG_3666.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First river crossing. Don't worry, Paul, it's frozen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2THHxiklxXkRkI8MHTiZKuyD7olJDWiOzXVPeYNCgFGeuWl7BMm-Y_078QcCIvCpHdJskZH4viyAAgpMXZGSYA_l-9ZOiMvI2y4ZSu9YViSlRjS_9D1hnf4wMMahDB_4JDKUWiIJT4d9/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2THHxiklxXkRkI8MHTiZKuyD7olJDWiOzXVPeYNCgFGeuWl7BMm-Y_078QcCIvCpHdJskZH4viyAAgpMXZGSYA_l-9ZOiMvI2y4ZSu9YViSlRjS_9D1hnf4wMMahDB_4JDKUWiIJT4d9/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul is speechless!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhMhMCxzVc8LY7NuJUaT6CSK6qRkHHSnbqSFfj9raitzn0ZfubSYn1xDMDJzeYP3LfP27m6zxrSipN27X87HKFg6xjV5H8nZYOXMhJBfZQayPTG6CIVX1YTIZrHwPMprWDTAZSMgIOEVt/s1600/IMG_3681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhMhMCxzVc8LY7NuJUaT6CSK6qRkHHSnbqSFfj9raitzn0ZfubSYn1xDMDJzeYP3LfP27m6zxrSipN27X87HKFg6xjV5H8nZYOXMhJBfZQayPTG6CIVX1YTIZrHwPMprWDTAZSMgIOEVt/s1600/IMG_3681.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're here! Icebergs encased in ice then blasted by <br />
wind-blown snow to give them the bumpy surface.<br />
They remind me of scaly dragons.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6kQ_Rv_00Ti7MePrrT3YJZRgrDhIO93-mT8sXI82pUDQJMzOE1XTXmGp2-QGyY7ss89jLJ56JvShBKM16DChrNCdFSj9ku_vhb_OPGZBt60L-1E48MDtkSym3vxlGTS7lfd9q9bZO4vNU/s1600/IMG_3684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6kQ_Rv_00Ti7MePrrT3YJZRgrDhIO93-mT8sXI82pUDQJMzOE1XTXmGp2-QGyY7ss89jLJ56JvShBKM16DChrNCdFSj9ku_vhb_OPGZBt60L-1E48MDtkSym3vxlGTS7lfd9q9bZO4vNU/s1600/IMG_3684.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now that we've reached the glacier, we'll turn south and go <br />
through that gap between glacier and mountain. I've never been <br />
that far before, but I also don't remember the gap being so large.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34Y3F2NLiaA5w9p80UZE3MAN28OSYCrvOyZjn_z_K0ojQ2Vc-fpdWJSoxzHCx1Buba8fD6Ly0iZsgwkMTj7ewO1PHEofmpGsT5e-rlAENnu_0tb0f-kHPqb4NmzIXkOC2DBUQCLqL33VE/s1600/IMG_3689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34Y3F2NLiaA5w9p80UZE3MAN28OSYCrvOyZjn_z_K0ojQ2Vc-fpdWJSoxzHCx1Buba8fD6Ly0iZsgwkMTj7ewO1PHEofmpGsT5e-rlAENnu_0tb0f-kHPqb4NmzIXkOC2DBUQCLqL33VE/s1600/IMG_3689.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alan after the gap (and a pressure ridge).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwPtqrZAupP858NjCh-SwHjSqPeHjbzSvsNMWJ1JSpLRPOUGXOvhn28gXyULU5x4xociuSoAVhuF4qbPs0WgNipAKo3DAC1YOpGBhJSyw4liwNYPpe5Y0zHYeIqg4fW2O4IMOvtueqEoQ/s1600/IMG_3694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwPtqrZAupP858NjCh-SwHjSqPeHjbzSvsNMWJ1JSpLRPOUGXOvhn28gXyULU5x4xociuSoAVhuF4qbPs0WgNipAKo3DAC1YOpGBhJSyw4liwNYPpe5Y0zHYeIqg4fW2O4IMOvtueqEoQ/s1600/IMG_3694.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter and Kobuk on their first trip to Knik.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7jaY0F_7M-nCtvVDRV6bSSuLZjHsStfYXUyMMnH8Yf1RnCG37Su1DXTqMcXLtugfSo3TitIlh-k2aQvlPGwbJ2KV0OezQ4_BEcz15QqH5B-EFo8q3UQQL8sHrt8YnfBHWZU7kifdnziy/s1600/IMG_3709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7jaY0F_7M-nCtvVDRV6bSSuLZjHsStfYXUyMMnH8Yf1RnCG37Su1DXTqMcXLtugfSo3TitIlh-k2aQvlPGwbJ2KV0OezQ4_BEcz15QqH5B-EFo8q3UQQL8sHrt8YnfBHWZU7kifdnziy/s1600/IMG_3709.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon.</td></tr>
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Alan brought up earthquakes: "Probably not the best place to be during an earthquake." Nope. And the time to talk about earthquakes is probably not while you're resting on a frozen glacial-fed lake listening to the echoing groans of that ice as the glacier moves down-valley, pressing the lake ice against the opposite shore. But I imagine earthquakes were on a few people's minds. The 50th anniversary of the 1964 Alaska earthquake was the next day and it was earthquake awareness week. We were already over 15 miles into the ride and if a quake did hit, there would be little to do but ride it out and hope we remained on a good-sized chunk of ice. The easiest thing to do was to not think about it. I later read <a href="http://www.aapg.org/publications/news/explorer/details/articleid/8580/prowess-honors-historic-earthquake-survivor" target="_blank">this story</a> about some geologists who were on Portage Lake during the '64 quake.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPlqlJ_Ub93Z1vWNw6lXb1z0hLwYXq-Mb6wa1wP5ziD35bvozl_zJiMpW2KQmBqio5QH5BTgH9cywF6idecYOawoQRs5jjwCbomR9YCQHRVVeJEgSfJeSAYFavyoMmeI1gifC-uPfCvFq/s1600/IMG_3733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPlqlJ_Ub93Z1vWNw6lXb1z0hLwYXq-Mb6wa1wP5ziD35bvozl_zJiMpW2KQmBqio5QH5BTgH9cywF6idecYOawoQRs5jjwCbomR9YCQHRVVeJEgSfJeSAYFavyoMmeI1gifC-uPfCvFq/s1600/IMG_3733.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During our lunch break/turnaround spot just before another<br />
pressure ridge we watched a group of people who had just <br />
flown to the glacier from Anchorage - a little hour-long<br />
excursion. We'd been on the bikes for over four hours! <br />
Paul, Jon (standing) Peter, Alan and Kobuk the dog.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX8KAvUYUzKbM5LKCcDNzmrzG1sFVv6zl95_pCfqQ5Nn0dzbPW8NcWM75ZJqCD6ZxdRHzpU0ieKu-5AEqV8zGcF9WhiTBwf50-GCbLeWnyspOq-JciacoqTq7u3r6flDVqzgi3Z3UDjwr/s1600/IMG_3748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX8KAvUYUzKbM5LKCcDNzmrzG1sFVv6zl95_pCfqQ5Nn0dzbPW8NcWM75ZJqCD6ZxdRHzpU0ieKu-5AEqV8zGcF9WhiTBwf50-GCbLeWnyspOq-JciacoqTq7u3r6flDVqzgi3Z3UDjwr/s1600/IMG_3748.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon chatted with another pilot who made a short stop at the glacier <br />
as we begin our return trip. Paul, Peter, Alan, pilot and Jon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vTbbhlLrwgSeOmcIFCjbuFjBiueB45xehdt-Jbg0OjpAKmOleO42omFLO37L5moJAqlXR7nTYvi5_rnC6pYZPcoZQpENOSDzlTP2cF7x6ODZDPFlPoQWQhh31GRKeboQjtsuhHLwg4lT/s1600/IMG_3778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vTbbhlLrwgSeOmcIFCjbuFjBiueB45xehdt-Jbg0OjpAKmOleO42omFLO37L5moJAqlXR7nTYvi5_rnC6pYZPcoZQpENOSDzlTP2cF7x6ODZDPFlPoQWQhh31GRKeboQjtsuhHLwg4lT/s1600/IMG_3778.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon pedals toward the gap for the trip home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe-pRnUuUXjTsUkX5fcnrFW2WUZl7xf7Lpx50aWQqG-QDsAuuYeymqy0NWglyO4-4A4eli_OXXx9CK7g9cIwaR3XmoTVvKOzkbzSMCOT_iq0atn9fiH_rdJvZqQ_MB2ELVZ4jaO_ijdax/s1600/IMG_3791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe-pRnUuUXjTsUkX5fcnrFW2WUZl7xf7Lpx50aWQqG-QDsAuuYeymqy0NWglyO4-4A4eli_OXXx9CK7g9cIwaR3XmoTVvKOzkbzSMCOT_iq0atn9fiH_rdJvZqQ_MB2ELVZ4jaO_ijdax/s1600/IMG_3791.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few hours and lots of soft conditions later, <br />
back at the Hunter Creek bridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I made a few mistakes on that first trip: I wasn't careful enough checking the fresh ice in a pressure ridge and ended up putting one foot into the water. I finished crossing the opening, and then starting yelling, "Wet foot! Wet foot!" I'd forgotten to bring an extra pair of socks, but Alan offered me a sock. I removed my left boot and insole and poured out the water, removed my socks (wool outer and silk liner) and wrung them out. I was relieved that Alan had brought spares, but chided myself for forgetting this critical back-up gear. Luckily, the day was warm enough that my foot didn't get cold even after the fresh sock had absorbed the moisture that was left inside the boot.<br />
<br />
The next week, we returned. We had a few changes to the group. Joining Jon, Alan and me were Alan's girlfriend Beth and my co-worker Zane. We got an earlier start, leaving the parking lot at 8 a.m. I had made a few changes to my equipment: Instead of clipless pedals and my biking shoes I rode with platform pedals and waterproof hiking boots. I also wore my gaitors. I brought spare socks this time (ensuring that if anyone needed them, I could pay back the favor).<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUJHSsJZJV9yyLEjDYAQ1jSQo9FtLG7KDro5V45RkxJ88jA40YqWbARqZy3mPEXIg348aB_-FxB1XDehPx5rwGm5kzJuJNP_eOnVa97DvJdizN8acx5srjRggKyjln0Gdx5iVjs43l-VJ/s1600/IMG_3793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUJHSsJZJV9yyLEjDYAQ1jSQo9FtLG7KDro5V45RkxJ88jA40YqWbARqZy3mPEXIg348aB_-FxB1XDehPx5rwGm5kzJuJNP_eOnVa97DvJdizN8acx5srjRggKyjln0Gdx5iVjs43l-VJ/s1600/IMG_3793.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The water had risen in the previous week and the river <br />
crossing was gone, so we went around one of the river bends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5GJvJEJbYNU-c6PZB88cvT3Gz2miG_pgPCSBau9OXIh9UCUzWnUNEHucRWX2Bt8tnoBi7v-M0rBU5RTkQDLkOtI_-EP2h9zeINwGq0V3o6m_efhOpBJeR7t6T2ZEFg9MP53DpYYOO6DA/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5GJvJEJbYNU-c6PZB88cvT3Gz2miG_pgPCSBau9OXIh9UCUzWnUNEHucRWX2Bt8tnoBi7v-M0rBU5RTkQDLkOtI_-EP2h9zeINwGq0V3o6m_efhOpBJeR7t6T2ZEFg9MP53DpYYOO6DA/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the detour - lots of river rock and gravel. To get to <br />
the glacier, we went between the mountain that angles down<br />
on the right and the low moraine just to the left of it - you<br />
can just make out the gap in this photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_rPp5IivIK9oVUB772pdeoVYuosQ6-lS3lojpm0pbT411JFvcUc-GPazy5uY1LLh1LPSgb9SOrBYsysE0giC4a3gLIyahSWUczewCn5fpaqAzx446t2Gun-LNqRtvQqvbvEMoNCU4EKA/s1600/IMG_3811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_rPp5IivIK9oVUB772pdeoVYuosQ6-lS3lojpm0pbT411JFvcUc-GPazy5uY1LLh1LPSgb9SOrBYsysE0giC4a3gLIyahSWUczewCn5fpaqAzx446t2Gun-LNqRtvQqvbvEMoNCU4EKA/s1600/IMG_3811.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alan leads the way across a pressure ridge, followed by Jon,<br />
Beth and Zane.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofhHTof4-AgouKMsYzLREuyj4_U97uR2oHUWwWJM-c55CSn64yIw9XEReXmtD9meRzRufwYSwStLQNBaMYe-aKK_at63olh8A4JeUVCSGhPPzghUYDIsi-NEq-N9CQanDPegJaiXVOFeX/s1600/IMG_3817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofhHTof4-AgouKMsYzLREuyj4_U97uR2oHUWwWJM-c55CSn64yIw9XEReXmtD9meRzRufwYSwStLQNBaMYe-aKK_at63olh8A4JeUVCSGhPPzghUYDIsi-NEq-N9CQanDPegJaiXVOFeX/s1600/IMG_3817.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I approach yet another pressure ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTpZqRF9sVUTbKRrnzrsf-CE5p5raSj9AyT0J2KJRe1bJGcypqxre0ZJJt8WFFI0NPZmq8rgjUsLcrXDmI-mN4-fYoFwYiYykzG6F_FikNePwcIjCvB1iVrtIAPhyPkjM2Pg9LmT8Uf-5/s1600/IMG_3839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTpZqRF9sVUTbKRrnzrsf-CE5p5raSj9AyT0J2KJRe1bJGcypqxre0ZJJt8WFFI0NPZmq8rgjUsLcrXDmI-mN4-fYoFwYiYykzG6F_FikNePwcIjCvB1iVrtIAPhyPkjM2Pg9LmT8Uf-5/s1600/IMG_3839.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icy canyons.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZfSEnfJ3fiy1CjTiJ7DG2-eoydVZl7vYXxQt2Qkz4jm51T1jBRrzddnYcn21_bdI62e-SK01h9Ed3VZ76GtEtx_S-VcJoa4P2glK0Xr1tRWin2nIFyn2eVdC9vbT1KJMNcosYO-STkT0/s1600/IMG_3842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZfSEnfJ3fiy1CjTiJ7DG2-eoydVZl7vYXxQt2Qkz4jm51T1jBRrzddnYcn21_bdI62e-SK01h9Ed3VZ76GtEtx_S-VcJoa4P2glK0Xr1tRWin2nIFyn2eVdC9vbT1KJMNcosYO-STkT0/s1600/IMG_3842.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpted forms of ice and snow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7ZvDqqpgYyoxuXWrfGr_cEwdcNGFHHsJAORegzJPM9gqPVZaOlZlBlqBYbjRHSML5pQDuZ0qoUOZGh2a8chbP3cyCoV7kKGl1_os35uzSl6IjngIqSLMHkAZgqKmFDh7BEVWotXsRtl9/s1600/IMG_3844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7ZvDqqpgYyoxuXWrfGr_cEwdcNGFHHsJAORegzJPM9gqPVZaOlZlBlqBYbjRHSML5pQDuZ0qoUOZGh2a8chbP3cyCoV7kKGl1_os35uzSl6IjngIqSLMHkAZgqKmFDh7BEVWotXsRtl9/s1600/IMG_3844.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xnwU5VuAUk3R2JwlbsdtoQo1HIxyDSjsrBkhSSMxibkyLY_DJOBRmgSiqUp467FrDWwaYrCzxlURBncW0vAdHd_ch9jL5vzmEeSVKohSfKX7rualRWTZh65E80UGSxkNMk1mAets5IK0/s1600/IMG_3853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xnwU5VuAUk3R2JwlbsdtoQo1HIxyDSjsrBkhSSMxibkyLY_DJOBRmgSiqUp467FrDWwaYrCzxlURBncW0vAdHd_ch9jL5vzmEeSVKohSfKX7rualRWTZh65E80UGSxkNMk1mAets5IK0/s1600/IMG_3853.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon's pedal on a frost-covered section of the lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBCmsmzOKJM3xZr07B8aDNNQYhTkjs9fZ4f0WjpWpKBmisJYcxcjmcN07nsVEhx_jPFwshIgaEfD0f01smaivmG0pTxSeH53ZLWRpmgDmVteM3_0eB-sgPqfc2PM-IDSlU_r9aXCfEKoO/s1600/IMG_3861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBCmsmzOKJM3xZr07B8aDNNQYhTkjs9fZ4f0WjpWpKBmisJYcxcjmcN07nsVEhx_jPFwshIgaEfD0f01smaivmG0pTxSeH53ZLWRpmgDmVteM3_0eB-sgPqfc2PM-IDSlU_r9aXCfEKoO/s1600/IMG_3861.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding near the icicles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwShGNnNUE4h8M03c6bCZ9pVtKXu8dvPlgTuvFiE-Edpc0WVxXFca7C4y4-99AzaIN94YGASuqXKnGuZz8vlNEmKgqx2QPCDA7tJcGSBvQ-JMZvncrSeDMOD9BoC1kvSJrslzFigc4HJJ/s1600/IMG_3866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwShGNnNUE4h8M03c6bCZ9pVtKXu8dvPlgTuvFiE-Edpc0WVxXFca7C4y4-99AzaIN94YGASuqXKnGuZz8vlNEmKgqx2QPCDA7tJcGSBvQ-JMZvncrSeDMOD9BoC1kvSJrslzFigc4HJJ/s1600/IMG_3866.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon explored an ice cave as Alan and I watched.<br />
Okay, that made me a bit nervous, but maybe next time...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh24miZpqd0GQVAPQv_TToRkw83r-j_EUab72XRg2Y92c4uxeLpXnD4xbWEMW8FPz1RofMwSWPQNAvlu_3IbgiEoR8Sdlt8Usd1NvFbpPOL2E8bjHot6JyWqDaa5R3-lZYx7Szll_uuAq/s1600/IMG_3869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh24miZpqd0GQVAPQv_TToRkw83r-j_EUab72XRg2Y92c4uxeLpXnD4xbWEMW8FPz1RofMwSWPQNAvlu_3IbgiEoR8Sdlt8Usd1NvFbpPOL2E8bjHot6JyWqDaa5R3-lZYx7Szll_uuAq/s1600/IMG_3869.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Less blue at the edges.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYouv2hNDHvxHBJzeULINx4xvZCqNw0FqjmawZeUMHUQ6i5gs2XjoUWdpPQCfI_3UN0VoWYvN_qf7koMM61YNs1TUfqCWbYemZYvK8HO-jt_H_kQ9woB6wyQvVgs0uWJsBf-95y_GSlzm/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYouv2hNDHvxHBJzeULINx4xvZCqNw0FqjmawZeUMHUQ6i5gs2XjoUWdpPQCfI_3UN0VoWYvN_qf7koMM61YNs1TUfqCWbYemZYvK8HO-jt_H_kQ9woB6wyQvVgs0uWJsBf-95y_GSlzm/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alan looks at the sculpted ice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In only a week conditions had changed. One river crossing was gone; we
rode (or pushed) on more rocky surface and punched through more thin overflow ice.
Pressure ridges opened and the lake ice made more noise and movement
than the week before. In one instance, Jon asked me to ride a certain route while he took some photos. When I stopped to ask him a question I felt the snap of cracking ice resonate under my feet and quickly moved away from the area. I could feel the sheet moving slightly.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NEniXqjYQlScaQJRAtRL61B7grU6hEOHMt_BBe6zF8twRUDNlKM2Q-fiz7C6obOUKQbCsARPgivXWof5hihBJ0U96wLfLiVZM754UEynD5HYY9TfwGk_M-oql-IY7AEwYTOPU-UgIYjn/s1600/IMG_3901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NEniXqjYQlScaQJRAtRL61B7grU6hEOHMt_BBe6zF8twRUDNlKM2Q-fiz7C6obOUKQbCsARPgivXWof5hihBJ0U96wLfLiVZM754UEynD5HYY9TfwGk_M-oql-IY7AEwYTOPU-UgIYjn/s1600/IMG_3901.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon searches for the best route across a pressure ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsK0EddOjzd4Edb9E_yR8iEJdbUyg6KzvSRlVQGWQGbhHj4OSeaXCUbXhWH4Kb61d_fXT0V9Ubo0Qcxx3ticEZ2j8nYD_OIP0qH5OeArp4TxRYug_SgEdjFiTmb3PGPU4Cpal9DzKP5M6/s1600/IMG_3926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqsK0EddOjzd4Edb9E_yR8iEJdbUyg6KzvSRlVQGWQGbhHj4OSeaXCUbXhWH4Kb61d_fXT0V9Ubo0Qcxx3ticEZ2j8nYD_OIP0qH5OeArp4TxRYug_SgEdjFiTmb3PGPU4Cpal9DzKP5M6/s1600/IMG_3926.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes the ribbon of snow-covered ice between the river<br />
and the moraine was wide enough and firm enough to travel on.<br />
At other times, it was best to just push through the boulders.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
While walking with my bike along the thin line of snow between the river and the boulder field, both my feet dropped straight through the ice and I landed a foot lower than where I had been, splashing into several inches of water. I looked down, relieved that I wouldn't get a drop of water in my boots. Zane wasn't as lucky. He ended up in a few puddles, but the warm day saved his feet from getting cold. He spends a lot of time standing in rivers fishing so I'm sure next time he'll use different footwear. After we passed the boulders, the riding got better, but we still punched through the thin overflow ice that hovered above the older ice. It was not only a physical challenge to ride through this, but also a mental challenge since you can't always tell when the ice will break or how far down your wheel will fall. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody></tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnzXNOpxD88nk8hvkXY6LIyOf6gUbKw5G8nKqtyCAJJFAGCDQJMVpTZ1fqqUMZa1-rfA0dsPNYIPIJtt03lhw8LZc4WHXrM-6Avc0sJbwnIhFULlumRwrGBMHC2F6dRFMHPGqYv9U9USF/s1600/IMG_3930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnzXNOpxD88nk8hvkXY6LIyOf6gUbKw5G8nKqtyCAJJFAGCDQJMVpTZ1fqqUMZa1-rfA0dsPNYIPIJtt03lhw8LZc4WHXrM-6Avc0sJbwnIhFULlumRwrGBMHC2F6dRFMHPGqYv9U9USF/s1600/IMG_3930.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was just hanging out near the open water.<br />
Looks like a good place for me to take a break, too!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl8WnOy3us0qGWwLaiVzDZjg8D9IIUONPry5HtzdGfUSANuimcFrqgr6uISNszlhKu2od0N59xT2LVrMGLqOfSy_zurwS89hH2S1RJK4IvZRnq0i0RiaZ_zaAMcQsPjoTmWaHGzFwXZk4/s1600/IMG_3935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl8WnOy3us0qGWwLaiVzDZjg8D9IIUONPry5HtzdGfUSANuimcFrqgr6uISNszlhKu2od0N59xT2LVrMGLqOfSy_zurwS89hH2S1RJK4IvZRnq0i0RiaZ_zaAMcQsPjoTmWaHGzFwXZk4/s1600/IMG_3935.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cruising back to the trailhead with a tailwind and sunshine!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNPnVxfH9iczOf55lnyIioTquH_lS_phnZshycCNO2fFKbu9e1IhnRzf2Ekxc4RUaCjO24wg5hENOA3mCNGnDforND-rGSzK6qbSP8bsaed7outDWpv-tHVONrl8loscA0M9XT0VpJzr2/s1600/IMG_3937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNPnVxfH9iczOf55lnyIioTquH_lS_phnZshycCNO2fFKbu9e1IhnRzf2Ekxc4RUaCjO24wg5hENOA3mCNGnDforND-rGSzK6qbSP8bsaed7outDWpv-tHVONrl8loscA0M9XT0VpJzr2/s1600/IMG_3937.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So happy to have smooth riding! No gloves and riding with<br />
my hands atop the pogies, the roughest part of the route is done.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNh7zq6lCTp5HsGwF-iACYPYsLMvTa9j6F-Rm70Cs6KBSeLN8_hqAZYdk-MiXF__LdzFpI11hgDhwmvbrsaqHcRzVvD5-2kpXyBLx9X3HNltBDJ5aza-7dOHtJ0ddc-GNPoN6I5oo8d0-/s1600/IMG_3945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNh7zq6lCTp5HsGwF-iACYPYsLMvTa9j6F-Rm70Cs6KBSeLN8_hqAZYdk-MiXF__LdzFpI11hgDhwmvbrsaqHcRzVvD5-2kpXyBLx9X3HNltBDJ5aza-7dOHtJ0ddc-GNPoN6I5oo8d0-/s1600/IMG_3945.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One final stretch on the ice-covered slough.</td></tr>
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By 4:00, the ride was nearly over and the bridge in sight. Alan and Beth continued to their car. I wasn't ready to be in the parking lot so I stretched out on a downed tree that had been scoured of its bark by the silty river. I rested in the sun and wished Alan or Beth would read my mind and bring the beer from the car to where I was. Eventually, it was time to leave my perch; time to rejoin the gang, load up our gear and head back to Anchorage. I don't expect there will be another trip to Knik for me this year, but when late March rolls around next year, I'll be there.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-62985605372924611032014-03-10T21:18:00.001-08:002014-03-10T21:18:46.200-08:00homer bikingI went to Homer for a few days last week with my friend <a href="http://www.kateyschultz.com/" target="_blank">Katey</a> who was visiting Alaska for a book tour and a teaching gig for <a href="http://49writers.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">49 Writers</a>. She has been to Alaska several times, but never to Homer. I'd never been there in winter. <br />
<br />
After a few hours of driving, we were heading south on the Sterling Highway with the mountains of the Alaska Range in view. I think we stopped at every viewpoint that overlooked Cook Inlet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQhHujVmbDobJZjO6tdxjEUOhW8aICzxfRMMdl4_STX3Q3mtWycNSLFvtJs2Bho7Gu5RVBQNuEg02CMQqFdO942UYAGFi-aS57DOHH7Y2iw8hyGRbnE9PYYQi0DkXIwJ8X7DrSmobh-9h/s1600/IMG_3518.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQhHujVmbDobJZjO6tdxjEUOhW8aICzxfRMMdl4_STX3Q3mtWycNSLFvtJs2Bho7Gu5RVBQNuEg02CMQqFdO942UYAGFi-aS57DOHH7Y2iw8hyGRbnE9PYYQi0DkXIwJ8X7DrSmobh-9h/s1600/IMG_3518.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pushki in March.</td></tr>
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We arrived at the overlook above Homer where the mountains across Kachemak Bay seemed to float above fog that hung over the water.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXK9SbmiK14h5gYviYXk_9sgg5iRfs9cpfNRl69W94dgHIFr4WlH4rJl-oyLVDmtg8KJJ-t1Cxaj1facvaQo92oxqP7xMgVl0K-5fO2SnncFZYom-nGQjOSQPD40MOYVKJRDrsrihgBvvn/s1600/IMG_3522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXK9SbmiK14h5gYviYXk_9sgg5iRfs9cpfNRl69W94dgHIFr4WlH4rJl-oyLVDmtg8KJJ-t1Cxaj1facvaQo92oxqP7xMgVl0K-5fO2SnncFZYom-nGQjOSQPD40MOYVKJRDrsrihgBvvn/s1600/IMG_3522.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost to Homer, looking across the bay.</td></tr>
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Finally arriving at the home of our hosts who have a guest cabin tucked in the trees and perched above the shore. After dropping off our things in the cabin, we found our way to the beach.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2z6UgvIVA2NvCMk6k6HMhlvYIP9d9Jbev2zDYqHXSzBHPu5hQg06dFd8tEjL5X7Yu47HWrXTS4UWFHOTVMsCFaWbJTzzc-9LRu4mTZN-tFvkfFWYLhacbLGeWVcHherrlGWFibGMVVIvo/s1600/IMG_3571.JPG" height="240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Receding tide.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0oQxozJHSccXYfCegWZ_E2yhKeYsnDg_IETvYmXdkhf97d1toJUq4TuTH1-PyGoOuW-Flh8uODrkw6gcJ56XiRNeF6VD7ch8rzY7WQ3pQ5I1cA2NYn3yaAyaZxWVU40hZ2H0wWTKejNf/s1600/IMG_3573.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0oQxozJHSccXYfCegWZ_E2yhKeYsnDg_IETvYmXdkhf97d1toJUq4TuTH1-PyGoOuW-Flh8uODrkw6gcJ56XiRNeF6VD7ch8rzY7WQ3pQ5I1cA2NYn3yaAyaZxWVU40hZ2H0wWTKejNf/s1600/IMG_3573.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the deck in the morning light.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4Kk-fzjk1pdQadKnHdkB9kPvg0Dl2GlgcabAGTyg8Yhlw2nhmb7BtLWAhyudhpaOQ6fgaErLs9sMUGw0aUu0QhEb-E9kpceWZHyx5tstgvEJTd3t19VYyY9zYb6JHSlrV4oV3H_Qx_bb/s1600/IMG_3531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4Kk-fzjk1pdQadKnHdkB9kPvg0Dl2GlgcabAGTyg8Yhlw2nhmb7BtLWAhyudhpaOQ6fgaErLs9sMUGw0aUu0QhEb-E9kpceWZHyx5tstgvEJTd3t19VYyY9zYb6JHSlrV4oV3H_Qx_bb/s1600/IMG_3531.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Augustine sunset.</td></tr>
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We took these stairs down the bluff to get to the beach. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDIkLteCiqFRYlzgrATQOObxRVWwhDLe_IS8YBvG0vGa6nT-YV4LYGxpoBNFAN_QTlp9mR7zY6en6YQ2Kd1JMat5RWoqb77XXw125DKwmAk-ykK7N4EFdySEaPY4FgAov1lzYd32UHoSR/s1600/IMG_3567.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDIkLteCiqFRYlzgrATQOObxRVWwhDLe_IS8YBvG0vGa6nT-YV4LYGxpoBNFAN_QTlp9mR7zY6en6YQ2Kd1JMat5RWoqb77XXw125DKwmAk-ykK7N4EFdySEaPY4FgAov1lzYd32UHoSR/s1600/IMG_3567.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I made use of that rope, esp. when carrying my bike.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCILmOabmDCUpA6OxgE6WZMVVFsY8QbJ9Sm7K6jKDWOSnyhomF4N2p77Qr4fZVW4_MosXEzoyopwqRgJajLcIuRwFDFnlf9Zw1pjPcZf_ea9nJIyUyYJf1d3zHZitwfEqCa6tGHtZoxbS/s1600/IMG_3564.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCILmOabmDCUpA6OxgE6WZMVVFsY8QbJ9Sm7K6jKDWOSnyhomF4N2p77Qr4fZVW4_MosXEzoyopwqRgJajLcIuRwFDFnlf9Zw1pjPcZf_ea9nJIyUyYJf1d3zHZitwfEqCa6tGHtZoxbS/s1600/IMG_3564.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not much beach at high tide.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsi2o58I-8qbxAPTMbb7q7hK5koLC59wQlK7ABE2IpN0Z45G4LG6_4ocP6Sy01d4BppOtGnW3TpjWk0qBDuFPP2I4oaP6U-ApQPEP24x488xma-rqKzzJ4fvixM_WuGmIRQ0weP4NUNiz/s1600/IMG_3543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsi2o58I-8qbxAPTMbb7q7hK5koLC59wQlK7ABE2IpN0Z45G4LG6_4ocP6Sy01d4BppOtGnW3TpjWk0qBDuFPP2I4oaP6U-ApQPEP24x488xma-rqKzzJ4fvixM_WuGmIRQ0weP4NUNiz/s1600/IMG_3543.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Low tide is another story. Think I'll head that-a-way.</td></tr>
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I brought my fat tire bike on the trip and on the first morning there carried it down the steep stairs to get to the beach where the receding tide let me ride far from shore.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLEGmtw4CwVY0CMZ6Vfm-NJDlXeJzslyDTlbZNOoMi83nqxoCA4AJdUnsRF-q1i6ESvOZXwX0T4K1vQNZSVkrQNMwbtZD_F3IoF8WN9Jns98D-h6BARNWICUlSXCI15ulREbCGBmCMoF8/s1600/IMG_3533.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLEGmtw4CwVY0CMZ6Vfm-NJDlXeJzslyDTlbZNOoMi83nqxoCA4AJdUnsRF-q1i6ESvOZXwX0T4K1vQNZSVkrQNMwbtZD_F3IoF8WN9Jns98D-h6BARNWICUlSXCI15ulREbCGBmCMoF8/s1600/IMG_3533.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While Katey is working on her novel, I'm exploring <br />
the beach. It's all research.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-BqWAY9E9sULYlonTXkwOIYaprBsbK1kGSxWmylxm97YUbIq9KpqDcKQdn6yoeRKEROZHwhyphenhyphenzMjjpQn7SJOwCnUkHnQUZuK8gTmzY72F66cD8vLVTK6mdcXITFCjpFT78_e8LTM1rLwP/s1600/IMG_3541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-BqWAY9E9sULYlonTXkwOIYaprBsbK1kGSxWmylxm97YUbIq9KpqDcKQdn6yoeRKEROZHwhyphenhyphenzMjjpQn7SJOwCnUkHnQUZuK8gTmzY72F66cD8vLVTK6mdcXITFCjpFT78_e8LTM1rLwP/s1600/IMG_3541.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not the only one on the beach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDAxjX9pU9fsjKcjCzXulAbyVvwlXDlDq0UXoUw6BWH6NhcEwrTFdV5CUdZ1jp-57w3kf3mTfCmL3ZNj4FiOB8t_IVcG6AlhMhoCkosqG6dBwf-zh1qTGJdNUaxOaJlofzcAMN6TxuElj/s1600/IMG_3554.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDAxjX9pU9fsjKcjCzXulAbyVvwlXDlDq0UXoUw6BWH6NhcEwrTFdV5CUdZ1jp-57w3kf3mTfCmL3ZNj4FiOB8t_IVcG6AlhMhoCkosqG6dBwf-zh1qTGJdNUaxOaJlofzcAMN6TxuElj/s1600/IMG_3554.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WKLp35qGbF7AI5L9R2NqmNtYcb99Yf5zQu_AED7bCG4Cw8uu2RAIgj4sFMDzcrHQdhGlOl2Kupi1GcpDIxivQ6lqufDFMOfXk7iytntluTmZ4Eo4MmPHyx0zZ7JPgFsTqzF_yZ029zv_/s1600/IMG_3550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WKLp35qGbF7AI5L9R2NqmNtYcb99Yf5zQu_AED7bCG4Cw8uu2RAIgj4sFMDzcrHQdhGlOl2Kupi1GcpDIxivQ6lqufDFMOfXk7iytntluTmZ4Eo4MmPHyx0zZ7JPgFsTqzF_yZ029zv_/s1600/IMG_3550.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outgoing tide reveals<br />
ripples on the sand<br />
sea plants anchored to rocks<br />
a clam anchored to the stem<br />
a small world awaiting water.</td></tr>
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Tuesday night was windy and cold. We stoked the Jotul stove and stayed warm all night. When we woke we found a skiff of crunchy grapple snow covering the ground. Though the day began cold, I couldn't resist the vacuum created on the beach as the tide pulled away. I made plans to meet Katey for lunch and biked a short ways to the Bishop's Beach official access point in town just off Main Street...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCEjZtjMuuiS_FV19hAwwEtnaYd2V64i5j7y-bltaNCd1TRoCPsGwto6uyOiEATNQIabuHJYSqiiGt-Qwjixc5oPpdyCKgBjAU6ZSgKM0lKQXg0wowLRBAwzNumXkUV3hTDFCWQAW7dxb/s1600/IMG_3587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCEjZtjMuuiS_FV19hAwwEtnaYd2V64i5j7y-bltaNCd1TRoCPsGwto6uyOiEATNQIabuHJYSqiiGt-Qwjixc5oPpdyCKgBjAU6ZSgKM0lKQXg0wowLRBAwzNumXkUV3hTDFCWQAW7dxb/s1600/IMG_3587.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor thing, left out in the cold!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeXmlWKeDaEBzwZIVBDPBpjMPWV0tZczJbPHbiOgk_d1eJwQVFgPpnCTrAKxmFfpgV3FAczOa6Ynr32-dx7yG6DaK2fLS6Bg9pBj08ZlK89bZT7-VUeY_YYve9qbAuFJwigI7YsKGgU4n/s1600/IMG_3606.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeXmlWKeDaEBzwZIVBDPBpjMPWV0tZczJbPHbiOgk_d1eJwQVFgPpnCTrAKxmFfpgV3FAczOa6Ynr32-dx7yG6DaK2fLS6Bg9pBj08ZlK89bZT7-VUeY_YYve9qbAuFJwigI7YsKGgU4n/s1600/IMG_3606.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another day at the beach!</td></tr>
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Where I met up with artist Kathy Sarns, her friend and their canine buddies. Kathy used to live in Anchorage and for a short time I worked with her husband Pat. We pedaled west on the beach (after I first adjusted the brake pads on her friend's bike so they wouldn't drag on her rotor). The dogs ran alongside us, wove in front of us and flung themselves away toward water or bluff. When we reversed directions to return to the beach access point, the headwind became a tailwind and we were soon parting ways.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbL1q2KKZX5LmhO8anaY5_XOr2SzleYA6E3fx7Xdsmp-VSsX8gS6xdsrlZEgS2SK0eqlxnqhCtdwMw4rk7i8HjfJk7Nlz8gPniS7r5J9a-EARgnkd-Pjr5Pf-WZ6YDQ1nD9FbxIfa_F4vR/s1600/IMG_3593.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbL1q2KKZX5LmhO8anaY5_XOr2SzleYA6E3fx7Xdsmp-VSsX8gS6xdsrlZEgS2SK0eqlxnqhCtdwMw4rk7i8HjfJk7Nlz8gPniS7r5J9a-EARgnkd-Pjr5Pf-WZ6YDQ1nD9FbxIfa_F4vR/s1600/IMG_3593.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">History of Fat Bikes 101: Kathy is riding a prototype <br />
Surly Pugsley from about 2004 or 2005. I'm riding one of the most <br />
recent entries in the fat bike market: a Borealis Yampa. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLEGmtw4CwVY0CMZ6Vfm-NJDlXeJzslyDTlbZNOoMi83nqxoCA4AJdUnsRF-q1i6ESvOZXwX0T4K1vQNZSVkrQNMwbtZD_F3IoF8WN9Jns98D-h6BARNWICUlSXCI15ulREbCGBmCMoF8/s1600/IMG_3533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6r6X_dsN5UeYzESi3QFSweGOa69Ro7DH9gEQIZv4x6F7AnjLP74IRQuxvKB0m4BdDgK7gmJlOYQoXd5Og_rjO2CjwOCN7tDAF1ECP4rIMkWyl11af-klyIprBl785EKoa5QnV9HOAP8M/s1600/IMG_3597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6r6X_dsN5UeYzESi3QFSweGOa69Ro7DH9gEQIZv4x6F7AnjLP74IRQuxvKB0m4BdDgK7gmJlOYQoXd5Og_rjO2CjwOCN7tDAF1ECP4rIMkWyl11af-klyIprBl785EKoa5QnV9HOAP8M/s1600/IMG_3597.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Pugs has spent lots of time playing in saltwater.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMKifnJ3Z601qDQ0McNn3GIu_e-l7okkwjFg-fGjQyMBSV9Kxh90G53GP5_6Yto_sWGgy9UtJX1EAXnYKFTIR48UEAZ8Z4KQXyWWMWyHng0uE_w7Ljlyz9qkrdzvGLb_oH-SXLD4ZSTvt/s1600/IMG_3603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMKifnJ3Z601qDQ0McNn3GIu_e-l7okkwjFg-fGjQyMBSV9Kxh90G53GP5_6Yto_sWGgy9UtJX1EAXnYKFTIR48UEAZ8Z4KQXyWWMWyHng0uE_w7Ljlyz9qkrdzvGLb_oH-SXLD4ZSTvt/s1600/IMG_3603.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach, bikes, women, dogs. How cool is Homer?</td></tr>
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After a bite to eat, Katey and I took a walk on another beach with a Homer author who shared local knowledge about the sea life and geology of the area and filled us in on her experiences as a writer and a teacher.<br />I was most fascinated by how the plants and creatures of the sea created jumbled communities as they floated in the water. Here's one I found in the rocks:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQw9ylHrSKQTASgHCOmJ63ej5N-heH-0v6hNz4aGHKvceEIlopVcSszir6DOP4iT7qV0FJ018yuyIoCtchY0Tfn0XCwqi4oIf2rxmUDi0PpHlxwwxlOQlMphivrQSwyU1BEb0SW5rfdKeC/s1600/IMG_3611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQw9ylHrSKQTASgHCOmJ63ej5N-heH-0v6hNz4aGHKvceEIlopVcSszir6DOP4iT7qV0FJ018yuyIoCtchY0Tfn0XCwqi4oIf2rxmUDi0PpHlxwwxlOQlMphivrQSwyU1BEb0SW5rfdKeC/s1600/IMG_3611.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I see artists' inspiration in this tangle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-4CgRI1QMMDJsjHE3qYflA4Y193hqBuQO4LDRcU8PkLDQvFyk6I8Q31VoBsaXrKjiUWdOhJ2yQesEwMAfeLaY7DYa09nZ6YQns25iDMdYgSSrpB7erklsJ5l4IjJmmrkf1RwqK5v5pA6/s1600/IMG_3563.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-4CgRI1QMMDJsjHE3qYflA4Y193hqBuQO4LDRcU8PkLDQvFyk6I8Q31VoBsaXrKjiUWdOhJ2yQesEwMAfeLaY7DYa09nZ6YQns25iDMdYgSSrpB7erklsJ5l4IjJmmrkf1RwqK5v5pA6/s1600/IMG_3563.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katey near Land's End Resort on the Homer Spit, site of the annual<br />
<a href="http://writersconference.homer.alaska.edu/index.htm" target="_blank">Kachemak Bay Writers' Conference</a>. How is this as an enticement<br />
for her to return to Homer?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Early Thursday we bid farewell to our hosts, our favorite barrista and the fishing town on the bay. Katey had more events in and near Anchorage while I needed to get back to work at the shop. It was a different kind of beach vacation and I hope to make it back soon.<br />
<br />
If you go: We were in Homer a week after their annual<a href="http://homercyclingclub.com/big-fat-bike-festival-2014.html" target="_blank"> Big Fat Bike Fest</a> which I heard was loads of fun, so watch for it in 2015. If you're going beach riding on your own, be sure to get a tide table and ride during the lowest tides when you can ride on the firm, wet sand. Then, clean your bike. If you can rinse it in fresh water, that's best (tho not with a high-pressure hose). I didn't wash mine. When I returned to Anchorage, my bike had dried off and I spent some time with a soft brush sweeping off dried silt and sand. After cleaning the chain, I re-lubed it (I felt a bit bad about the little bit of orange on the chain from putting it away wet). Despite the need for extra maintenance on my bike, I would still recommend beach riding. It's a completely different scene from riding in the snow.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-54637023851895785382013-12-17T23:05:00.002-09:002013-12-17T23:05:17.173-09:00on the radio<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKzrBNI1IJBm7iFlHAoepFtfWIqAHbpYkdQ2X93aVcLBHPOjlle7Do0naZ2f7a9PMxEiT1uNgaSxtuqB5kOXsf_sqifLfYI6bKeNNzwB3JDdQvHCTYWtu-823KjwQSqUEI8D8SJ7-3rhg/s1600/IMG_1952.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKzrBNI1IJBm7iFlHAoepFtfWIqAHbpYkdQ2X93aVcLBHPOjlle7Do0naZ2f7a9PMxEiT1uNgaSxtuqB5kOXsf_sqifLfYI6bKeNNzwB3JDdQvHCTYWtu-823KjwQSqUEI8D8SJ7-3rhg/s320/IMG_1952.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Knik Glacier, 2011.</td></tr>
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I've been invited to participate in a winter biking discussion that will air on our local public radio station. I had to dig back to remember how long I've been riding on fattire bikes, having made the migration from studded tires on standard mountain rims to SnoCat (44mm) rims to the 80mm rims I ride on these days. It was Christmastime 2007 when Jon and I made the leap onto the fat tires. That was the year we got the Pugsleys. Then a few years ago, we made the change to the wider-rimmed Mukluks. For riding on snow (or sand), there is no going back.<br />
<br />
In preparation for the radio program, here are a few pics from some of my more scenic winter bike rides. Enjoy! Then listen to <a href="http://www.alaskapublic.org/2013/12/13/winter-biking/" target="_blank">the program</a> on Thursday on KSKA.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXr-UlbithnXgU4dNWHwTlufTZdIPjPJfSKB80p0m6_5AoM5EHUdHjHR1uOvgQ_jhSL92Wglb3hSCuRlGQeLNZxakw5FjJwiEfR9ARc-KGxno2MR-d9wPRAz81UDWkzn7iJ_NgfYJBqCk/s1600/IMG_1243.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXr-UlbithnXgU4dNWHwTlufTZdIPjPJfSKB80p0m6_5AoM5EHUdHjHR1uOvgQ_jhSL92Wglb3hSCuRlGQeLNZxakw5FjJwiEfR9ARc-KGxno2MR-d9wPRAz81UDWkzn7iJ_NgfYJBqCk/s320/IMG_1243.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Placer River on my ice bike with 44mm SnoCat rims.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCx93TWCKuavHFC4HnikxfeBqbzeKm1ntiPeuHtPzrk3OkD268Ip5nmbsJF7TBt3Fe4kQV9yLCCyyeMQbj3nlemvN-u6VYS0-x30FmqpFeodAHS59trPUUlTzmw5AQBGRuPd5VFRD8OWu/s1600/IMG_1254.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCx93TWCKuavHFC4HnikxfeBqbzeKm1ntiPeuHtPzrk3OkD268Ip5nmbsJF7TBt3Fe4kQV9yLCCyyeMQbj3nlemvN-u6VYS0-x30FmqpFeodAHS59trPUUlTzmw5AQBGRuPd5VFRD8OWu/s320/IMG_1254.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding around near the Placer River.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzY3xCwtzOVvGSvuB6acHl_2aAKReEA9jj41JgEbGQxNWxzMQI5KJdYGgeIACjBdDbQ0gO7bp2pIkFQQmXap6MckT47eHTMn-cleXq0MOpQ3FpHtswUgL06LXMfdqoEKDDMlnlhNreO1d/s1600/IMG_5277.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzY3xCwtzOVvGSvuB6acHl_2aAKReEA9jj41JgEbGQxNWxzMQI5KJdYGgeIACjBdDbQ0gO7bp2pIkFQQmXap6MckT47eHTMn-cleXq0MOpQ3FpHtswUgL06LXMfdqoEKDDMlnlhNreO1d/s320/IMG_5277.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first fat tire bike (with 65mm rims) on Middlefork.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvrDr0yt2cBwiFaKhUsecF9n7j7I8qR85uru2CM3Y3IEy0iiHrgU8z-vbH5tkFL8vcdVd8PhQKrgipbDkOKJPVmox1cQTqtTc9ja_nAiTgmfBC1uEr6fG2V-57Mol2LwMkDeLNPbiHbIZ/s1600/IMG_1857.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvrDr0yt2cBwiFaKhUsecF9n7j7I8qR85uru2CM3Y3IEy0iiHrgU8z-vbH5tkFL8vcdVd8PhQKrgipbDkOKJPVmox1cQTqtTc9ja_nAiTgmfBC1uEr6fG2V-57Mol2LwMkDeLNPbiHbIZ/s320/IMG_1857.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my friend Margaret on Resurrection Trail.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaret on Resurrection Trail.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tdybYWVdTmmnhZ4j6NNLBN7XYoqDvcvqrf6gn8GFm0_hO_hCpVFedK_aYYNG0Jbtnd5v9L5tcSoTu1vWgGGzCNY8HuJh6rFee80B4qkCvNSV9CafK0HAQNWORDJMpxD0VjglfUGfDvUn/s1600/IMG_1760.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tdybYWVdTmmnhZ4j6NNLBN7XYoqDvcvqrf6gn8GFm0_hO_hCpVFedK_aYYNG0Jbtnd5v9L5tcSoTu1vWgGGzCNY8HuJh6rFee80B4qkCvNSV9CafK0HAQNWORDJMpxD0VjglfUGfDvUn/s320/IMG_1760.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Middlefork on the Mukluk (80mm rims).</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Jon and friends at Knik Glacier, 2011.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcRRIugLWOWiZy599Xk9MKJohjD5PxiFl6mbd-7UIUvphUqcQIlH2qKp7TyQYUAbioQSqZrPL1Jt_zXanEOmJntGro0lNhuJPDeHCMuyNLSQMBtsujZTy2G-V6qbWiM-KhCKD2BkZJw8E/s1600/IMG_1803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcRRIugLWOWiZy599Xk9MKJohjD5PxiFl6mbd-7UIUvphUqcQIlH2qKp7TyQYUAbioQSqZrPL1Jt_zXanEOmJntGro0lNhuJPDeHCMuyNLSQMBtsujZTy2G-V6qbWiM-KhCKD2BkZJw8E/s320/IMG_1803.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Knik Glacier, 2011.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Looking through all these photos makes me pretty excited about getting out onto some of the more remote rides, though I'm still not mentally prepared for 20 below! No worries; the weather here is always just about to change, right?bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-80529653996554739372013-12-17T08:42:00.001-09:002013-12-17T08:42:04.286-09:00to paris!Europe Trip, Part 10<br />
<br />
We made a fairly quick drive from Lespignan to Orleans, about an hour south of Paris and checked into the micro-hotel room (seriously, the place was so tiny that there was
no space between the bed and the wall to pass one-another; the room fit three only because of an upper bunk) then took off for the
city center. People who know about Orleans will know that it's the city
that was liberated by Joan of Arc during the Hundred Years' War. Yeah, I didn't
know either.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOsdxcJ_sq3w2aFaA4VDkwhCCzl_uvCDvDFBeOSQ_NRucjQlTvS-_q-sbhXyxNVdzaJnddLlxCZDQw0B8BzU8okDD-yrdEMYFslVGAuCDOTsixqGQyl1E1WHaITLj_uWAoAe7166oelb9/s1600/1381195_10202095118129020_581204960_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOsdxcJ_sq3w2aFaA4VDkwhCCzl_uvCDvDFBeOSQ_NRucjQlTvS-_q-sbhXyxNVdzaJnddLlxCZDQw0B8BzU8okDD-yrdEMYFslVGAuCDOTsixqGQyl1E1WHaITLj_uWAoAe7166oelb9/s320/1381195_10202095118129020_581204960_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Orleans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before we arrived at the cathedral,
we came upon a courtyard where art was displayed under the many arches
of a covered passageway. The public art was a wonderful treat. I felt
like we'd stumbled upon something that most people had passed by. It
reminded me of my artist friends in Anchorage and around the country, all the creative energy filling the spaces. It
was here I most wished to have an interpreter to understand the nuances
of each piece and the possible message they were trying to convey.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRn0S5J_xD40M2mpVwJArZXigpoMD3w7HS2c_vDUclSsPunkD5VyFASElB-icAlCL1BGyWnK2qVXiTKdiq_fl3Bq9mWInWTqs18iY9qj5Vi4gpQ8QlbnuHsDOPDrqeVCEdgu7loDY_1SG/s1600/DSCN0966.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRn0S5J_xD40M2mpVwJArZXigpoMD3w7HS2c_vDUclSsPunkD5VyFASElB-icAlCL1BGyWnK2qVXiTKdiq_fl3Bq9mWInWTqs18iY9qj5Vi4gpQ8QlbnuHsDOPDrqeVCEdgu7loDY_1SG/s320/DSCN0966.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5ivoeOVzx7o-QNUa91VzVV_JqYHMG4hxe_CFU-ECyXvs7omGeLcZY0sWLqlh_KsLrv-IW1oIGzGIlipi6q4nPVodwUa6tltciGtU_DjV6NxJD6hWJ8ND0xy_avDVwMLm2_Wizt2z_XFd/s320/DSCN0971.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMSsddwuc3TOb8YUoAYqaq6ZWZuJeym-AMlfioQHsnm_II4FQ64kX_d6CO-pqbmwoLXjBUErw94rZmVo2EqhMUK85JI-L0W7yl5c1er4Y4ruAq-JncMPNWLz8iHjjx7L4zf4pwsC411Lb/s1600/DSCN0975.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMSsddwuc3TOb8YUoAYqaq6ZWZuJeym-AMlfioQHsnm_II4FQ64kX_d6CO-pqbmwoLXjBUErw94rZmVo2EqhMUK85JI-L0W7yl5c1er4Y4ruAq-JncMPNWLz8iHjjx7L4zf4pwsC411Lb/s320/DSCN0975.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqz7KJjvRuiOZlpbEsTFcWzjHwQBJav8nMbvH9UgbG5biXTtHmVtqZO0HavT1HK8Fq8bDNCZ8NZ-zUx_WfdQoaZo-ThmVY2L14K05xGo2MMMZWzV4KaqGfW-qdtLGUt8dmwQ4mdaO7bNJ8/s1600/DSCN0978.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqz7KJjvRuiOZlpbEsTFcWzjHwQBJav8nMbvH9UgbG5biXTtHmVtqZO0HavT1HK8Fq8bDNCZ8NZ-zUx_WfdQoaZo-ThmVY2L14K05xGo2MMMZWzV4KaqGfW-qdtLGUt8dmwQ4mdaO7bNJ8/s320/DSCN0978.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That
evening, we made our plans for the next day in Paris. I anticipated it with
excitement and a
little sadness that our journey would be done. Though, I admit, it
would be good to get home and be in one place for a few weeks.<br />
<br />
We arrived early the next day at our hotel just outside Paris, from which we took public transit into the
city. Destination: Eiffel Tower. We climbed the 360 stairs to the first viewing deck, and after a look around, climbed another 360 stairs second deck. The day was sunny, though a bit hazy, yet
we had views of so many landmarks of the city. Arc de Triomphe,
Notre-Dame, the Louvre. We could map our course from the deck. We took in the views in all directions before finally heading for the stairs to return to ground level.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikK9tC2ayknxLL8CUPMUUuLbun8lPC9lxRTEUHcQSdu3xvHOivotITDi7uRu9FW9hquo1qQliiRTdZcDylHxXUASn8w3QNnt0jtQDBk0yu2E8q-pjZPfaBRxuhASnU_sltNAIM3EWrzBgS/s1600/DSCN1025.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikK9tC2ayknxLL8CUPMUUuLbun8lPC9lxRTEUHcQSdu3xvHOivotITDi7uRu9FW9hquo1qQliiRTdZcDylHxXUASn8w3QNnt0jtQDBk0yu2E8q-pjZPfaBRxuhASnU_sltNAIM3EWrzBgS/s320/DSCN1025.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail. *</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5njHuOhXlxfYDOgy1FVtSE18xOibqNz6fZRFPPCK3Ss_Kh7GpAkFhW6-36yce9foVnrW7JIC936Cknh8WtJt8xOICXJs4d2welnRpOS_YnZ1UEsY8qeDekOfLY2wUg-3_MZCXoGPBbfS/s1600/IMG_3143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5njHuOhXlxfYDOgy1FVtSE18xOibqNz6fZRFPPCK3Ss_Kh7GpAkFhW6-36yce9foVnrW7JIC936Cknh8WtJt8xOICXJs4d2welnRpOS_YnZ1UEsY8qeDekOfLY2wUg-3_MZCXoGPBbfS/s320/IMG_3143.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtEgYSdsR_KwfXbiDMzETH_yPGLkL5F_DVSerJyLtA4pcPCtOoXJ0KceC99oFUd539v6I49RN6kRqgrhgpdNisBlBGZ_YNCyOKlwPt5DgagLU2fVKqytUi3MJUkNSQX4QD90LwJlL2mkX/s1600/DSCN1020.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtEgYSdsR_KwfXbiDMzETH_yPGLkL5F_DVSerJyLtA4pcPCtOoXJ0KceC99oFUd539v6I49RN6kRqgrhgpdNisBlBGZ_YNCyOKlwPt5DgagLU2fVKqytUi3MJUkNSQX4QD90LwJlL2mkX/s320/DSCN1020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commemorating a high wire walk Philippe Petit made to this point...*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1DZJapGBdU5MQP1rq1kc2Yn80JQPDpzGEhiRLia54FW17nebLoTG7IzRDcRdxN3MwJVcVisQoOc_vRFNwM5LhhesWm7v81JRunVjhn3umxq0RT5Idyu_7UhbwLIZIfi24Cbsshvf8SVz/s1600/IMG_3142.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1DZJapGBdU5MQP1rq1kc2Yn80JQPDpzGEhiRLia54FW17nebLoTG7IzRDcRdxN3MwJVcVisQoOc_vRFNwM5LhhesWm7v81JRunVjhn3umxq0RT5Idyu_7UhbwLIZIfi24Cbsshvf8SVz/s320/IMG_3142.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...starting way down there! (We'll walk there soon.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OIwXLSODFNLC-SO14-4XKWu_aopsHataC7oHzdCr5BO2Pgz6vwzEV1KnJkpQcNApQsgTQmszUgDKL3oMqjWA4V_qd8059OqCqQ6OmsxOH5-iZVbn5FoahN5nApRI9O0yfAq9QxHBiHAP/s1600/IMG_3151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OIwXLSODFNLC-SO14-4XKWu_aopsHataC7oHzdCr5BO2Pgz6vwzEV1KnJkpQcNApQsgTQmszUgDKL3oMqjWA4V_qd8059OqCqQ6OmsxOH5-iZVbn5FoahN5nApRI9O0yfAq9QxHBiHAP/s320/IMG_3151.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the Arc de Triomphe beyond my left shoulder.**</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Many of the museums were closed that day, a Monday, which was probably for
the best because with so much to see on a sunny day, I would have been
torn between being outdoors and spending hours in the Louvre or the
Musée d'Orsay<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sHqZMQlZ_N80pTxtuSNNWkUukEUogOmCGtma-bJBX0ZKk1mvOBQlSPcdCeHvtmjv30CBhN3yMXGRQnf4OD0zBwf38SSGdFIoSU2N9wxDs46k8p6xtcMnQESFihrhktU0D6qRDjLsyRKu/s320/IMG_3167.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Louvre at sunset.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Instead of spending time indoors, except for meals, we wandered the city, visited the Arc de Triomphe, walked along the <span class="st">Champs-Élysées and went on a brief wild goose chase to find a fabric store that didn't exist (though I found some wonderful striped tights in a sock shop). We ate and drank inside small cafes when we realized that the smoking ban only applies to indoor dining and the sidewalk cafes were choked with cigarette smoke and exhaust. (I forgot to mention that the restaurant in Lespignan had a mildew smell which had set off my sinuses. Once in Paris, the vehicle exhaust and cigarette smoke irritated my nose even more. I developed some pretty bad sneezing when I was near smokers of which Paris has more than its share. I was kind of bummed to sit indoors to have lunch or a coffee, but it was the only way to keep from sneezing through a meal.)</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">At sunset, we walked the grounds of the Louvre, then made our way across a couple bridges to reach Notre-Dame where a musician was playing and singing for the gathered crowd. Barges filled with tourists and revelers plied the Seine. The tourists snapped photos of us and we snapped photos of them. We stopped by Shakespeare and Co. and browsed through the shelves of the tiny but busy bookshop. With hunger setting in, Jon encouraged us to stop at a small cafe we had walked past earlier.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaT28qhr9qquzrhJWRmESj2xcIIhB8YJvryDT68oijW64TuIlk4uJoTnOV8hyphenhyphenWEC0g-p7rMnZWx9gQCpkl0zn88Ale8P5DaBOBdyWIz7YqoG2sUDvOBk2I2GjLiDUrR_58xrARe2-dEHSe/s1600/IMG_3169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaT28qhr9qquzrhJWRmESj2xcIIhB8YJvryDT68oijW64TuIlk4uJoTnOV8hyphenhyphenWEC0g-p7rMnZWx9gQCpkl0zn88Ale8P5DaBOBdyWIz7YqoG2sUDvOBk2I2GjLiDUrR_58xrARe2-dEHSe/s320/IMG_3169.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reflection.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfCTDtA7xQAG7cphxdhlBa2yfug8sj-3EV0lOyvZQ_bgj2Fa_-Uva8SIZs7oYlc8OKOJ8k4InltumOXVTiZdX-AVgWnPVpejKx5CCuvECfK7rtTdykfwO99erNRmcbQvAiFnYeCqcJrzM/s1600/IMG_3182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfCTDtA7xQAG7cphxdhlBa2yfug8sj-3EV0lOyvZQ_bgj2Fa_-Uva8SIZs7oYlc8OKOJ8k4InltumOXVTiZdX-AVgWnPVpejKx5CCuvECfK7rtTdykfwO99erNRmcbQvAiFnYeCqcJrzM/s320/IMG_3182.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notre-Dame.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We stepped into Quay 21, a quirky place on the Left Bank, near Notre-Dame. It was almost empty of customers, which can be a bad sign or a very good sign. The owner greeted us and learned which language to use with us, then helped us understand the menu. He spoke at least three languages and when we found out he was originally from Latvia, he and Janis slipped into Russian and it was as though we were now part of the family. Near the end our meal - one of the best of our trip - Janis was about to take a photo of Jon and me. The owner grabbed Jon's camera from Janis's hand and snapped a
couple pics. Everything about the experience made Quay 21 the best possible place to end our trip and our day in Paris. All we had to do was find the transit station and take the train back to our hotel.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7NV5uUeIVasSGPCftB0MLnVLS1kcpxTy3mVk9vZMHEeSy7G8DslrVL_JPlxcQK5aJj3uNBo71Juczl3tueknbgUgwm9B1zuB795hVXuf00ijsIL_vn-EcyhsRo2kh5JFDXT1q0Ioei_t/s1600/DSCN1123.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7NV5uUeIVasSGPCftB0MLnVLS1kcpxTy3mVk9vZMHEeSy7G8DslrVL_JPlxcQK5aJj3uNBo71Juczl3tueknbgUgwm9B1zuB795hVXuf00ijsIL_vn-EcyhsRo2kh5JFDXT1q0Ioei_t/s320/DSCN1123.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quay 21. Taken by the owner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next day, we would be on a jet back to the U.S., by way of Iceland; and Janis would be crossing the English Chanel, returning to London for a few more weeks before driving back to Latvia. In less than a week's time, I would start checking on fares, wondering how soon I can get back to Europe.<br />
<br />
* taken by Jon<br />
**taken by Janis bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-63037581009497954552013-12-13T11:21:00.003-09:002013-12-13T11:21:50.147-09:00a few days in franceEurope Trip, Part 9<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpZ_977vTRv4KeZZekw5pYStyl-rULmXl4XleY2AAqvE1ZGdaTe2HG0KWDLR8UtTp_3u0kCDGiTCH9GBLNwQxOUVAzXgmgUp6ZIxOvj9IKUCNmH2jIqEj14murGl2Cl5ZlZr0svO6-NqT/s1600/IMG_3078.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBpZ_977vTRv4KeZZekw5pYStyl-rULmXl4XleY2AAqvE1ZGdaTe2HG0KWDLR8UtTp_3u0kCDGiTCH9GBLNwQxOUVAzXgmgUp6ZIxOvj9IKUCNmH2jIqEj14murGl2Cl5ZlZr0svO6-NqT/s320/IMG_3078.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Arles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We were walking along the twisting, cobbled streets of Arles looking for a place to have lunch. "That looks good," Jon said, gesturing toward a diner's plate. "It is good," she said. We stopped. She was sitting alone at the sidewalk table. I asked if we could join her for lunch. "It's been two weeks since I've spoken full sentences with another woman!" I said. It was a strange realization. Traveling with two guys through countries where each word spoken to a stranger was a challenge, I didn't use many to talk with other people. It was a sensory deprivation of sorts. Jon and Janis had their guy talk, and while I enjoy their company, I really missed having one of my girlfriends to hang out with!<br />
<br />
We sat at the table and introduced ourselves. Shirley was a software developer from Israel. When Janis said he was from Latvia, she told us she is of Lithuanian descent. (Lithuania is between Latvia and Poland so we'd spent a few hours driving through the small country.) She was on a daytrip from Avignon, having traveled the short distance by train. She told us that traveling solo after a friend had backed out of the trip gave her an opportunity to improve her French. I envied her that she had a few weeks to explore France while we were just arriving with little time to soak it in. After we parted, I continued searching for my idea of Provence, of <a href="http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp?page=12264&lang=en" target="_blank">van Gogh</a>, of the places that make Arles such an attraction.<br />
<br />
I've admitted before that I love fashion, though am not usually very fashionable. Working in a bike shop means knowing that whatever I wear could get grease-stained or snagged, so I tend to wear t-shirts and jeans or shorts most of the time. I saw an adorable skirt on a mannequin outside a shop. I had to go in and see what else they had. The racks were filled with skirts and blouses in beautiful patterns and colors. Jon pointed to the back of the store where a woman sat at a sewing machine; an assistant stood nearby. I tried on the skirt, then a different one. Soon, the woman was wrapping a blouse around me, tying the lace ties. I felt fabulous. I could have spent an hour in the tiny shop, but I made my purchases and left happy. Something unique. Something handmade by the <a href="http://www.lesaccessoiresdaudrey.com/" target="_blank">designer</a> right there in Arles!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9dulgejFPYKJP6ych-yMJea5zlzV2hS533QWKfTHkMzQUUPXn49lqYTLut7XhCW7PpiLrRWCyyj8KnygTv9RJYirDpO3etoodvxsO0AYkxjyky3KE79JJUmqcl4MxKiD_XHb6DS9U6np/s1600/IMG_3073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9dulgejFPYKJP6ych-yMJea5zlzV2hS533QWKfTHkMzQUUPXn49lqYTLut7XhCW7PpiLrRWCyyj8KnygTv9RJYirDpO3etoodvxsO0AYkxjyky3KE79JJUmqcl4MxKiD_XHb6DS9U6np/s320/IMG_3073.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
We walked around the Roman theater and arena, ducked into a few more shops selling textiles and ceramics, then wound our way back to the other side of the Rhone River, where the car was parked. We were soon on the road trying to reach Lespignan before dark.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_7Y1lqrGqf0HIuf2DfXhFGa4CaCiMDqpl_c1XbPtCLkUt2SoGp1CeeEyMEvHmzoKOaHsrfEYfGVVZbcbapSf0LHoLnRl0yuEvvOCKTL_2yRQbSiMKT47Va7kIQDDr3rF0dgYH9_XSdOj/s1600/IMG_3074.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_7Y1lqrGqf0HIuf2DfXhFGa4CaCiMDqpl_c1XbPtCLkUt2SoGp1CeeEyMEvHmzoKOaHsrfEYfGVVZbcbapSf0LHoLnRl0yuEvvOCKTL_2yRQbSiMKT47Va7kIQDDr3rF0dgYH9_XSdOj/s320/IMG_3074.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roman ruins in Arles.</td></tr>
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The narrow, twisty one-way streets of the old part of Lespignan almost did us in as Janis and I tried to navigate Jon to the house. We missed one turn and ended up climbing a hill. We knew we were very close, we just couldn't quite figure it out. I got out of the car to try to walk the route... and to see if we would even be able to drive the car around a corner and between the buildings without scraping the sides of the car. We could see where plenty of drivers before us had failed. Jon made the tricky corner and drove down to an intersection. I started walking up a hill and that's when I saw Pierre. He was standing at the intersection uphill from me, waving us onward!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bli3vvYZIh44Zt-3iRrHliOZUTZFOKsQwIcMudeStvhXCx1MSl1CMgciRCz3ik-GZyVnULQAbuGWmO3m18AE3RdeN-_WXio-o8s5r2C8AECfvw_lWmFZuQ-mhYMXmrSLOlXFqPtf1GKF/s1600/DSCN0905.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bli3vvYZIh44Zt-3iRrHliOZUTZFOKsQwIcMudeStvhXCx1MSl1CMgciRCz3ik-GZyVnULQAbuGWmO3m18AE3RdeN-_WXio-o8s5r2C8AECfvw_lWmFZuQ-mhYMXmrSLOlXFqPtf1GKF/s320/DSCN0905.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think we squeezed the car thru here! In Lespignan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjeJWVujSGvZZJAGd5m54Pk51wem3E2VbOEBqDhmDvKmCI_11DnD3EF2HigHFUIm1SrBwBvbk0qhkDf4u9XrBnN9ewPNQ6KN-nrMcKKrRfa4QU0A4JMZdFUinO7xl2MlokyYCAXlKl8M2/s1600/IMG_3084.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjeJWVujSGvZZJAGd5m54Pk51wem3E2VbOEBqDhmDvKmCI_11DnD3EF2HigHFUIm1SrBwBvbk0qhkDf4u9XrBnN9ewPNQ6KN-nrMcKKrRfa4QU0A4JMZdFUinO7xl2MlokyYCAXlKl8M2/s320/IMG_3084.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Lespignon. Vineyards and fields on the horizon, then the sea.</td></tr>
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If you have ever driven in any foreign countries that have these single-lane streets that were designed for walking and maybe a narrow wagon, you will appreciate just how frustrating it can be to squeeze a car around a corner. I have a new appreciation for our two-lane streets and well-signed intersections, however I must confess the tiny village streets were very appealing for the sense of revelation we experienced rounding each bend. I would prefer to experience them on foot or even bicycle.<br />
<br />
That evening, we went to one of the local restaurants (there are two, and one pizza take-out place). We shared tales of adventures and caught up on what Pierre and Cheryl have been doing since returning to France last year. Pierre and Janis had lots to talk about, especially when it came to bike tools and how they could be made better.<br />
<br />
The next day, we all went together to a couple of towns: <a href="http://www.avignon-et-provence.com/aigues-mortes/aigues_mortes_camargue.htm#.UqtniY2rdAY" target="_blank">Aigues-Morte</a> and <a href="http://www.creme-de-languedoc.com/Languedoc/sightseeing/la-grande-motte.php" target="_blank">La Grande-Motte</a> for sight-seeing before returning home in a downpour that almost washed the streets clean back in Lespignan. By "almost" I'm referring to the dog poop on the cobbles which pet owners for some reason don't pick up. Gave a different meaning to the term, "watch your step."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcFxOrnBdcSGF-jqL9pNteyrPlFxnNCkvU1iM9uKCJJUfKzJgUE4Kc21ifk7BoXDTBrwfGTXS3ceTkvSR0ulYeR_U9PqCHWsUKiSpv_JEZfPFw6OEbIqPsoTaQ80Ho3vdN16-i29FSKup/s1600/IMG_3093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcFxOrnBdcSGF-jqL9pNteyrPlFxnNCkvU1iM9uKCJJUfKzJgUE4Kc21ifk7BoXDTBrwfGTXS3ceTkvSR0ulYeR_U9PqCHWsUKiSpv_JEZfPFw6OEbIqPsoTaQ80Ho3vdN16-i29FSKup/s320/IMG_3093.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A balcony in Aigues-Morte.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKTytHXgPRCCT4RcDb2sokFX0oFWUucL-N9cf-eEU4bsUp3MXBsOq8FuNXvvT_54bNGzzV2ZnMJkn5E3d8iErc0tahB0SpF-_FjDSJK46CFyrHQn1wvcWYCSQpyH-qvQ-m4BCVjl1CT8c/s1600/IMG_3100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKTytHXgPRCCT4RcDb2sokFX0oFWUucL-N9cf-eEU4bsUp3MXBsOq8FuNXvvT_54bNGzzV2ZnMJkn5E3d8iErc0tahB0SpF-_FjDSJK46CFyrHQn1wvcWYCSQpyH-qvQ-m4BCVjl1CT8c/s320/IMG_3100.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon climbs along the fortified wall of Aigues-Morte...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3mApePXnxdVGwQL5zTm5uTUYqBwllWRYNAlngptPPwUc4KQti_SwuH2vjYcQSX471Pf1gCgwM3ufcOdBvc5VmY57W_jrusT3odAEkNktX1PNAF3tSPywiYmJT5APcO2Dys50te3xHSSE/s1600/DSCN0919.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3mApePXnxdVGwQL5zTm5uTUYqBwllWRYNAlngptPPwUc4KQti_SwuH2vjYcQSX471Pf1gCgwM3ufcOdBvc5VmY57W_jrusT3odAEkNktX1PNAF3tSPywiYmJT5APcO2Dys50te3xHSSE/s320/DSCN0919.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and took this shot of the wall and the roof lines.*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk5pZJm0c5dO39nprGGi5rXe-Tkw8ljii7pU5FgZ7DVnGmJzgv7KLqnCqCztcIir6FuePy5PD5fmoe3sOWNGuCE9GUhmESFPoKF6kgibdGkG-ip4-sYP9gkP5PwCoP5RxbD0OJhhH-bRc/s1600/DSCN0915.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk5pZJm0c5dO39nprGGi5rXe-Tkw8ljii7pU5FgZ7DVnGmJzgv7KLqnCqCztcIir6FuePy5PD5fmoe3sOWNGuCE9GUhmESFPoKF6kgibdGkG-ip4-sYP9gkP5PwCoP5RxbD0OJhhH-bRc/s320/DSCN0915.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the wall.*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURrQVdR6Ht0KHh76vwHi63VYa-Uge_khBCQUCRU41O2mNRv1Uaerty-O5VnsDwu-Ml_Xarcxm1c2Kd8tyQJk4J52c0X34Q5-bEc4XVE2ughUUPJQgGW3ncjZjX0dU9fcqlIU437U6Suu_/s1600/IMG_3106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURrQVdR6Ht0KHh76vwHi63VYa-Uge_khBCQUCRU41O2mNRv1Uaerty-O5VnsDwu-Ml_Xarcxm1c2Kd8tyQJk4J52c0X34Q5-bEc4XVE2ughUUPJQgGW3ncjZjX0dU9fcqlIU437U6Suu_/s320/IMG_3106.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Grande-Motte.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiQ5Y4eGdcv3hGwZiGHDsQAcZxLO1uHnHKm51rnQO0EiViFzQqNdpwv68YqKyXlhXUvGgMaarMiEqMvRiN1jCcLAc4ei_PcD8Qh-SoJ4jroz004ExUAPcedvpyW16WaSXKIWXwRrEoj8M/s1600/IMG_3112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiQ5Y4eGdcv3hGwZiGHDsQAcZxLO1uHnHKm51rnQO0EiViFzQqNdpwv68YqKyXlhXUvGgMaarMiEqMvRiN1jCcLAc4ei_PcD8Qh-SoJ4jroz004ExUAPcedvpyW16WaSXKIWXwRrEoj8M/s320/IMG_3112.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The buildings of La Grande-Motte reminded me of cruise ships.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLvXrAOi5aa041Mt5_DK27j6eT3hvJf2N4yvNW5HXoUX0bc24rn2uQSgV4T4QLJWXUKdVqAYjXHQa1hrGueIZQmFhAnxHa4meg6wTc8Mta9jKbjpOF6xPDo3VetIkDxCuMY0hjSo94iNQ/s1600/IMG_3124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLvXrAOi5aa041Mt5_DK27j6eT3hvJf2N4yvNW5HXoUX0bc24rn2uQSgV4T4QLJWXUKdVqAYjXHQa1hrGueIZQmFhAnxHa4meg6wTc8Mta9jKbjpOF6xPDo3VetIkDxCuMY0hjSo94iNQ/s320/IMG_3124.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little color in La Grande-Motte, a city like no other.</td></tr>
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<br />
The following day, while Pierre and Cheryl visited friends in another town, Jon, Janis and I set out to walk to the coast. What I didn't know was that when Pierre told Janis the directions, he made it sound like it was about five kilometers away. It was not. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrBR3MAmV_qV5bYCkby1y4fsQESESCCxFMaSn9PGAj34BNrnrTep0Jtt8cCcVKqI80hNvbJpvU7fH26RMJXMZHMocLChXd8sP_a7J9X0_ztG8x-kBuGVmhKMicYnxLvHrEkOTkvnfqwRd/s1600/DSCN0944.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrBR3MAmV_qV5bYCkby1y4fsQESESCCxFMaSn9PGAj34BNrnrTep0Jtt8cCcVKqI80hNvbJpvU7fH26RMJXMZHMocLChXd8sP_a7J9X0_ztG8x-kBuGVmhKMicYnxLvHrEkOTkvnfqwRd/s320/DSCN0944.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We walked among vineyards.*</td></tr>
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<br />
It was a clear, beautiful day. But, eventually the joy of walking past vineyards and fig trees degraded into somewhat of a death march. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy a good hike. But this was to be an afternoon
outing, 5k each way. None of us had planned for such a long walk, or the wrong turn that dead-ended at a no-trespassing sign. We were quickly
going through what little food we had packed (at least we'd stopped in a local shop for some cheese before starting). After a few hours, there was nothing I wanted
to do more than just sit in one place and watch the world go by. I wanted things
to be stilled. Instead, I became frustrated.<br />
<br />When we reached a bridge over a river and there was no sea nor beach in sight, Janis volunteered to run to the house to get the car. Jon and I also turned around. We watched cyclists ride past at their Sunday pace and wished for bicycles; we tried to hitchhike and watched as full cars drove past, the drivers shrugging their shoulders in apology. I kicked myself for not having studied a map before leaving the house. It was not the day I had wanted.<br />
<br />
We were almost halfway back to town when Janis arrived with the car. We all agreed that after having walked so far, we should at least drive to the seashore. When we finally arrived, we knew we'd made the right decision to get the car. We walked along the sand beach as waves roared in, too rough and chilly for us to swim. We looked at sea shells and weathered glass that formed a jumbled band of debris along the beach. I tried to relax and enjoy being in that place. To watch other people. I tried to put the long walk in perspective. I guess I was done with the pace, done taking wrong turns and done with long days. I was mentally and physically exhausted. I cooled my feet in the wet sand, let waves wash over my feet and ankles. Jon tried to get me to smile. Finally, we were ready to return to the house and, even more important, have some dinner.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnsY1Y08a5683PLkVohlCjvXWpDz8Za3c2fn2_YVhrr0IQBc73I7IFchZaIgDKnexiW5UdjSabSWuhxjRoP1HTpTDCnKQRpGY_1tR-6d1Z5aaIMh1-dStmxt1FN5cm8dJqZ-FMsyeHiQt/s1600/DSCN0954.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnsY1Y08a5683PLkVohlCjvXWpDz8Za3c2fn2_YVhrr0IQBc73I7IFchZaIgDKnexiW5UdjSabSWuhxjRoP1HTpTDCnKQRpGY_1tR-6d1Z5aaIMh1-dStmxt1FN5cm8dJqZ-FMsyeHiQt/s320/DSCN0954.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janis finally reaches the sea!*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90ukUBBU_f1mMWdX3aYC9jiEuJW_ctsZNtgXBwjToYlxvONYJb8gQalhMygxMzE_cfp8pqC3JFJWtRDs71iX4ifgBqqoZZC96xm1xFAGy8ENMd2cIUMRzSreUVHnIa_C4Y-c2ugfvEEBW/s1600/DSCN0955.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90ukUBBU_f1mMWdX3aYC9jiEuJW_ctsZNtgXBwjToYlxvONYJb8gQalhMygxMzE_cfp8pqC3JFJWtRDs71iX4ifgBqqoZZC96xm1xFAGy8ENMd2cIUMRzSreUVHnIa_C4Y-c2ugfvEEBW/s320/DSCN0955.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We made it. Cooling my feet.*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9iq9MmgZW3VkpVAylj6TCYYuzN1cxCtz1xT6iU1B1LlkBZ7iRpWXcu6WZWUKf0qqv1XA4WpZe5HLIfIybJZ9YHElo8dOspOpU1ttEiEauUy1gg4t5xN0L_QFS_7FdSJ8ZvHvZskIJBqK/s1600/DSCN0961.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9iq9MmgZW3VkpVAylj6TCYYuzN1cxCtz1xT6iU1B1LlkBZ7iRpWXcu6WZWUKf0qqv1XA4WpZe5HLIfIybJZ9YHElo8dOspOpU1ttEiEauUy1gg4t5xN0L_QFS_7FdSJ8ZvHvZskIJBqK/s320/DSCN0961.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the sea.**</td></tr>
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Up the hill from the house was a <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g1855009-d1855013-Reviews-L_Hostellerie_du_Chateau-Lespignan_Herault_Languedoc_Roussillon.html#REVIEWS" target="_blank">restaurant</a> we'd seen that first night when we were trying to find the house. It looked pretty fancy. I put on my new blouse and we arrived just as they were opening. Neither the waitress or the chef spoke much English so we went down the menu ordering a different starter each and a different main course for each, unsure of what would arrive on our plates. We shared a bottle of wine and the relaxation began. That's the beauty of sharing a meal and a bottle after a rough day. The edges wear down; we can laugh at our miscalculations; we can take note of how far we've traveled - not just that day, but since leaving London. We know we will remember our walk toward the sea for a long time!<br />
<br />
As we were finishing our meal, Pierre showed up at the restaurant. He and Cheryl had arrived home and he wanted to see how we liked the restaurant. The food was fantastic (though since I didn't write it down, I'm not sure what everyone had. I had enormous prawns and remember that they were great. The next morning, we would leave Lespignan and our friends for the long drive to Paris. Our adventure was coming to a close.<br />
<br />
*taken by Jon<br />
**taken by Janis bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-45085595489627613812013-12-09T15:40:00.001-09:002013-12-09T15:40:53.441-09:00to italy and franceEurope Trip, Part 8<br />
<br />
The biggest challenge of this trip (after the airport incident) was traveling long distances on our driving days so that we could spend time in one particular place. It was a tasting tour: we sampled things here and there, then dashed off to the next place. The biggest challenge in <i>recounting</i> this story is that I sometimes get confused about what happened when. Despite good intentions to keep an accurate journal, often I'd fall asleep at night mid-thought. Other times I'd try to write in the car, but the scenery and the navigating were more important than jotting down the details that might have helped me remember something. I piece together places by looking at my photos, but who takes pictures of gas-station cafes? Maybe I should have...<br />
<br />
After leaving our campsite just inside the German border we drove south into Italy on a road that took us through deep valleys framed between the mountains. We saw villages perched high on the slopes. Churches and castles, sometimes grazing cattle. I'm not sure how many places we stopped in for coffees or food. Sometimes the memories merge into a mix of gas stations with great bakery or a cafeteria filled with regional food and coffee that would put our local roasters to shame. Or was it just that we had been drinking instant for most of the trip?<br />
<br />
At midday, we detoured off the<i> autostrada</i> to the town of <i>Riva del Garda</i>. From the map it looked like we could drive along the road that skirted along the shore of <i>Lago di Garda</i>, maybe stop for a picnic before continuing south. But the lake was far below the road and it did not look promising for a lakeside picnic. Instead, we took off on a side road that twisted and switched back-and-forth up a steep hill through a few farming villages.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_dFk_PXuNXAWnout2LQrALTFWinV7aaSWZLNQBNnPt3aDSnlSj4heDLvTbmiaCl8hGPgoT9Rhw9puizCkzKOv2LoXLgQ6QByhR362HZO9Kzpf77Infam2Fs52rrOlQv1itE1BzQKXHpL/s1600/IMG_3027.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_dFk_PXuNXAWnout2LQrALTFWinV7aaSWZLNQBNnPt3aDSnlSj4heDLvTbmiaCl8hGPgoT9Rhw9puizCkzKOv2LoXLgQ6QByhR362HZO9Kzpf77Infam2Fs52rrOlQv1itE1BzQKXHpL/s320/IMG_3027.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church at Ustecchio dates back to before 1566.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenHN1DhsuyW_NTlGFnSerP1yFPSDaW_cLXrsJLtUvlcvTInbahueGZrXtIRMrfvBIGsdzNTrYs8O9IvqlqjP5UjDB4Rqprxg_Hc1FFVUE9B0pm0ssCnbPJq8mzhSqojoVeGowryCAehlq/s1600/IMG_3029.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenHN1DhsuyW_NTlGFnSerP1yFPSDaW_cLXrsJLtUvlcvTInbahueGZrXtIRMrfvBIGsdzNTrYs8O9IvqlqjP5UjDB4Rqprxg_Hc1FFVUE9B0pm0ssCnbPJq8mzhSqojoVeGowryCAehlq/s320/IMG_3029.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The little car that could!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4b1_28COjFPlt3ov7HFrOoG8mE1zWNU1TkenRHzSmQ3qpVcthuk9w9RG-rMA6NSdxA1PTwcKFlZlawUA4UuZ79G65tnADqg9G0FTQPiG668EPxmgMB8oGcOvyNUzcc8ZDxNaK2vKPLoN/s1600/IMG_3032.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4b1_28COjFPlt3ov7HFrOoG8mE1zWNU1TkenRHzSmQ3qpVcthuk9w9RG-rMA6NSdxA1PTwcKFlZlawUA4UuZ79G65tnADqg9G0FTQPiG668EPxmgMB8oGcOvyNUzcc8ZDxNaK2vKPLoN/s320/IMG_3032.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above Lago di Garda, at Ustecchio<i>.</i></td></tr>
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A haze settled in over the lake and we stopped several times to look back at the view. In places the road became a single lane, threading into tunnels before opening into another view over the water, the horizon disappearing behind the haze. Cars honked horns before going around the next bend, sometimes even backing up to allow another car to pass. I hung on and wondered just where the road would take us, fluctuating between being annoyed that we had to spend so much time in the car yet awed by some of the sights. I think we were all a bit more relaxed when we got back onto a standard two-lane road.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCjNzM0LaZcRiUsj3Jkk-m6y158ZLViOewNjnvitMtxEuPsNR7NtFRBEdSNNUsmhkoXiNW7K3pj9YpYULdKHv4H2wLrLKmPDDWvbAutUk1RG5OOdNNh4qmgS_RjPQagm7ciWfqnuQrfykU/s1600/IMG_3038.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCjNzM0LaZcRiUsj3Jkk-m6y158ZLViOewNjnvitMtxEuPsNR7NtFRBEdSNNUsmhkoXiNW7K3pj9YpYULdKHv4H2wLrLKmPDDWvbAutUk1RG5OOdNNh4qmgS_RjPQagm7ciWfqnuQrfykU/s320/IMG_3038.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S. Lorenzo at Voltino dates back to before 1187.</td></tr>
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<br />
We continued west and south until night had fallen and we were done driving. The town we stopped in had a pizza place in a hotel but they had no room available for us. After dinner we backtracked a few miles and found the hotel that the clerk had recommended to us. It was kind of pricey and was in a water park that was closed for the season but we were happy to get some rest in the spartan room.<br />
<br />
In the morning, the only staff person in the hotel was a woman making breakfast. I struggled to order anything beyond a latte, then pulled out my phrasebook. Egg. Ova. Of course. Cooked in olive oil and served with bread it was one of the best eggs I've had! Soon the guys joined me and repeated the process. Seems we were the only guests besides a traveling salesman!<br />
<br />
That day, we packed up and headed for Genoa, on the sunny Mediterranean (technically, the Ligurian Sea, but I didn't know that at the time). From a description on a map we chose a place to explore. We parked the car and <i>"strolled around in one small seaside neighborhood for about an hour and a half, sun, hot sun! Felt so good after cool and cold days, rain days. Up and down narrow staircases that connected (or didn't connect) one lane streets or alleyways."</i>* I rolled up my pants to allow the sun to hit my legs and wished we could just kick back and spend the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf-8DEQ1mtkGvWe0CtkmI7Ijh4Pd9VKrhNCm0jkmdOQaD4dJVQUxlCZIIvv1Wl3RRBG2YNzcG1xKlfCSSYPGWPf2t2wqfFKIp9bwqWXpEzkgFhXD3MzSYcPBG0eAOLHHjJr5T4nEJ-3fh/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf-8DEQ1mtkGvWe0CtkmI7Ijh4Pd9VKrhNCm0jkmdOQaD4dJVQUxlCZIIvv1Wl3RRBG2YNzcG1xKlfCSSYPGWPf2t2wqfFKIp9bwqWXpEzkgFhXD3MzSYcPBG0eAOLHHjJr5T4nEJ-3fh/s320/IMG_3044.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon meets a friend at a public drinking fountain in Genoa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7bMmKDqrfzcJbsbohMhlQy9KzWkO4FmCz7UWElDvlHFmXhzyXubjn03XuB4hrMg7JcdxUPv47PSbObEFHKzuGoWCWd-uIYYOIh4BGaq5RnJetNzmSTjK0A9v_iONWxkxeyMHwi9fKUNi/s1600/IMG_3051.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7bMmKDqrfzcJbsbohMhlQy9KzWkO4FmCz7UWElDvlHFmXhzyXubjn03XuB4hrMg7JcdxUPv47PSbObEFHKzuGoWCWd-uIYYOIh4BGaq5RnJetNzmSTjK0A9v_iONWxkxeyMHwi9fKUNi/s320/IMG_3051.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon on a narrow stairway in Genoa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr4Mbfyr2C34d_L5E9U2ZgC7rAkSgLp3azCpiETRCUECyjbSsmz-rKri0oVPJtCyWsBeN2EDEYPJh1uwLd_WX7jvBiKgG_pbJOGzK6t_HLvGSlXRHGKRqRmyTPUqH1KilzmDlJd3IxXRG/s1600/IMG_3056.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr4Mbfyr2C34d_L5E9U2ZgC7rAkSgLp3azCpiETRCUECyjbSsmz-rKri0oVPJtCyWsBeN2EDEYPJh1uwLd_WX7jvBiKgG_pbJOGzK6t_HLvGSlXRHGKRqRmyTPUqH1KilzmDlJd3IxXRG/s320/IMG_3056.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon in Genoa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjVSukpmw_yulZNVAd58VDLkx9SbsSrdYKxnYyPIwWK0ZXQBBYLKXFu7La73DZ8WUJubNexkSMxgSutBTESNNqZYZLcb7xidB1WQROApSZoxN0o5Ep3ZHzDSpUVxuTZrf7TUdX15QXafA/s1600/IMG_3058.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjVSukpmw_yulZNVAd58VDLkx9SbsSrdYKxnYyPIwWK0ZXQBBYLKXFu7La73DZ8WUJubNexkSMxgSutBTESNNqZYZLcb7xidB1WQROApSZoxN0o5Ep3ZHzDSpUVxuTZrf7TUdX15QXafA/s320/IMG_3058.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Genoa</td></tr>
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Leaving Genoa, we traveled along the coast toward France, passing through tunnel after tunnel. I sat in the back seat and plugged in my headphones. It would be awhile before we arrived at our stop for the night. I was overwhelmed by the trip. My senses were full, filled with sights and sounds and the feel of the road under us. But a part of me was sensory deprived. I wouldn't realize this until the next day when we were in Arles...<br />
<br />
As we neared Frejus, I paid closer attention. We almost made it to the hotel, but for some reason the address of the hotel was not the address provided to us by the listing service. We ended up in a narrow, almost dead-end cobbled street (not the last time this would happen), with Jon trying to negotiate the car without scraping the corners of the old buildings. A little more navigating and a stop at a visitor center and soon we arrived at our little hotel.<br />
<br />
A 10-year-old boy was doing homework in the lobby. He called his mother on the phone, then handed the phone to me. He would give us the key and show us the room, she told me, adding that she would return soon from her errand. That evening we strolled around yet another old town, found a sidewalk cafe where we ordered dinner without knowing what we would get (not the last time this would happen, either), and found our way back to the hotel for another good night's sleep.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMryo7ZhxID2cX8BGQucqZKi00d7To8PVHzlWaMaXgNgrWT8GXwm19RJiXtevHn1y1CFiG6sMTtn0oocYMPGAMpMwdRbMuQBDg5_FtChhHRyqtQj4zs7mrp2AVqQGMtTI_4YusODk9u2vD/s1600/IMG_3062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMryo7ZhxID2cX8BGQucqZKi00d7To8PVHzlWaMaXgNgrWT8GXwm19RJiXtevHn1y1CFiG6sMTtn0oocYMPGAMpMwdRbMuQBDg5_FtChhHRyqtQj4zs7mrp2AVqQGMtTI_4YusODk9u2vD/s320/IMG_3062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the late afternoon sun in Frejus.</td></tr>
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In the morning, I was again up before Jon and Janis and headed downstairs for coffee and breakfast. I sat outdoors on a sunny deck, enjoying my quiet morning time alone with my books and coffee. That day we would drive to Lespignon to stay with our friends Pierre and Cheryl. Pierre made a couple of suggestions for places to visit on our way to their place, but I'd been reading about the area and already knew where I wanted to go. I wanted to see Arles.<br />
<br />
*Journal entry dated Oct. 2, 2013.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-53753414504453520222013-11-12T08:30:00.000-09:002013-11-12T08:30:05.584-09:00and beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Europe Trip, Part 7</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Our road trip had begun.
Destination: Prague. After that, Salzburg, then, well, we weren't quite
sure which route to take to southern France, but the answer would be
clear after our first night camping.<br />
<br />
It was after our second day of
travel, just inside the Czech border from Poland. We'd found a
campground on the map. It was well after dark when we drove through an
open gate and along a road. Saw camper vans, caravans parked. We set up
the tent (yes, unfamiliar tent, in the dark, one flashlight) in the
grass under some trees then pulled out the stove. We heated water for
tea, pulled out the bread, cheese and other food to make our evening
meal. The night was cold, almost freezing, and my sleep restless on the
hard ground. In the morning we found that the campers lined the banks of
a lake bumper to hitch, leaving little view for those not on the water.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We packed up and with nobody to take our fee, we left the campground and headed for Prague.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fgdzZ92HqPTyoJ-Udwo_ILyWhv-IO3ycJoaclxCWI6UhrrjrKx8grU8fsvhRN17aaokPYfAwdl-_tfvEf1nOKUmkIF-KH8ltdn3lctAZJmky54W6qNbh9wRggRFsx5hNNjSgwGMqz26m/s1600/IMG_2883.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fgdzZ92HqPTyoJ-Udwo_ILyWhv-IO3ycJoaclxCWI6UhrrjrKx8grU8fsvhRN17aaokPYfAwdl-_tfvEf1nOKUmkIF-KH8ltdn3lctAZJmky54W6qNbh9wRggRFsx5hNNjSgwGMqz26m/s320/IMG_2883.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way to Prague, a stop in a castle town.</td></tr>
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<br />
Upon entering Prague on a busy Saturday afternoon, we arrived at Prague Castle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oEyqO505QgoBFPEKIrA1jTgv9NLUWQTFocbOMImQwkkQnM0Bf78aodtY-sU7vCRNJfWtNw_3D7DGyO1V5LL6_9GlJhHmdDDzOLaQsE0lIK8678EU0cS7v9tPdtKiPFAqw-Pn4u71G0Ix/s1600/DSCN0747.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oEyqO505QgoBFPEKIrA1jTgv9NLUWQTFocbOMImQwkkQnM0Bf78aodtY-sU7vCRNJfWtNw_3D7DGyO1V5LL6_9GlJhHmdDDzOLaQsE0lIK8678EU0cS7v9tPdtKiPFAqw-Pn4u71G0Ix/s320/DSCN0747.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gargoyles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgHnk3UXMhTTOUzP67RjakGCTSUX6WepGOm8kGYMUSX32QV6Ywfp_V087XjnQcB35ioiUG9o2ZJMzN0pDP4XIIIriBgL0X2yZ02AOghkvrlaoM-5w5qc_u2DzifYGVNzjv-i-I_R3FORK/s1600/DSCN0751.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgHnk3UXMhTTOUzP67RjakGCTSUX6WepGOm8kGYMUSX32QV6Ywfp_V087XjnQcB35ioiUG9o2ZJMzN0pDP4XIIIriBgL0X2yZ02AOghkvrlaoM-5w5qc_u2DzifYGVNzjv-i-I_R3FORK/s320/DSCN0751.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many gargoyles!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEwRElbyf59n8uSUj6e_WsIwqIv8uUPiw_oymD0qENslqEbu-Xo2-h7ZQIwpBAz8sbxhQXvjT6Q4hDJtgdqTOR6J_QRJyka3Vuf0C9Yf0Vtwg-_UVi4IHYNL6H5E6r50424ODbvKVGsbD/s1600/IMG_2918.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEwRElbyf59n8uSUj6e_WsIwqIv8uUPiw_oymD0qENslqEbu-Xo2-h7ZQIwpBAz8sbxhQXvjT6Q4hDJtgdqTOR6J_QRJyka3Vuf0C9Yf0Vtwg-_UVi4IHYNL6H5E6r50424ODbvKVGsbD/s320/IMG_2918.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love small details like this rain gutter.</td></tr>
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We found a place to stay, then spent the evening wandering the old part of the city. The city was packed with tourists and locals. We soon learned it was Saint Wenceslas Day, an important holiday (both secular and Christian) for Prague and the rest of the nation.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4YYY83QQicI_OgXuYW_8xD_U-zFKGkgtuEJSD4DjxVo6LemposjhDjhcPdOMVN_bSv9X0vZmUuBXiRs8eXc09yhWxqQ0wbKFVXyh7Dh0c6gTB9ndtnVqO6J0RYWF2vkEe2k4CKxQ1YRM/s1600/IMG_2921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4YYY83QQicI_OgXuYW_8xD_U-zFKGkgtuEJSD4DjxVo6LemposjhDjhcPdOMVN_bSv9X0vZmUuBXiRs8eXc09yhWxqQ0wbKFVXyh7Dh0c6gTB9ndtnVqO6J0RYWF2vkEe2k4CKxQ1YRM/s320/IMG_2921.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astrological clock.</td></tr>
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The next day we explored, criss-crossed the Vitava River, wondered at sites.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCHYwznrABtflmezgkKBV_a7OvQOZCkzpcydpPJTF9udkk-6atyQAbP_fWn7hRQZOyJ2DTXpVyCGOctNnHxQVjvZxCllj4TQfxicqTF8YwwdlWar_DwGgDLRu4YlM8exZTh11Yl80G5a3/s1600/DSCN0784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCHYwznrABtflmezgkKBV_a7OvQOZCkzpcydpPJTF9udkk-6atyQAbP_fWn7hRQZOyJ2DTXpVyCGOctNnHxQVjvZxCllj4TQfxicqTF8YwwdlWar_DwGgDLRu4YlM8exZTh11Yl80G5a3/s320/DSCN0784.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking across the Vitava at the Prague Castle.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOP5y4kWw5wETYmkn1Lu6aqzc3dhbpOHfz7xagoKuchKIK4o7hd5Qpjr4Hf-0mm638OafiSq4bKZ6R-_Y-J8mQ1l_I8rKndUSrFkhuZ6nocVVxUXVivJPf7SvkF7vym9IB-BSCxGXowp3u/s1600/DSCN0783.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOP5y4kWw5wETYmkn1Lu6aqzc3dhbpOHfz7xagoKuchKIK4o7hd5Qpjr4Hf-0mm638OafiSq4bKZ6R-_Y-J8mQ1l_I8rKndUSrFkhuZ6nocVVxUXVivJPf7SvkF7vym9IB-BSCxGXowp3u/s320/DSCN0783.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boat restaurant had fantastic Italian food! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqntVPYcHJflTxYYBInCT0GftJYeejdoslzMi2QDAJspvLP8d-CIAHDQ73MgJ8jLHcygJ29mfs6kYDRPk06FkhKLfLtrvwsXy0LTxsU-oEzNJjVODG5MOg4hsfZgXbpc45lzXe0yPpx855/s1600/IMG_2946.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqntVPYcHJflTxYYBInCT0GftJYeejdoslzMi2QDAJspvLP8d-CIAHDQ73MgJ8jLHcygJ29mfs6kYDRPk06FkhKLfLtrvwsXy0LTxsU-oEzNJjVODG5MOg4hsfZgXbpc45lzXe0yPpx855/s320/IMG_2946.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dancing Building, aka: Fred and Ginger.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY9Aswzx5nbzzymOPA9M92JgpLyg5GCf2qaRDDw0CR61VqpmTHxILuNO8Wt_dq1aW39OE7cUUfyem2q1ERf1L63sSGg5N7K-jnSogxFjEk0WFWopNOGkbXQKuPJPD4VpUqf65YOFu1Tg72/s1600/DSCN0804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY9Aswzx5nbzzymOPA9M92JgpLyg5GCf2qaRDDw0CR61VqpmTHxILuNO8Wt_dq1aW39OE7cUUfyem2q1ERf1L63sSGg5N7K-jnSogxFjEk0WFWopNOGkbXQKuPJPD4VpUqf65YOFu1Tg72/s320/DSCN0804.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Wenceslas Square, site of sadness and joy; protests and celebrations.</td></tr>
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After seeing signs for it, we finally arrived at the <a href="http://www.muzeumkomunismu.cz/en/" target="_blank">Museum of Communism</a>. Yes, upstairs from McDonald's and next to the casino. It's a small museum, but worth the visit. (Yes, they made gas masks in youth sizes.) A film gave some of the history, documenting policies that hurt lots of people (including toxins in the food supply) and documenting events that led to the 1989 Velvet Revolution.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYF1dNgxw5fZpiak2IRIqQPCyeT2D1fmiitftZ6eIdJZ2wjtKISaHVJW3CWUAUqgY34Ay37y6VpSfCh6P4tYqveVNDDAZUuM8pA_R5bVvIDO0vi6-nlouTuDD8yPSJ4SCV3kCDmwDw_DP/s1600/IMG_2967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYF1dNgxw5fZpiak2IRIqQPCyeT2D1fmiitftZ6eIdJZ2wjtKISaHVJW3CWUAUqgY34Ay37y6VpSfCh6P4tYqveVNDDAZUuM8pA_R5bVvIDO0vi6-nlouTuDD8yPSJ4SCV3kCDmwDw_DP/s320/IMG_2967.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post WWII Communist artwork, at the Museum of Communism.</td></tr>
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After another full day in Prague, we found a restaurant offering modern Czech food, sank into comfortable armchairs and enjoyed a meal without a worry about what we would see next. What is modern Czech food? I'm not sure, but Jon had pork wrapped in bacon, with a side of lentils. All our food was delicious and we lingered over wine, then dessert. Ahead of us would be a walk back to our hotel and some much-needed sleep.<br />
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The next day, it was on to Salzburg to see the castle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXm2v47cj20cZflFWoZMeA7HJZM8Z3WYBU-KTge-Mp8JvdrkjKYaUMIJKjwjMtM52Cxj4A3utnuTqzuYJ6Qzlor8Wdqn4BSS7wmmb7mgQaeEalgYFTWpyc4nhj7U2mJH0tsdspx3ylQBK/s1600/IMG_2977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXm2v47cj20cZflFWoZMeA7HJZM8Z3WYBU-KTge-Mp8JvdrkjKYaUMIJKjwjMtM52Cxj4A3utnuTqzuYJ6Qzlor8Wdqn4BSS7wmmb7mgQaeEalgYFTWpyc4nhj7U2mJH0tsdspx3ylQBK/s320/IMG_2977.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We rode the funicular up to the castle, then opted for the audio tour. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPC8CenoCMtsnHMvT7Tahunj6BEY6LTwrfiE-P0Pn688C20mX7amKZymG13j0GhXgJC0oMIjZC6_QlfTQSg-T3COVLAXP00_suVnDaT4jAFtwTLvbtr7mSB34BqOw8FQQQMx2lxiFNfE-1/s1600/IMG_2984.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPC8CenoCMtsnHMvT7Tahunj6BEY6LTwrfiE-P0Pn688C20mX7amKZymG13j0GhXgJC0oMIjZC6_QlfTQSg-T3COVLAXP00_suVnDaT4jAFtwTLvbtr7mSB34BqOw8FQQQMx2lxiFNfE-1/s320/IMG_2984.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Safe from our high vantage point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGTq2ivkbm3dMpUBnbC2_V_ncNAdzvLAhvgK9t2xwmrbaampvRbdy1oeGWOJGXRjeka04x8jVJOQ44YvjIhqVNxwJAIf7VFudCLzM7qPiN6Ea5r5Io9Q1jYulz6UnO5VeeQFsDlVfbFI9/s1600/DSCN0825.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGTq2ivkbm3dMpUBnbC2_V_ncNAdzvLAhvgK9t2xwmrbaampvRbdy1oeGWOJGXRjeka04x8jVJOQ44YvjIhqVNxwJAIf7VFudCLzM7qPiN6Ea5r5Io9Q1jYulz6UnO5VeeQFsDlVfbFI9/s320/DSCN0825.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From a high tower.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDovohEIpFTTQ8uWPqo4CUhfIxO_7XQXBR2ByMAgqwev2dyHt6g2VntKoFO_A01LQ6xKfVV2St3UFh6cd3jhF4es1c45rRZNqVWvW6mB35ZiIApavSMv5uYHvWV1NJt_3JIdFbN4RXkFj6/s1600/IMG_3010.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDovohEIpFTTQ8uWPqo4CUhfIxO_7XQXBR2ByMAgqwev2dyHt6g2VntKoFO_A01LQ6xKfVV2St3UFh6cd3jhF4es1c45rRZNqVWvW6mB35ZiIApavSMv5uYHvWV1NJt_3JIdFbN4RXkFj6/s320/IMG_3010.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castle museum reveals the ancient walls behind plaster.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_jyxcgSQhEfJg0l5MhfV1t8cg8ZFmJVCagbH31n3INh-5sqFYQlHrMXMHalBghvxw3xhfteq0FTIYw8x-3VsVe6OVkYIhSUCke9B8BlE3cov5X1k8xatFmpAqvflFnyFY1FsEaPLJ_zt/s1600/IMG_3019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_jyxcgSQhEfJg0l5MhfV1t8cg8ZFmJVCagbH31n3INh-5sqFYQlHrMXMHalBghvxw3xhfteq0FTIYw8x-3VsVe6OVkYIhSUCke9B8BlE3cov5X1k8xatFmpAqvflFnyFY1FsEaPLJ_zt/s320/IMG_3019.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love the doors within doors.</td></tr>
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We left the castle and walked down to the city, looking for food (always looking for food) and found a little burger stand that made a simple cheeseburger and fries. From there we planned our next stop, hoping the campground would be easy enough to find. Well, it wasn't, but we found one eventually. Again, the only tent in a couple of rows of caravans, some looking like they had been parked in one spot for years with their little gravel "yards" and potted plants. Maybe it was a good thing we were setting up in the dark because in the daylight our campsite looked pretty sad. But that wasn't what worried us.<br />
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In the morning, the gate through which we'd entered was closed. We hoped that by the time we were packed up and ready to leave someone would have arrived to open it. No luck, and with no way to contact anyone we did the only thing we could. Looked for another way out. Finding none, Jon took a chance. Sure enough, he simply lifted the gate high enough for Janis to drive through. Free camping, once again! We were now on our way to Italy.<br />
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Some photos taken by Jon.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-87910755350179806912013-11-11T14:22:00.002-09:002013-11-11T14:22:47.792-09:00to jaunkalsnavaEurope Trip; Part 6<br />
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As we headed out of Riga late that Tuesday afternoon Marcis asked if we
wished to visit the site of a memorial to victims of the Holocaust. I told him I wanted to go, and that's how we came to be at a site I'd not heard about (there are other memorials in Riga), the Salaspils Memorial.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkdr8e4bbDnzlrzQYbhucfQHi6uNGRomD0XElV3k3WuhmbkQu5ceRUFsaxFg0SemZn8QFNj5EqxSz-BNYwNj1FRT-F9lGDZjI2g-hnez0pjjmHnUop-GhJdJ4dJgTsm2mvTzOckjG-7FK/s1600/IMG_2822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkdr8e4bbDnzlrzQYbhucfQHi6uNGRomD0XElV3k3WuhmbkQu5ceRUFsaxFg0SemZn8QFNj5EqxSz-BNYwNj1FRT-F9lGDZjI2g-hnez0pjjmHnUop-GhJdJ4dJgTsm2mvTzOckjG-7FK/s320/IMG_2822.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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No other cars were in the parking lot. We walked an overgrown path through the woods toward a horizontal cement structure that formed a bridge over the walkway. We walked under the structure, and then through its entire length before entering the field-like grounds. To know that people had been taken there, housed there, died there brought me to silence. From a metal structure partway down a path a faint sound, the rhythm of a heartbeat, pounded. It became more clear the closer we got. Representing the heartbeats of how many people? It's unknown. The sound resonated as we continued.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSj0ynHWAhyW4X7FiQZXIQih8V24G6QSegV09p1LyKZw_MjfHKe8MSOavTcARS9b-GoPro8ew5ghynaY146Riw1oyHbyM_NtDVR9kRe7hvrjhH0mILeaWhP6B9_5QtKAE2QGEfRUtApu3e/s1600/IMG_2821.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSj0ynHWAhyW4X7FiQZXIQih8V24G6QSegV09p1LyKZw_MjfHKe8MSOavTcARS9b-GoPro8ew5ghynaY146Riw1oyHbyM_NtDVR9kRe7hvrjhH0mILeaWhP6B9_5QtKAE2QGEfRUtApu3e/s320/IMG_2821.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We walked around the path, then across the grass toward the towering concrete sculptures. Representations of oppression, defiance, protection. All in the Soviet modernist style. Mostly, I walked quietly. Janis translated a few inscriptions for us and his view of the memorial was clear. A memorial about defiance against oppressors built by Soviets during a time they occupied this very nation? Latvia has only been independent from the former Soviet Union since 1991 and it is still climbing out of the years of difficult times. Visiting the memorial with our friends certainly added another layer of meaning that other visitors may not have gotten.<br />
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As the air cooled, we returned to the car and the highway to Jaunkalsnava, following the Daugava upstream. The sun was setting when Marcis suggested another stop. The <a href="http://www.latvia.travel/en/koknese-castle-ruins" target="_blank">Koknese Castle Ruins</a> stood along the banks of the Daugava, just upstream from a dam. According to the web, the castle was damaged in 1701 and never rebuilt. We gazed at the uneven stones that made up the walls and doorways. We carefully walked through arches, climbed to the top of a wall. The light continued to fade. When I lived in Milwaukee, I met a couple whose son died when he fell from a castle in Germany. I remember at the time wondering, "how does someone fall from a castle?" Between the fading light, my recurring vertigo and that sudden memory of a story from over 20 years ago, I decided to carefully make my way down the damaged steps while there was still enough light to see.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfTcva382lnXftGvOKt0fKZBZAcU_KVEI4Q3C9nbtO5Ibnko5bQKZ9EZrgbkvZx_YnCWGsoRRBdZ0Xnac-KwFMQ5hHKqXOxxskllN6j-2m1aIPRoBk_w52Tz8PkknRBiNgtS-M47RzDeh/s1600/IMG_2824.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfTcva382lnXftGvOKt0fKZBZAcU_KVEI4Q3C9nbtO5Ibnko5bQKZ9EZrgbkvZx_YnCWGsoRRBdZ0Xnac-KwFMQ5hHKqXOxxskllN6j-2m1aIPRoBk_w52Tz8PkknRBiNgtS-M47RzDeh/s320/IMG_2824.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Koknese Castle Ruins.</td></tr>
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On our journey between Riga and the village, we learned a little about how people drive on two-lane roads in this part of Europe, in particular, how they pass. If you should wish to pass, just get very close to the driver in front of you. No worries if there are oncoming cars. The driver in front is going to veer onto the shoulder and the oncoming driver is going to veer onto the other shoulder and you, my fearless friend, are going to squeeze between them straddling the center line! I don't know if I could do that, but I suppose if I lived there I would. After a while, I had to stop looking at the road, especially as darkness set in. Soon enough, though, we were safe at Janis's mom's apartment in Jaunkalsnava.<br />
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We met Janis's mom, his niece, his nephew's fiancee and their little daughter. All were waiting for us to arrive so we could have a feast together. We offered beers and some dark rye bread we had purchased at a bread factory next to the highway. We ate potatoes, tomatoes, homemade cheese, meatballs. Chocolates. I don't remember it all. So much food, and we were happy to have it after another full afternoon.<br />
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Our next day was filled with errands, including a trip to the larger town of Madona where Janis could get new tires for the car and we could get other neccessities for the trip. After spending half the day in Madona on our tire quest, we headed home to the village. But first, a few stops. Would we mind visiting a cemetery? Not at all. We walked to the gravesites of ancestors. Janis's aunts, uncles, grandparents as light sprinkles began to fall. After that, we stopped by an old church ruins.<br />
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Janis shared the story as we walked around. When his Mom, <span class="null">Vija</span>, was a little girl of about four years old she and her family attended the <span class="null">Kalsnava Lutheran Church</span>. It was during the time when the Nazis occupied Latvia. But as in other countries, there were many resistors. According to <span class="null">Vija</span>, in 1944 the Nazis bombed the church because its tower was used as a lookout for the resistance. After the Nazis came the Soviet era. The church was never rebuilt. She did tell us, however, that sometimes concerts are held inside the walls of the old church. I can only imagine what it must be like to listen to musicians playing between those walls on a summer's evening!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6oyF9yFTrxqeYCTKB_jvJjerp90EbSM0KMdSqjIkbHJNjEHSOH2dyHQP19J7EbPcHNIiB66WCupLdaxI202Q7MKGSSkAzLRXqNQkPSLmwXMiU7nNUkLYVRk_VmLurfDMETike5iT3iD1/s1600/IMG_2837.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6oyF9yFTrxqeYCTKB_jvJjerp90EbSM0KMdSqjIkbHJNjEHSOH2dyHQP19J7EbPcHNIiB66WCupLdaxI202Q7MKGSSkAzLRXqNQkPSLmwXMiU7nNUkLYVRk_VmLurfDMETike5iT3iD1/s320/IMG_2837.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vija and Marcis at <span class="null">Kalsnava Lutheran Church.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmf5-QR7GhDQLxbMpvkf7TSKvlOMl-cGe-sarUtkhfq4bY04mdEhMKQCLI5Be968Ud_SLsgbRJoeAXCYZsu0Frq3prASlbuj5OLIUyjTBHXE3fuuT31btYEw64BOlYbtM_VTpYpwsQUrE/s1600/IMG_2838.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmf5-QR7GhDQLxbMpvkf7TSKvlOMl-cGe-sarUtkhfq4bY04mdEhMKQCLI5Be968Ud_SLsgbRJoeAXCYZsu0Frq3prASlbuj5OLIUyjTBHXE3fuuT31btYEw64BOlYbtM_VTpYpwsQUrE/s320/IMG_2838.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="null">Kalsnava Lutheran Church ruins.</span></td></tr>
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Back at the village, we picked berries from the garden, ate tomatoes off the vines in a small greenhouse, helped move hay and watched as <span class="null">Vija</span> milked one of the two cows she keeps in a small barn near her apartment. (If I had been raised a farm girl I would have stepped in to help her out, but, alas, this Wisconsin girl has never milked a cow.) <br />
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In the morning, <span class="null">Vija</span> insisted we go into her storage room in the basement of her building to pick out some food. Jars of food she had grown and canned filled the shelves. Apple juice she had made, pickles, pickled tomatoes, jarred apples, honey. I can't remember all of it. We packed it in a box along with our remaining rye bread, fresh apples and tomatoes, food we'd purchased in Madona, some utensils, herbs to brew tea. Jon asked about cheese. <span class="null">Vija</span> makes cheese with the milk from her two cows. She handed me a warm, dome-shaped mound that was wrapped in plastic curing on the kitchen counter. Wow! The traditional cheese is filled with caraway seeds (which in Latvia is called <i>cumin</i>, but is not the same as our cumin.) What a great gift for our trip! Once the car was packed, we said our goodbyes, too soon, and headed off.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-27663153532239723352013-11-05T18:47:00.001-09:002013-11-05T18:47:29.118-09:00looking up in rigaEurope Trip, Part 5. <br />
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Riga is known for its <a href="http://www.latvia.travel/en/art-nouveau-riga" target="_blank">Art Nouveau buildings</a> (it's part of why it is a UNESCO <a href="http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/852" target="_blank">World Heritage Site</a>),
so we headed for Alberta Iela (Street) where many of the buildings are
clustered. I'm not an expert in architectural styles. We had been
calling this <i>Neoclassical</i>, but upon further research, I've learned it's called <i>Art Nouveau</i>,
though the architecture of Riga has examples of many styles. Some of
them are in disrepair, some being renovated and some look almost new.
All these photos were taken by Jon because I was mostly looking
around and keeping my head under the umbrella.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is not on Alberta Iela, but I love the forest-wizard look of him.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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That evening, on our way back to the apartment, we walked past a bike shop that we'd seen the day before tucked in the back of a parking lot. We showed it to Janis and though it was closed, we discovered that upstairs was a restaurant. We walked up to see if there was a menu posted, but instead of a menu we saw platters and bowls filled with food. Beets, salads, soups, pesto, sauce for rice, potatoes. It was all beautiful. We headed back to the apartment to drop off a few things and wash up. While Janis left to meet friends, Jon and I headed back to the restaurant "<a href="http://ecocatering.lv/en/ekologiska-edinasana" target="_blank">Eco-Catering</a>." It was so delicious, we ate our fill of the buffet (encouraged by our server to eat more) and then we asked if we could make up a to-go order in case Janis didn't eat enough dinner. The waiter brought a to-go box and told us to take all we wanted, no extra charge, because "you ate so little."<br />
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A little bit of magic happens when I travel. There is so much to look at in every direction. Buildings, people, shop windows, streets. All my senses are heightened as I notice smells, tastes, colors. And when I'm only in a place for a short time, there is no boredom, there's no familiar. The mind is always racing and the body trying to keep up. Or is it the other way around? Maybe that's why when you return to a place you've visited before you don't have that same experience; all that newness has had time to become integrated into your compendium of sights, sounds, smells for that place. We had not a moment of boredom in Riga.<br />
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The next day we continued exploring and prepared for the rest of the trip. Though it was now Tuesday, Janis's suitcase had still not arrived in Riga. (We'd left London on Friday.) To replace his camping gear we met once again with his friend Marcis who took us to his mother's apartment where he still stored some of his things. (It seems everyone we met in Riga had more stuff than could fit in their apartments.) Marcis picked us up outside a restaurant where we'd had lunch with another of Janis's friends. The opera music again played as Marcis drove along side streets, then along the edge of the city (or so it seemed) and parked near a tall, Soviet-era apartment building. Don't leave anything in the car, they told us.<br />
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We pushed the button for the elevator. When it arrived, the sign said "maximum 3." The four of us squeezed into the tiny box and rode up to Marcis's mother's floor. He unlocked three locks on the apartment door, opened it, then proceeded to unlock a second door! Between the elevator and the doors, I again felt like I was playing a role in a movie. Yes, the hapless, unsuspecting foreigner. Where are we going this time? Inside, Marcis dug through his old room (where he lived before he was married), pulling out oddities like a Viking helmet and various medieval implements. We looked at the view from the balcony; I'd momentarily forgotten about the crumbling balconies we'd seen on other Soviet-era apartments and quickly returned to the indoors.<br />
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Marcis and Janis gathered camping gear we thought we'd need for those occasional nights when we would camp along the trip. After another stop to pick up our suitcases, we made one last stop before we left the city: Janis's sister called and asked him to stop by her workplace so she could give us a tour. She has studied art and works in a ceramics shop that makes souvenirs that are sold in local shops. At the end of the tour she showed us boxes and shelves of ceramics, all hand-painted, that were ready for shops to purchase. Later, I wondered if we were expected to buy something and I regret that I didn't at least get a little magnet featuring one of the city's emblematic rooftop cats. But we were ready to be on the road and we motored away, with Marcis driving us to our friend's hometown of Jaunkalsnava.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-60291204595892100452013-11-02T14:51:00.002-08:002013-11-02T14:51:58.329-08:00business firstEurope Trip, Part 4. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEc7nsk1y2z0WbU1oDdgcb4tpNrjzeLO-8j0J24SbC8oHQvgMQyAwuALi95nKPzwtbA8y8xQt3rBgyutOk9L25Y4ImvZ7TGjQfCCKiql2Ro0jqKdFnY2iaOmMmuDHTPepBpvcVUIZjDet1/s1600/IMG_2802.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEc7nsk1y2z0WbU1oDdgcb4tpNrjzeLO-8j0J24SbC8oHQvgMQyAwuALi95nKPzwtbA8y8xQt3rBgyutOk9L25Y4ImvZ7TGjQfCCKiql2Ro0jqKdFnY2iaOmMmuDHTPepBpvcVUIZjDet1/s320/IMG_2802.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across the Daugava <span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"type":45,"tn":"*G"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">is the <a href="http://archrecord.construction.com/news/daily/archives/2010/10/101018Latvian_Library.asp" target="_blank">Latvian National Library</a> designed by Gunnar Birkerts. Beyond that, the embassy.</span></span></td></tr>
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There were times I felt I was in some crazy film where just as the adventure was about to take off, something would happen to complicate things. Each step we needed to take required several other steps just to prepare. On Monday, when it was time to catch the bus for our 10:30 appointment, Janis remembered we needed to get our tickets first (buses don't take cash the way they do in many American cities and tickets are sold in little shops that sell tobacco and newspapers). After about a 15 or 20-minute ride, we stepped off the bus and hurried to the shopping center where we could get our passport photos taken. The morning was blustery, with clouds racing across the sky, threatening rain. When we got to the center, the building wasn't yet open! (Tell me, why was I hurrying? Oh, yes, I hate being late for appointments.) Photos taken, we had time to grab a bite to eat while waiting for them to be printed, then backtracked across the busy street to the new embassy. Did you know there's a new American Embassy in Riga? I guess the old one was in the central city, but the new one sits on a large piece of land, mostly hidden from the main road by a fenced-in wooded area.<br />
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We left all our electronics: cameras, iPads, etc. in the security building and then walked down a path to a larger building where we again went through security. We filled out paperwork and submitted it. Paid for our temporary passports (which for no extra charge we can renew for the full 10 years). We waited again, then were called for an interview. Finally, we could meet the man who got us out of the airport. Evan, the consul.<br />
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Our interview was conducted from opposite sides of a glass barrier, like what you'd experience when visiting a prisoner, except with a slot to pass paperwork back and forth. Evan told us that ours wasn't an unusual situation for a traveler to be in. Lots of people don't know about the <a href="http://travel.state.gov/travel/cis_pa_tw/cis/cis_4361.html" target="_blank">90-day rule</a>. What was out of the ordinary was that we were allowed into the country. Why? He said it largely had to do with the fact that after being ignored by the airline and then bringing attention to the airline and airport in a way that didn't reflect their images in a positive way, the people running things must have decided they should find a way to let us leave (not to mention the weather).<br />
<br />
Evan wasn't the first person to tell us that if we were from another country trying to get into the United States and didn't meet the requirements, we would have never been allowed in. After spending just over a day in Riga, we were even more grateful that people in the Latvian border security and Evan had made it happen. We had a good chat with Evan who has served at embassies in more difficult outposts, including Tajikistan. (I would have liked to hear more about that!) Finally, with new passports signed and Important Paperwork (which I carried with me at all times during the remainder of the trip) in hand, we thanked Evan and the guards and then left the compound.<br />
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We had another couple days to explore the city before heading to the countryside. As wind continued to blow and large raindrops fell, we climbed on a bus headed back toward Old Riga and the Central Market.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCJsS-PR3g33lfr9i70j1CVTJoMUPRj1QEyJkNlmZncimzwuaR5jP6wHtARRvPaieNNEspYIU7Ozl6BKqia_Zw7BZytrzI1ehj28DVT016qvP5bx2u0dQKH99Xub5QbuWCkTi22OAGoy7/s1600/IMG_2803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img 4.="" border="0" europe="" height="240" part="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnCJsS-PR3g33lfr9i70j1CVTJoMUPRj1QEyJkNlmZncimzwuaR5jP6wHtARRvPaieNNEspYIU7Ozl6BKqia_Zw7BZytrzI1ehj28DVT016qvP5bx2u0dQKH99Xub5QbuWCkTi22OAGoy7/s320/IMG_2803.JPG" trip="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The five arch-shaped buildings make up Riga's Central Market (the one of the far left is perpendicular to the others).
They are made from old German zeppelin hangars.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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The buildings that make up the Central Market are enormous and filled with stalls where merchants sell cheese, bread, produce, meat, seafood (seafood has its own building and is pretty aromatic). Some vendors sold clothes, artwork, jewelry, crafts. Everything, really. We bought some food: dark rye bread, cheese, smoked meat, apples and found an unused stall where we could eat. I could have spent the entire day in the Central Market but we had other things to explore in Old Riga. We wanted to visit Alberta Iela.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnyIy3wAtNX_ibQmqIz9zn5XwGoPSae7WWvawVoqPessq6B6Zkvy4skAmz7gvflUbwD20a1vWi7vnnzLaWnbEHw4gjYsqj8Hx-UTf6fGVjEGtjgEvIIMLBX5sNGpTZJsddT6aM21SZf4A/s1600/IMG_2804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnyIy3wAtNX_ibQmqIz9zn5XwGoPSae7WWvawVoqPessq6B6Zkvy4skAmz7gvflUbwD20a1vWi7vnnzLaWnbEHw4gjYsqj8Hx-UTf6fGVjEGtjgEvIIMLBX5sNGpTZJsddT6aM21SZf4A/s320/IMG_2804.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's easy to get turned around in Old Riga.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny in Old Riga.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGwIPbeSNayIFqx03NF9osXoDyQAXQ8RRyCSr5wikAwrGroR6yMuD-v_EYhh4U_ug6dNHgcAdDPK6cIffUWY7mh7KHHAccU2jqTVeGwk3VwYgZtESIROkZ2nN33sfGclfhXJBdq8ySkmp/s1600/IMG_2808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGwIPbeSNayIFqx03NF9osXoDyQAXQ8RRyCSr5wikAwrGroR6yMuD-v_EYhh4U_ug6dNHgcAdDPK6cIffUWY7mh7KHHAccU2jqTVeGwk3VwYgZtESIROkZ2nN33sfGclfhXJBdq8ySkmp/s320/IMG_2808.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The column in the center is the Freedom Monument. Left of the tall building is the Russian Orthodox church (notice the covering over the dome) and right of the tall building is Old St. Gertrude's, mentioned in an <a href="http://akbikegirl.blogspot.com/2013/10/dear-riga.html" target="_blank">earlier post</a>. (That tall hotel looks really out of place!) </td></tr>
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These photos were taken from the steeple in St Peter's church on Kungu Iela. For a small fee we took a tiny elevator to the top to get these views of the area. I recommend it.<br />
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(Sept 23, 2013) bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-43404199250140241632013-10-29T19:33:00.000-08:002013-10-29T21:39:44.808-08:00why latvia?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIGCsc7FMMI5qN_o9ZvdfqWxl72ozm8dpshu1iDlXrf5R6RZ54n_VdS4pNpFq9qX-21HkUf9QVldoHGA6Rn1IhJy-TjK8A4nB7DdjkJVGcIAFCi1LN_mJ4eqnHOsnQTZZ0rO7roQ0icUI/s1600/IMG_0582+%281024x768%29.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIGCsc7FMMI5qN_o9ZvdfqWxl72ozm8dpshu1iDlXrf5R6RZ54n_VdS4pNpFq9qX-21HkUf9QVldoHGA6Rn1IhJy-TjK8A4nB7DdjkJVGcIAFCi1LN_mJ4eqnHOsnQTZZ0rO7roQ0icUI/s320/IMG_0582+%281024x768%29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With <span class="st">Jānis</span> and Jon at the British Museum, about to embark on our adventure.</td></tr>
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Maybe you're wondering how it was that we decided our trip to Europe should include Latvia and why we were so adamant that we should get there. The seed of this adventure started over a decade ago...<br />
<br />
About a dozen years ago, our friend Sage took a job teaching English in a school in Riga. She's a cyclist and has toured through several countries by bicycle. One day she stopped in a bike shop in Riga to inquire about having some repairs made on her bike. The owner didn't speak much English, so he brought out his friend, a fellow bike mechanic, who was more fluent. He was studying translation and interpretation in college. Soon, they became friends. And Sage's new friend, <span class="st">Jānis</span>, really wanted to come to America.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="350" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="https://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=latvia&sll=57.574779,24.916992&sspn=6.815726,18.742676&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Latvia&ll=56.879635,24.603189&spn=6.651842,18.742676&t=m&z=6&output=embed" width="425"></iframe><br />
<small><a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=embed&hl=en&geocode=&q=latvia&sll=57.574779,24.916992&sspn=6.815726,18.742676&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Latvia&ll=56.879635,24.603189&spn=6.651842,18.742676&t=m&z=6" style="color: blue; text-align: left;">View Larger Map</a></small><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">In case you haven't checked the map. </span><br />
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Sage asked Jon if he would hire <span class="st">Jānis</span> for the summer through a student work program. She assured Jon that <span class="st">Jānis</span> was a good mechanic and a hard worker. He would live at Sage's house and bike to and from work. A little hesitantly, Jon filled out the paperwork and crossed his fingers that it would all work out for everyone. In the summer of 2004, <span class="st">Jānis</span> proved his skills as a bike mechanic and was able to work on his conversational English in the process. At summer's end, everyone was sad to see him go. The next year, the shop was able to bring him back through the same program. This time, he stayed at our house. I remember picking him up at the Anchorage airport, how happy he was to be back in Alaska.<br />
<br />
Throughout that summer we shared meals and commutes and hours at work. We biked together, hiked, camped. He taught Jon how to identify mushrooms, introducing us to food that is growing, sometimes literally, in our backyard. He made lots of friends in Anchorage and over that summer we became a close family. When it was time for him to return to Latvia and school, we said our farewells and promised we would visit. That was in 2005. And time does fly. We worked and started a remodel. Did a few trips. Stayed in touch. Meanwhile <span class="st">Jānis</span> finished school and moved to London where he helped start a successful bicycle repair business. When we learned he was about to head back to Latvia, we figured this was the year to go.<br />
<br />
And so it was at Gatwick airport that day last month where we reunited and he looked just the same and said we did as well, though all having been through so many experiences since we'd last met. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, but together we would figure it all out. So, here's a cheer to friendships that endure over the miles and years. And here's to being able to pick up where we left off and still be friends when the trip is done!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I never asked what they wished for... maybe for a certain suitcase to show up... in Prague.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shutterbugs, in Italy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He keeps following me!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our final evening. <span class="st">Jānis</span> was about to take a photo of Jon and me when the owner/waiter snatched away the camera and took this one. We were caught a little off guard. At Quai 21 in Paris (which I would recommend).</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-21427202795789253222013-10-28T14:20:00.001-08:002013-10-28T14:20:30.700-08:00dear riga
Europe Trip, Part 3.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First day of fall, on Gertrudes Iela (Street)</td></tr>
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There may be no day finer than that sunny day in the fall that follows two weeks of rain. That day when you step outside into the crisp morning and you know, you just know, it's a perfect day for a hike. And a city may never look as fresh and beautiful as Riga did when we left the airport and rode across the bridge toward the older part of the city, felt the suspension of the car as it rumbled over the cobbled streets nearly 20 hours later than we'd planned. And a buffet may never fill my eyes and imagination as completely as did the spread of food laid out before us in Lido after having only coffee-stand food available to us for the previous 19+ hours. I was hungry, but mostly I was tired. Tired from our original flight from Alaska; from our running around on minimal sleep in London; from my almost sleepless night in the airport. From all the pleading and planning we'd done while in the transit zone. My body was tired; my mind was even more tired. But I filled my plate; ate my fill; then <span class="st">Jānis</span> pulled out a birthday cake. He, Jon and Marcis (<span class="st">Jānis</span>'s friend who was driving around) added candles, lit them and sang me the birthday song. So was the celebration as I finally enjoyed my birthday on September 21st in Riga, Latvia. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tired and full and, what? There's cake!?*</td></tr>
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But things didn't stop being challenging. When Marcis dropped us at the apartment, we fumbled several times with the security code to get us into the building. Finally, after multiple attempts entering the code our host had carefully written on a business card, it worked. Then, in front of our apartment door we learned something about European locks: Put the key into the lock. Turn it once. Turn it again. Maybe, turn it one more time to finally unlock the door. Guess we didn't notice those instructions when she showed us the keys and it was not easy to figure out when overtired and already starting to dream while still on our feet. But compared to our sad room in London, the flat in Riga was a treat. Spacious, with a bedroom and a living room with kitchenette. Our own private bathroom! We found the extra duvet and climbed into bed for a very good sleep.<br />
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That first morning of freedom in Riga, Jon and I got up and walked down the street toward some shops we remembered from the night before. Just over a block away we found a small coffee shop with beautiful pastries in its window. We stepped in, looked at the menu, relieved that cappuccino is a universal term. We ordered two. Pointed at two pastries for breakfast. Meanwhile, another customer who was standing at the counter drinking a glass of wine tried to speak to us in German (I don't know why) while the shopkeeper scolded her to leave us alone. When it was time to pay, I pulled out my credit card and the shopkeeper shook her head. I pulled out my cash. And although her prices were listed in both Euros and Lats, she would only accept Lats. (Latvia will finally adopt the Euro next January.) I still didn't have any. She pointed across the street and told me: "Bancomat." Yes! I hurried out to get Lats from the cash machine while Jon waited.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xKsbmsyx1WgqyxO7x7iQlYsNG_5AT5sXUr5kWcj8_OJiZ88mjKUUWPnPTS-E-mwc6KjR6IZuxMFOdTLZ4n8KJF-4ldVRBMfKAuNvTjhco9XFGixa9vIgeRM1SxNVIy_79iLO0OE8TmZS/s1600/IMG_2769.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xKsbmsyx1WgqyxO7x7iQlYsNG_5AT5sXUr5kWcj8_OJiZ88mjKUUWPnPTS-E-mwc6KjR6IZuxMFOdTLZ4n8KJF-4ldVRBMfKAuNvTjhco9XFGixa9vIgeRM1SxNVIy_79iLO0OE8TmZS/s320/IMG_2769.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How freedom feels!</td></tr>
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Ah, the freedom to come and go; to walk across the street to get cash; to choose where we want to sit and eat. I returned and we relaxed with our coffees and watched other customers come and go, their pastries placed in boxes that were then tied with string. We enjoyed the fresh flowers on our table and in the windows. Soon we were strolling around our neighborhood, looking in shop windows, noticing people carrying flowers. We peeked through arches and passageways and found an open-air market. Vendors sold meats, cheeses, produce, clothes. Some sold flowers. I remembered seeing two vases in apartment. We'd be there for a few more nights. Let's get some flowers, I told Jon. I chose some gladiolas and cradled them until we were home in our apartment.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-X5v7inQqGpfd0x28o4y-59ygkuqzFegKjgY0YDySkM7LV_dy0Dm8wPAlZTXOh2xGZhmHNpZ-dV44WayVnLBGBCovcTZp6dnslBdnb3DAfNjW_3opPifi-kMXaKmRoB8hFIJH01eu83I/s1600/IMG_2757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-X5v7inQqGpfd0x28o4y-59ygkuqzFegKjgY0YDySkM7LV_dy0Dm8wPAlZTXOh2xGZhmHNpZ-dV44WayVnLBGBCovcTZp6dnslBdnb3DAfNjW_3opPifi-kMXaKmRoB8hFIJH01eu83I/s320/IMG_2757.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon, with Old St Gertrude's church in the background.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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We headed out again in the afternoon with <span class="st">Jānis</span> as our tour guide. The day was rainy, yet the water only made the cobbles more shiny, the umbrellas and statues more picturesque. I pulled my newly-purchased umbrella close to my head as wind blew in. We wandered into churches, one that was damaged during WWII by the Nazis, then neglected during the Soviet era. It was nearly empty of people on that Sunday afternoon. A woman sat near a donation box and told us of the slow renovations. I deposited a few coins as we prepared to leave. When we got to the Russian Orthodox church, I covered my head with my scarf (as the sign requested) before entering. The church was filled with devout worshipers who purchased candles that they placed in front of their chosen saintly icon. They lit the beeswax candles and began their prayers as we quietly looked at artwork that filled the walls. Potted flowers left in front of statues were cleared by nuns who moved silently through the building. A dome overhead was being renovated. It was clear that the orthodox church was bringing in lots more donations than Old St Gertrude's.<br />
<br />
We strolled through the narrow, cobbled streets of Old Riga, which was nearly empty of other tourists, craning our necks as we admired the roof lines of the centuries-old buildings. We endured the rain until the chill and our appetites sent us into the interesting-looking <i>Restorans Dārzs</i> (garden). A paper-mache sculpture of a man seemed to fly overhead in the main dining area. We sat at a table by the window and ordered beers. The food orders seemed slow to arrive, especially since we were quite hungry, but once they began...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips_oJWX_NlRbe2Zf8_-oE8sA91WoLgGaK8RVnEmG-wTVYbjxnKwyfZlwiOhn9GCAS4RlzjbzHeTY-loNky1XmBYNcjn8WJf8jGMWC-St_sJSsmfimY-9l9OeU2ulqbhRJ5Z22hbrUV3LW/s1600/IMG_2786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips_oJWX_NlRbe2Zf8_-oE8sA91WoLgGaK8RVnEmG-wTVYbjxnKwyfZlwiOhn9GCAS4RlzjbzHeTY-loNky1XmBYNcjn8WJf8jGMWC-St_sJSsmfimY-9l9OeU2ulqbhRJ5Z22hbrUV3LW/s320/IMG_2786.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
locally-made cheeses, a tomato soup which Jon declared made him like tomato soup, beet soup, zucchini (with more cheese), barley risotto with pesto and a chocolate dessert we nearly licked off the plate! Besides the creative food, the restaurant invited exploring.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91J2cGJMglLaQN_jUI7jzf0pA0RVcuh5Nc5AFb-FfxVqZWkPqlWNmNrzk41orJ9gZYSOhiqseiVvCmfPuUcEKIP5Et3zl6HweJCPZ2jVOukbrUSGy58yJpGKJp6l6qV-ubtstWkgM7s4s/s1600/IMG_2777.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91J2cGJMglLaQN_jUI7jzf0pA0RVcuh5Nc5AFb-FfxVqZWkPqlWNmNrzk41orJ9gZYSOhiqseiVvCmfPuUcEKIP5Et3zl6HweJCPZ2jVOukbrUSGy58yJpGKJp6l6qV-ubtstWkgM7s4s/s320/IMG_2777.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What could be inside those barrels?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6M0Bz0HgGiYPwi6OPXHCgLLafrNjWMWV9mkCR0NJdcycOgQqi7C3dAsQ79-6jwcnYxgQngKNsN4Y3_H2Xvw0pAlQb5kDGdHooII1cxA4UrfRvy3duBzuLseqvKGe1GKHFwH9kR3EOQtqT/s1600/IMG_2782.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6M0Bz0HgGiYPwi6OPXHCgLLafrNjWMWV9mkCR0NJdcycOgQqi7C3dAsQ79-6jwcnYxgQngKNsN4Y3_H2Xvw0pAlQb5kDGdHooII1cxA4UrfRvy3duBzuLseqvKGe1GKHFwH9kR3EOQtqT/s320/IMG_2782.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do you think? Could it be...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_eK0ALF-HqzLbBQ_kjAJ_Ok83FzYuMH-yIARmfCtyWzmkbi2sJpWA3V5dUk5i-Stm-gwOZBBNJEBW-eYi8d6WZ7lypbW4WfRiDZcZkW94dHEpBeQHp2u_yLNZaddwaWGBIq70ngLBUo8/s1600/IMG_2779.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_eK0ALF-HqzLbBQ_kjAJ_Ok83FzYuMH-yIARmfCtyWzmkbi2sJpWA3V5dUk5i-Stm-gwOZBBNJEBW-eYi8d6WZ7lypbW4WfRiDZcZkW94dHEpBeQHp2u_yLNZaddwaWGBIq70ngLBUo8/s320/IMG_2779.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most interesting restroom I've ever been in!</td></tr>
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After dinner, we walked toward the Daugava where it seemed the wind-whipped rain was being swept from the river. We briefly explored the riverfront, and then walked back to our apartment, the guys getting even more soaked along the way. We invited <span class="st">Jānis</span> to stay the night on the sofa and the day ended with more chocolates (Latvians seem to love their chocolates, or maybe it's just <span class="st">Jānis</span>) and drinking the traditional <a href="http://www.lb.lv/en/production/sort-by-category/riga-black-balsam/" target="_blank">Balzams</a> herbal beverage <span class="st">Jānis</span> had bought the night before. <br />
<br />
It was good to be tired out from all the walking, but eventually we needed to get our sleep, for the next day was Monday. Embassy day, when we would get our new passports.<br />
<br />
*Photo taken by <span class="st">Jānis</span>. <br />
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bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-33615580924751031192013-10-24T18:51:00.001-08:002013-10-25T12:28:35.212-08:00happy birthday in no-man's landEurope Trip, Part 2. (<a href="http://akbikegirl.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-unreality-of-it-all.html" target="_blank">Part 1</a>) <br />
<br />
A border security guard escorted Jon and me to our luggage which was waiting for us in baggage claim at Riga airport (RIX). We pulled out our sleeping bags and our toothbrushes, re-zipped our bags, said goodbye to Janis and followed the guard to the "transit zone." That no-man's land of people who have landed but not yet been allowed into the country. Remember Snowden? We could stay on the ground floor or go upstairs, she told us. After taking a look at the upstairs, we returned to the ground floor and looked for a place to sleep.<br />
<br />
Another couple were trying to sleep in a corner of the no-man's land. They had pushed together two benches, removed light bulbs above their makeshift bed and were trying to sleep. We spread our sleeping bags on the hard floor. I didn't sleep much. I felt terrible. I had planned the trip. I had known there were rules about entering Russia, but hadn't seen this 90-day passport rule for the EU. I'd never seen the term <i><a href="http://travel.state.gov/travel/cis_pa_tw/cis/cis_4361.html" target="_blank">Schengen</a></i>, or if I had, I certainly didn't remember it. How could I have not seen it? While I kicked myself, Jon reassured me, told me to not beat myself up over it. I couldn't help myself. As the clock turned to midnight, I wished myself a "happy birthday" and hoped we wouldn't have to return to London.<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<i>"He doesn’t speak the language<br />
He holds no currency<br />
He is a foreign man<br />
He is surrounded by the sound, the sound"</i><br />
--You Can Call Me Al, Paul Simon<br />
<br />
I woke at 4 a.m. from my restless sleep on the airport floor. Cold, hungry, tired and disappointed. Two vending machines, one with snacks and one with coffee, stood side-by-side in the corner of the brightly-lit section of the room. I walked up to them. They took <i>Lats</i>, the currency of Latvia. Money I was unable to get while in Anchorage. I had dollars, pounds and euros. The Paul Simon lyric wedged itself into my brain: <i>He holds no currency. He is a foreign man</i>.<br />
<br />
I thought about our friend, Janis. When he had waited with us before going through customs we worried that something might happen to his luggage as it sat unclaimed. When we'd finally gone with the guard to get our sleeping bags, Janis's bag wasn't in baggage claim. I thought about how he had gifts for his sister and his mom in that bag. All his clothes and gear for the next few weeks of travel. All of it gone.<br />
<br />
I walked up the stairs to see if any shops were open. The coffee shop would open at 8. The two duty-free shops were closed; the currency exchange office was closed. I walked down a corridor that ended in a closed door. Another passport control site that led to the other gates and flights to other countries in the Schengen region. I tried to ask when it would be open. A cleaning woman didn't speak English. A man in a uniform rushed past. "You must wait," he called over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
7 a.m. <br />
<i>"Sitting in a no-man's land</i><br />
<i>Here but not here...</i><br />
<i>Passports returned unstamped</i><br />
<i>denied entry and so we wait....</i><br />
<i>Barely a chill in the air</i><br />
<i>the tarmac's bare</i><br />
<i>the sky is clear </i><br />
<i>and we're still here...</i><br />
<i>...No snow, but we're Snowdened in Riga</i><br />
<i>We'll wait it out</i><br />
<i>we're Snowdened in Riga."</i><br />
---I had some time to write a song... <br />
<br />
The airport started coming to life. Passengers began entering the area where we'd slept. I powered on the iPad, planning to email Janis to find out what we could do to salvage our trip. He had contacted the embassy. Couldn't they help? They said we needed to go back to London. Couldn't someone meet us at the airport; help us with paperwork? No; it doesn't work that way. We wouldn't be let into the country. Eventually, I learned that we were the responsibility of the airline, airBaltic. Because they had allowed us to fly to a Schengen country without 90 days on our passport, they needed to get us back to London, though probably on our dime.<br />
<br />
I went to a room that listed airBaltic on its door looking for someone from the airline. A woman there told me to pick up a phone in the corridor. I looked for a phone and finally found it tucked behind a sign and a plant at the top of the stairway. Picked up the receiver. Told the operator my name and that I needed to talk to airBaltic. He told me to call back in a minute or so after he had a chance to talk to someone. When I tried back, all I heard was: You must wait. My iPad's power was running low, so I borrowed an adapter plug from the other couple who were waiting in no-man's land. Stuck because the woman held an Israeli passport which wasn't recognized by the country they wanted to visit. We're not the only travelers whose plans have gone awry.<br />
<br />
Later, I knocked on a sliding door that opened and closed near us. I could see officials in the room; it was another passport control. Finally, a man in uniform came out. Sergei. I spoke with Sergei (from border patrol) and pleaded with him to allow me to go back to my luggage to get some items (like the right adapter plug). It was the only way we'd be able to keep communicating with the outside world. To my surprise, he showed up later and escorted me out of no-man's land to the unclaimed baggage room of the airport. I found the plugs in Jon's bag. I also learned that our friend's bag <i>hadn</i><i>'</i><i>t</i> been taken by someone else from baggage claim. It had apparently never left London! Though it wasn't my bag, the staff gave me a claim number I could forward to Janis. At least I had <i>some</i> good news. I returned with Sergei to where Jon waited. Though he was frustrated by the waiting, he never blamed me for not knowing about the 90-day rule. He was as relieved as I was that Janis's bag hadn't been stolen as Janis tried to help us the previous night. <br />
<br />
As the morning wore on, our space became overrun with passengers. I continued to call airBaltic. I was prepared to get on a plane back to London. Meanwhile, when I wasn't looking, Jon had made a plea on my facebook page telling people we were stuck in the airport and asking what to do. At the time, I was pretty annoyed with him. I felt embarrassed and un-savvy. I felt like the hapless travelers we sometimes hear about who have to change plans because of an oversight. Now it was ME! I didn't want people to know that I was this clueless! Jon had also posted a personal message on our friend Sage's timeline. Sage is pretty well-traveled and always has a <a href="http://www.alaskapublic.org/2012/10/19/rules-and-consequences/" target="_blank">story</a> about how she overcame one bureaucracy or another. Her response was to say, adamantly: "<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[4r3xa].[1][4][1]{comment10151625650211439_27234841}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[4r3xa].[1][4][1]{comment10151625650211439_27234841}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[4r3xa].[1][4][1]{comment10151625650211439_27234841}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">DO NOT get back on a plane. Remain where you are. They can not forcibly remove you from the transit hall</span></span></span>." She was the only person advocating this position. Everyone else who woke up to Jon's message told us to go back to London. Some gave us the embassy information. None of them could do anything. None of them had been to Latvia, except Sage.<br />
<br />
At one point, I went to the currency exchange office to get money to use a pay phone to call the embassy. The man handed me his phone and let me make my call on it. Still, the person at the embassy said there was nothing he could do. He could not bring paperwork to us; we could not be brought to the embassy no matter how many times I pleaded with random border security staff: "I want to go to the American Embassy." My hopes deflated. I was ready to give up. I emailed one of my U.S. Senators.<br />
<br />
That day's airBaltic flight from Riga to London was boarded and took off without anyone contacting us. The message to me when I picked up the phone to call the airline yet again: "They know about you. Everybody knows about you." The only thing is, it didn't seem that anyone knew about us, but we were about to change our luck.<br />
<br />
-----This is where I need to say that the order of events is still not clear to me. At one point Sergei offered me a telephone number of the person the Embassy consul should contact in Latvian border security. Was that right before I used the currency exchange guy's phone to call the embassy? I guess the order of it all is not as important as the fact that there were moments when we threw off our concerns about bringing attention to ourselves and realized that the only thing to do was bring attention to ourselves.------<br />
<br />
We moved upstairs and leaned against the outside wall of the duty-free shop, around the corner from the coffee shop, across from the airBaltic lounge (off-limits to us) and just a few feet from the courtesy phone. I made a sign: "We are Prisoners of airBaltic and RIX. We have rights." (I'd seen a poster about passenger rights and figured that was a good line to use.) Believe me when I say that I'm very aware now that I made a mistake in not doing enough research on rules for entering Europe. This much I also admitted when the passport control first explained it to me. And I'm very aware that I was about to become the "Ugly American" asking for special privileges such as bending this rule and begging to be allowed to go to the embassy. But the airline had not reached out to us once, not even to say someone would meet with us at any appointed time. We were in the dark as to how long we would wait. Could it be days? Jon added a sign to mine: Hours Waiting... writing down numbers and crossing them off until it was 15, 16. <br />
<br />
Hurried passengers slowed. Some asked us what was happening. Some, even frequent travelers, told us they did not know about the 90-day passport rule. One even checked his expiration date. Now it was an outreach effort. While waiting to be sent back to London, we could at least educate others on the rule. Of course what we really wanted was for the officials to take notice. Mid-afternoon, I emailed our contact at the embassy telling him what we were doing. I told him people were taking notice. How long did it take for the officials to see us? I don't know, but there came a point where five Important People stood around us in a semicircle discussing our case. People from the airport, border security, one from the airline. Before, we were a behind-the-scenes problem; now we were going to be a public relations problem. We hoped we wouldn't be arrested.<br />
<br />
When not talking to people, I was on email or facebook. Looking for a solution. In the middle of the stress, I read a message from Twitter:<br />
<blockquote>
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet">
This <a href="https://twitter.com/tomhanks">@Tomhanks</a> "The Terminal" did not need sequel. Let <a href="https://twitter.com/akbikegirl">@akbikegirl</a> out of Riga Airport. <a href="https://twitter.com/airBaltic">@airbaltic</a><br />
— (@stlholder) <a href="https://twitter.com/stlholder/statuses/381417627274342402">September 21, 2013</a></blockquote>
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></blockquote>
Passersby must have thought I was quite mad as they watched me laugh hysterically at that and other tweets my sister in St Louis had posted. She provided the comic-relief I needed. And it reminded me that one day I'd be able to laugh at the entire incident. One day.<br />
<br />
I got a message from the consul: <i>"The Border Guards will not let you through and are blaming airBaltic for your situation. AirBaltic is blaming the weather and they claim they are trying to fix your situation. Hopefully we can get you on the next flight. I'm also calling the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to put pressure on airBaltic." </i>The weather?* It was a clear sunny day, the day we were supposed to visit the coast and celebrate my birthday. But at least the people who could do something were communicating.<br />
<br />
The wheels began turning more quickly, though still at a Saturday pace. With no further flights to London, I think the airport people just wanted us out of there. A few more emails back and forth to the embassy and to Janis, who was doing all he could to call and email people he knew. Jon wrote "19" on the list of number of hours waiting.<br />
<br />
I had noticed passengers who were puzzled about more than just our predicament: they were also having trouble finding a gate that I knew was downstairs. But there was no airport map and the sign pointing to the gate was in small letters and hard to read. I started pointing out the directions to travelers, even escorting some people downstairs. <br />
<br />
I got an email from the consul showing me what he had sent to the Latvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs: <i>"If you allow them to pass border control, I will be able to issue them new passports on Monday so that they meet entry requirements for the Schengen zone." </i>This was promising... <br />
<br />
I was returning from one of my trips down the stairs when Sergei came to us. He had us collect our things. Told us we could go. Go? Yes. He escorted us through passport control where we were asked a few questions: where are we staying; how long; where will you go next? Then our passports were stamped. Sergei escorted us through a security check, then he took us on the long walk to the unclaimed baggage room. "Is this where we walked earlier today?" I asked him. It was hard to remember. Had I really walked outdoors with him all those hours ago? "Yes," he answered. It did not seem familiar.<br />
<br />
Sergei directed us toward the unclaimed baggage room and we stopped. This was as far as he was going with us. I wanted to hug him, but held back and shook his hand, thanking him, instead. He had been
the most helpful person in the entire airport. Jon offered his thanks, then off
we went to get our bags. The same woman who had helped me get the outlet plug was at the unclaimed baggage room and remembered me. We gathered our bags and signed a form, then walked away. Out of the airport and into the fresh air and fading daylight.<br />
<br />
Soon Janis and his friend Marcis picked us up and we drove across a suspension bridge into the city while opera played on the radio. We dropped our things at the apartment I'd rented, changed clothes and then we headed out for my birthday celebration, now a celebration of freedom! A feast at <a href="http://www.lido.lv/eng/companies/lido_tallinn/" target="_blank">Lido</a>, the largest selection of Latvian food I will ever see. Finally, we were free to set out to explore Latvia and a bit of Europe. Happy birthday indeed!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*After we left the airport, we learned that due to foggy conditions in the early morning, a number of flights had been routed to Riga and the airBaltic staff had spent their day getting other people out of Riga while continuing to tell us to wait. Had the flight to London not been full, we would have been on that flight, I'm sure. I also think that had someone, anyone, from airBaltic come to talk with us in the first 12 hours of us being in the airport, we would have not been as frustrated, nor would we have been as adamant that we be allowed to stay in Riga. </i><br />
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bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-1933013006978066872013-10-23T18:49:00.002-08:002013-10-23T18:49:29.904-08:00the unreality of it allTwo-thirds of the way through our European trip, I was sitting in the back seat of our friend's mom's station wagon writing: "When we return home I may just sit down and ask myself 'What just happened?'" We were about to cross the border from Italy into France, driving along the coast through tunnel after tunnel that had been carved from the coastal mountains. Between tunnels we could view town after town perched between the road and the Mediterranean. I began this post fewer than 48 hours after arriving home and at the time, it seemed to have been a dream. But it was not a dream and I have the receipts and my folded and refolded itinerary to prove it. Also a few souvenirs and a temporary passport. It all happened: London, Riga, Prague, Salzburg, Genoa, Arles. Lespignan, Paris. I have proof. I just need to piece it all together.<br />
<br />
Jon and I had been wanting to make a trip to Europe for a few years. Our friend was living in London and about to move back to his home country of Latvia. (Latvia? Check the map. It's that small Baltic country between Estonia and Lithuania, butting up against Russia and Belarus.) We decided to fly to London to meet him, then fly together to Riga for a few days before traveling around, visiting a few cities. At first we were going to do a short trip, maybe cover some ground in the Baltic region before flying out from Copenhagen. But some other friends had recently moved from Alaska back to southern France. We thought it would be nice to visit them. Jon glanced at the map and suggested we fly out of Paris. I'll admit, I was concerned. It may all look close together on the map, but Europe is a huge place with so many things to see. I booked the trip and crossed my fingers in hopes that we would see what we wanted on our lists.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWh8QKT3LnCDUlZvgfKoSHaXQVce_MWESuDquo6xtZFOkNow_bFmm31rSNZj3fmXqFMjdTayudcTVpUD7lfPWHuQZS0NDG4iFCHPtQsU497Eo4NAXoyjtusXvd7opnt9d1cfxc12sgkqQ/s1600/IMG_2718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWh8QKT3LnCDUlZvgfKoSHaXQVce_MWESuDquo6xtZFOkNow_bFmm31rSNZj3fmXqFMjdTayudcTVpUD7lfPWHuQZS0NDG4iFCHPtQsU497Eo4NAXoyjtusXvd7opnt9d1cfxc12sgkqQ/s320/IMG_2718.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bike, bus, ben</td></tr>
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Upon arriving in London, our friend, Janis (pronounced <i>Yannis</i>) met us at the airport and we traveled by train to central London for lunch and a stroll around the busy city. After a few dropped calls and messages, we finally arrived at the place we'd booked for our stay (which is its own story) and were able to get some sleep. The next day, we continued our explorations with a visit to the British Museum with its wealth of items collected within: Greek urns, early Roman artifacts, the much-visited mummies and Rosetta Stone. Our minds full, we strolled around the city, looking into shop windows as the light began to fade: Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, where we decided we were all very hungry. We found a pub near Big Ben and drank our not-quite-cold beers while waiting for our food. Meat pies, curry. Enough to fill the void. Then off into the night to the nearest tube station and the noisy trip to the sad room we'd rented for our stay.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUHXV8QufT727fIYNyr7U6KCKrgP7cjJuSJ3y2X1cOD03KqW7QX2NXdZTEtDmI5kZGBWJNRZ_j1pdDICDH6epar-6a-C-ZVGjqfa-Cg2Q9g596inbSHbAvMt6wnmkjDV-QCA0ACsL7vnw/s1600/IMG_2720.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUHXV8QufT727fIYNyr7U6KCKrgP7cjJuSJ3y2X1cOD03KqW7QX2NXdZTEtDmI5kZGBWJNRZ_j1pdDICDH6epar-6a-C-ZVGjqfa-Cg2Q9g596inbSHbAvMt6wnmkjDV-QCA0ACsL7vnw/s320/IMG_2720.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earlier in the evening I had picked up the book <i>District and Circle</i>.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The next day we took the now-familiar tube (mind the gap!) to Janis's work place where we picked up three folding <a href="http://brompton.com/" target="_blank">Brompton bicycles</a> for our explorations. We wanted to go to Greenwich to see the museum. Janis mapped the route, then we cycled together along streets and paths to get to the museum and observatory located on a hill high above the city, which is the most logical place for an observatory, after all. The museum and observatory were surrounded by a large, almost rural-feeling green space. We studied the exhibits while rain began falling. We learned, among other things, about the quest to solve the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_longitude" target="_blank">longitude problem</a>" a problem that had puzzled scientists and sailors for centuries.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEumGnBUjmjzjyAu96j9-bZ28BlRlOxBIrCkPsit3UoQ7uxPCgt67rMK28SRwhw1p-sb5RESMOx2AuxrGjT0xZAMl600fVfHheo8Z0OaYrLZvzLR25eomyDJn8aVU2BO-3TtvGL-9EOYTY/s1600/IMG_2724.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEumGnBUjmjzjyAu96j9-bZ28BlRlOxBIrCkPsit3UoQ7uxPCgt67rMK28SRwhw1p-sb5RESMOx2AuxrGjT0xZAMl600fVfHheo8Z0OaYrLZvzLR25eomyDJn8aVU2BO-3TtvGL-9EOYTY/s320/IMG_2724.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not quite portable.</td></tr>
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<br />
Returning to London, our ride included busy streets and a few sidewalks as we pedaled in the rain to the Tate Modern. On that particular day, most of their galleries were closed due to an unnamed technical glitch. We hadn't much time anyway because we were to join Janis at an end-of-season work party that would double as his going-away party. We zipped along the wet streets, navigating roundabouts and cobbles until finally making it back to his work place which occupied one of the many enclosed arches underneath the city's rail line. We changed into nicer clothes, then boarded a bus to take us to the party. Yes, upper level on one of the ubiquitous double-decker buses which gave us a unique, white-knuckle view of London's rush-hour bus, car, scooter and bike traffic. Yikes!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuiUfRaWiofPM3kjWqPhkHY215iqrETspN5Vt3v9CHn2Eke1QuzgUtR_ng4C7IjT74r1J-jEoz4T6aTMJUnfXo0rAdehSnQH7borZ2GYLPUZbcEBgiV8wP0YHr8WQDMULb50dSTGX6Jg-6/s1600/IMG_2725.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuiUfRaWiofPM3kjWqPhkHY215iqrETspN5Vt3v9CHn2Eke1QuzgUtR_ng4C7IjT74r1J-jEoz4T6aTMJUnfXo0rAdehSnQH7borZ2GYLPUZbcEBgiV8wP0YHr8WQDMULb50dSTGX6Jg-6/s320/IMG_2725.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the upper deck doesn't look all that scary. Lots of bikes<br /> jockeying for the same space as the buses, cars and motor scooters.</td></tr>
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At the party, a man who works for the London ambulance service (a client) asked me if we'd biked through the grassy park-like area on our way to the Greenwich museum. Yes, we had. That, he told me, was where during the plague the bodies had been sent for burial. I paused for a moment at the gruesome thought of all those bodies buried unceremoniously on the outskirts of the city. Then I couldn't help but think of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FvX_Suj11s" target="_blank">this</a>.<br />
<br />
We stayed out late that night, joining the coworkers as they migrated to a corner pub where they proceeded to get drunk as college students at a frat party. Finally we walked to the tube stop to see the truly deranged on the late night train, shouting admonitions, scaring the other passengers, including a young woman we offered to walk with if the man exited at our stop. After a late night take-out order of schwarma, we walked the now-quiet streets back to our room and to bed.<br />
<br />
The next day we packed our bags and took the tube one last time to the city where we stashed the luggage so we could take another walk around before our late-afternoon flight. It was a warm, sunny day. We walked by St Paul's Cathedral, then crossed the Millennium Bridge, past the groundlings waiting to get tickets for the Globe. Janis had left to finish his packing and wrap up some business. Jon and I were on our own for the afternoon. We returned to the Tate to see if everything was open. But first, some lunch. We went to the restaurant (not to be confused with the cafe) in the museum. I remember looking at the menu and when Jon seemed hesitant, I remember telling him: I want to sit and enjoy a meal and not feel like I'm rushing. Because everything we had done for the past few days had felt like a race to do what we were doing so we could go to the next place, do the next thing. Pile that atop the jetlag and who wouldn't be a little stressed out? So, we got a table. Shared parsnip and pear soup, barley risotto, Suffolk chicken with potatoes, I don't remember everything, but I slowed down and was aware of each flavor as we relaxed for the hour. We then wandered the galleries where we saw works by Picasso, Dali and others, plus an entire room filled with Soviet Propaganda posters. I was glad we'd returned to see more of the museum.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDr7eFcpfzXxoUX_Sul9F4FWBrczJHvtrBYQkGr9qNR0YHHqko3qA4qomUv4l5xA5sTnFOXuLaYrM7_rS5ClwH50d5O_BRRpbEHzRE6l9Rh2n-sAPmDIJq4lTZu6b5KFGCDPjCURa9tGw/s1600/IMG_2744.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDr7eFcpfzXxoUX_Sul9F4FWBrczJHvtrBYQkGr9qNR0YHHqko3qA4qomUv4l5xA5sTnFOXuLaYrM7_rS5ClwH50d5O_BRRpbEHzRE6l9Rh2n-sAPmDIJq4lTZu6b5KFGCDPjCURa9tGw/s320/IMG_2744.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of gate at the Globe.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaV7Xlmoe9wPdj61R7HgcTmcis7iLMo9XbkorUtoeWj8K7V0k50lKPredZXJKIw2ReoS-uZZFhnjyPV3SEIY0M_CfiT4V9TMMxsiSNTUWMg6cDPHHi9E5sMGbIJFWFFlSnoWmikUQWzOEi/s1600/IMG_2732.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaV7Xlmoe9wPdj61R7HgcTmcis7iLMo9XbkorUtoeWj8K7V0k50lKPredZXJKIw2ReoS-uZZFhnjyPV3SEIY0M_CfiT4V9TMMxsiSNTUWMg6cDPHHi9E5sMGbIJFWFFlSnoWmikUQWzOEi/s320/IMG_2732.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How could I walk past this?</td></tr>
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When it was time to meet Janis, he was running late. Jon and I sat down in a coffee shop to wait for him while I sent a message to our host in our next city: Riga. Then came the next rush: when Janis finally showed up, we gathered our bags from his workplace and hustled to the tube station, then the train that would take us to the airport. What I remember most of the rush to the airport was running down a spiral stairway in a tube station, lugging my suitcase because an escalator was out of order, then sitting in a hot train, sweating, relieved that we would make the airport in time to catch our flight. I didn't know at the time that at the next airport I would want everyone to hurry up. Because once we were in RIX, everything came to a stop.<br />
<br />
The man checking passports looked at mine. Looked at Jon's.<br />
Took them to a woman in a room near Passport Control.<br />
She asked a few questions.<br />
We couldn't enter the country. I didn't understand. <i>Schengen</i>. You must have 90 days before your passport expires to enter the region known as <a href="http://travel.state.gov/travel/cis_pa_tw/cis/cis_4361.html" target="_blank">Schengen</a>, the region that includes 26 European nations that have open borders with each other. We both had 76 days left on our passports, having applied for them at the same time almost 10 years ago. What could we do? It was midnight. They let me call the U.S. Embassy. Was that the first time someone said we needed to go back to London and get temporary passports from the embassy there? Maybe. I would have all night to worry over what to do.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-58259222353245747002013-09-08T20:00:00.001-08:002013-09-08T20:00:53.647-08:00trail reports and melting glaciers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJRtkM4WiGRDL5ftPWud0BIXcexwclBexe6c6rPOLjXgSwX-170n0Nj3RrqNh2f3to0wbXvE-2ucr0HGsMKJltoDL2tOMl7RrnRxjiu32kQQ4puOIRkRqFpVJG35NlW0fYKlW3_fBHq_3/s1600/IMG_2495.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJRtkM4WiGRDL5ftPWud0BIXcexwclBexe6c6rPOLjXgSwX-170n0Nj3RrqNh2f3to0wbXvE-2ucr0HGsMKJltoDL2tOMl7RrnRxjiu32kQQ4puOIRkRqFpVJG35NlW0fYKlW3_fBHq_3/s320/IMG_2495.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just pedaled through it. No problem!</td></tr>
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<br />
Has it already been two weeks since the weekend cabin trip with the girls? Indeed, it has. Let me tell you about it. <br />
<br />
Word on the news and on social media was that the water at Eklutna Lake was high. Maybe record-breaking high. After a warmer-than-recent-years summer and a week or so of rain, the lake that takes its name from the glacier that feeds it and which provides tap water for much of Anchorage was inundated. I saw photos of the Lakeside Trail covered in water. But I had weekend plans with my friends and I'd waited all year - more than a year - for the trip. A little high water wouldn't stop us. Besides, we could always retreat to the steeper, wider gravel trail.<br />
<br />
I had my new rain pants and my jacket ready. I had waterproof socks and shoe covers. Dry bags and dry gear for the two nights at the cabin. I was ready for August to keep the water coming. But just before Corinne picked me up I looked out the window and pointed out a patch of blue to Jon. "There's a suckerhole." We laughed. Then the sky continued to clear, the sun broke through. I finished packing my bags and headed out.<br />
<br />
When we arrived at the trailhead, our friends were already warm. Some were wearing long-sleeve tops and regretting their packing decisions. I had resisted the urge to bring shorts, donning knickers instead. And a long-sleeve wool top. It could get cold at any time!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlPVdvdHk87oNPHupjW2fcfs4ohXr6JSyukWAdXTCrZrsUvkTkIl-8LzrpEyp8J4BoVmme2fa9mdye_yB_AX6h8rtyCHbrsp6YOvBRHMcmQgV0KKeIiuSagl4qhohixcy9SuKBDEe1C7q/s1600/IMG_2502.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlPVdvdHk87oNPHupjW2fcfs4ohXr6JSyukWAdXTCrZrsUvkTkIl-8LzrpEyp8J4BoVmme2fa9mdye_yB_AX6h8rtyCHbrsp6YOvBRHMcmQgV0KKeIiuSagl4qhohixcy9SuKBDEe1C7q/s320/IMG_2502.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is a little deep - we'll see it on the return trip.</td></tr>
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Along the trail were remnants of last fall's hurricane-force storm (the one nobody in the Lower-48 heard about because we don't have millions of people living here). <a href="http://alaskadirtdivas.blogspot.com/2012/09/cabin-camping-adventure.html" target="_blank">My friends were out there during part of the storm.</a> A bench that once faced the lake was in the lake. Parts of the trail had sloughed into the water. We stopped to inspect a long puddle. Saw the pebble-covered bottom and decided to ride through it. It was one of several. Some, we detoured around, taking the high trail. Some, we had no alternative but to keep pedaling.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQGfKnb7c4pVmPEwHH4x8i-OfEvyPU7nDNe9_Rbtb5GhNS8RA_iE6_xWt4RJ6ScgQhu-B_fIzP0xYNHb85Vr6OcJJ6Rb4bnee_KTUWscS5kEnzrFytl4aRSklQUYk2fzKiAJ9Wc3Rshn5/s1600/IMG_2588.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQGfKnb7c4pVmPEwHH4x8i-OfEvyPU7nDNe9_Rbtb5GhNS8RA_iE6_xWt4RJ6ScgQhu-B_fIzP0xYNHb85Vr6OcJJ6Rb4bnee_KTUWscS5kEnzrFytl4aRSklQUYk2fzKiAJ9Wc3Rshn5/s320/IMG_2588.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabin, glacier, river, waterfall (out of frame). I do love this place.</td></tr>
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The cabin was as I remembered. The big windows giving us a view of the river, glacier, peaks, Serenity Falls. I placed my helmet on my favorite bunk in the back corner and went outside to haul firewood and water up to the cabin. The last time I was at the Serenity Cabin (two years ago) I'd used my BOB trailer. I remember how much my shoulder hurt after riding to the cabin and especially after helping refill the water jugs and pulling them back to the cabin in my BOB. I nearly cried for the pain in my shoulder. I didn't sleep well. I spent lots of time sitting on my bunk writing. This year was different. I'm stronger, healed (though careful), and my mind is in a different place.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilH6duezruGqroFaDBaAKwq1Pihpt688qr7RTpgH2EvKyVOKJ5zKCLzH2nJdPEQrbnveL51l_ukTgNue3PVajPfcGncMpa7spALqdbanvECrkJ2V2De2d_HS8j_yxHCTTE7NKYxYyHvMe2/s1600/IMG_2531.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilH6duezruGqroFaDBaAKwq1Pihpt688qr7RTpgH2EvKyVOKJ5zKCLzH2nJdPEQrbnveL51l_ukTgNue3PVajPfcGncMpa7spALqdbanvECrkJ2V2De2d_HS8j_yxHCTTE7NKYxYyHvMe2/s320/IMG_2531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bikes lined up under the eaves.</td></tr>
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Wine was opened. More friends arrived. The cabin became loud as dinner was prepared and 11 women spoke at once. I went back and forth between the deck and the common area, a little overwhelmed with being surrounded by the group. The last few times I've gone to the cabin a few of us have gone out a day early. A group of five or six relaxing in relative quiet. The energy was a little much. Even though I grew up in a large family, we didn't become boisterous until we were adults and Dad's voice had softened. I often sought quiet places like the wagon paths, pastures and woods near our house. I still become lost in large groups, opting for intimate conversations, eavesdropping or hiding away - in this case, either on the deck or under the fog of a little too much wine, I suppose.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGj8c2YNav98OUBTpHWDKbyncU-LbvEXZGl4RXYCzU7BgOhTu9o5_mnQDcNMGj6OujIlz_nouDNfwQCM78JFxqSW-_CPUY4xxG1xBpGcIPoKFWUPiMFNKyWh6LNk2eYSeBsVGKPHivGX7T/s1600/IMG_2542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGj8c2YNav98OUBTpHWDKbyncU-LbvEXZGl4RXYCzU7BgOhTu9o5_mnQDcNMGj6OujIlz_nouDNfwQCM78JFxqSW-_CPUY4xxG1xBpGcIPoKFWUPiMFNKyWh6LNk2eYSeBsVGKPHivGX7T/s320/IMG_2542.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watched these bears from the deck just after we had breakfast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_Bl7UfcL5DgLPvgYcauQYVWncgM20OJ5rqRdCkP1N2yLyZPsDackxrJ4XYTSjh9I4G-QoUW7Dg-VzC-vIu7iR4h8CbtfdbbRVGnn7sJRH2yDWzYIfFEKug7i-GQGjbWx35HBgIagdjtt/s1600/IMG_2551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_Bl7UfcL5DgLPvgYcauQYVWncgM20OJ5rqRdCkP1N2yLyZPsDackxrJ4XYTSjh9I4G-QoUW7Dg-VzC-vIu7iR4h8CbtfdbbRVGnn7sJRH2yDWzYIfFEKug7i-GQGjbWx35HBgIagdjtt/s320/IMG_2551.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saturday hike/stroll. Testing the limits of my waterproof socks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfJkFJzCEXnolPV4I4EinYAvrV-4X4cyevfBuw9EH7tIiXV4aICsjYuF4vpDqVpZwQz9g52x3v4XcM8OBNTtJycHfFVHf7m1xJGEvR8rNOHlpu2Dfz36tqwtcLOdtgyDpdSEu3FiSk6Qk/s1600/IMG_2567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfJkFJzCEXnolPV4I4EinYAvrV-4X4cyevfBuw9EH7tIiXV4aICsjYuF4vpDqVpZwQz9g52x3v4XcM8OBNTtJycHfFVHf7m1xJGEvR8rNOHlpu2Dfz36tqwtcLOdtgyDpdSEu3FiSk6Qk/s320/IMG_2567.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jo-Ann and Corinne and Serenity Falls. Out for an evening stroll.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje42I0rkRsPRJ6dqUmaoXgjDOBUvELwoNhnITj0maBrkf9NsVhFShwNLIzFRjWQ9-M7vq6QjL9FaPStCzLVBw_1KV0kcyDdhGwDJove1XEIL3h-3aQ2nNz1Rc4M8YkafB0bwtfVZqRR_6Z/s1600/IMG_2563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje42I0rkRsPRJ6dqUmaoXgjDOBUvELwoNhnITj0maBrkf9NsVhFShwNLIzFRjWQ9-M7vq6QjL9FaPStCzLVBw_1KV0kcyDdhGwDJove1XEIL3h-3aQ2nNz1Rc4M8YkafB0bwtfVZqRR_6Z/s320/IMG_2563.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evening light, down-valley.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After two nights at the cabin, which seemed like not enough time to me, we gathered our gear, tidied the cabin and headed out. The day was calm and the sky cloudless. The sounds of our voices and our bikes filled the air as we pedaled back to the trailhead. But it was Sunday, so soon we heard four-wheelers approaching. In twos and threes they drove down the trail, slowing when they saw us. We did the same.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVprTZv0lA5opKwTorcAE7FSJhyphenhyphenlYDEI-B9BPor00rP0JIu6ZZSyOTS6qF9UdiZSq4BpYRx0TwloPiiVNowPaMXxgxqRSp0J31fi4x7RLWt49rEbEquznOwVu7R0bCldgDP0nRCtIiTbFO/s1600/IMG_2609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVprTZv0lA5opKwTorcAE7FSJhyphenhyphenlYDEI-B9BPor00rP0JIu6ZZSyOTS6qF9UdiZSq4BpYRx0TwloPiiVNowPaMXxgxqRSp0J31fi4x7RLWt49rEbEquznOwVu7R0bCldgDP0nRCtIiTbFO/s320/IMG_2609.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We may have pushed some logs out of the way, but it was still a bit deep to ride!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We took turns riding through the deep, long puddles. We cleared floating logs from one path so we could travel through unobstructed. We basked in unexpected sunlight that made wet feet into no big deal and made a slow journey together, back to the trailhead.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotOCNM5J_8dIrRwxHz-Almo53ncDpt3SL_zc3eKcJRZKUy7d_0Ssn5XRkY6BgA2hUi4ksnNRCFaOVWcAEmNKX7DtmP1GYasHRMzv9xoQU6nqwmqslxc8q-WW5rDE9TT6UJt99OdAI-jX9/s1600/IMG_2610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotOCNM5J_8dIrRwxHz-Almo53ncDpt3SL_zc3eKcJRZKUy7d_0Ssn5XRkY6BgA2hUi4ksnNRCFaOVWcAEmNKX7DtmP1GYasHRMzv9xoQU6nqwmqslxc8q-WW5rDE9TT6UJt99OdAI-jX9/s320/IMG_2610.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On a day like this, no hurry.</td></tr>
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bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-47486829829540214202013-08-16T21:53:00.001-08:002013-08-16T21:53:11.516-08:00august resurrection Two weeks ago Jon and I had a few days off together and decided to head south. To the south shore of Turnagain Arm where the town of Hope rests on the bank of Resurrection Creek. The old gold-mining town was about to be flooded with mountain bikers ready to tackle the 100-plus mile <a href="http://vimeo.com/72157331" target="_blank">Soggy Bottom</a> race. But Jon and I just wanted to do a ride together.<br />
<br />
It would be my first time biking Resurrection Trail in two years and I was a little apprehensive about tackling the 40-miler. It's one of my favorite rides for the sweet singletrack that threads through the mountain pass, past small ponds and lakes and finally descends from the high country toward the slightly larger town of Cooper Landing. I hoped I could handle it. We left our friends' cabin just before 11 that morning; our friend Art joined us for the ride while Lynn promised to pick us up at around 6 p.m. at the other end. We figured that would give us enough time to enjoy the trail at a comfortable pace and a little time to hang out if the weather was nice.<br />
<br />
As we pedaled toward the trailhead, I fell behind and wondered if I was making the right decision. I felt a twinge in my left knee and adjusted my foot. Once on the trail, it was clear Jon and Art would be waiting for me frequently - no surprise when riding with a couple of strong guys - and the idea was a little demoralizing. I didn't want to ride solo on a group ride! I also didn't want to hold them up, leaving them prey to the mosquitoes and biting flies that buzz through the forest seeking warm flesh.<br />
<br />
I tried to ramp up my speed and mentally prepare for the miles ahead. Then I had an idea. When we next gathered, I told them that I wasn't going to be able to keep up and that it bugged me that we were so far apart. I asked Jon to carry my camera and to take the photos. After all, if he was
going to be up front, he would get better pics than I. All my annoyance
dissipated. I rode my pace; knew they would be stopping more
frequently. I powered up hills I
hadn't seen in so long that I had sometimes wondered if I would ever bike the trail again.<br />
<br />
When we arrived at the pass, I knew I'd have no trouble going the full distance. Finally, I had returned to the kind of riding I love in one of my favorite places to bike.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4PiE_ki0gXO-87GA8dGqlolEvxgSL3qV4RbNkSDf2wIz_8l35iiRGT8GoyMzmYzNWumIHhOnlbFo4G7qXVyy6yr5JlLh-Z-WQev4sbt24tnxmzLkDRqmZ7eYvWKbwFweOL7hyGd6CeR3/s1600/IMG_2377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4PiE_ki0gXO-87GA8dGqlolEvxgSL3qV4RbNkSDf2wIz_8l35iiRGT8GoyMzmYzNWumIHhOnlbFo4G7qXVyy6yr5JlLh-Z-WQev4sbt24tnxmzLkDRqmZ7eYvWKbwFweOL7hyGd6CeR3/s320/IMG_2377.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breathing hard, climbing toward the pass.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJva6veemckp8LoVYYT8drH95hu_4stVx-HKEXAxmdDh2Xyo0KVAAFfGMSQLD66MgLfroYcGhK0zmB-20uswvvgagyhmbwpeT7UKpNo-JWjbfivg43J01NL_gKMJTdHFXwEIjsJAoPrkhg/s1600/IMG_2385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJva6veemckp8LoVYYT8drH95hu_4stVx-HKEXAxmdDh2Xyo0KVAAFfGMSQLD66MgLfroYcGhK0zmB-20uswvvgagyhmbwpeT7UKpNo-JWjbfivg43J01NL_gKMJTdHFXwEIjsJAoPrkhg/s320/IMG_2385.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cresting the high point. Hope and Turnagain Arm are nearly 20 miles behind me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8mB5Y08bjysE637f7OduBMkUgmvMVyWeDGBZrrGDhvqs8fcOJChU_praYGamiNZn-HUgHhBImEXJZJXeODBimqHCj0_3Z78QkGhLwogBh6CF2U5YnUqDQho2cgLYKa7FumFjDSEcrNNC/s1600/IMG_2390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8mB5Y08bjysE637f7OduBMkUgmvMVyWeDGBZrrGDhvqs8fcOJChU_praYGamiNZn-HUgHhBImEXJZJXeODBimqHCj0_3Z78QkGhLwogBh6CF2U5YnUqDQho2cgLYKa7FumFjDSEcrNNC/s320/IMG_2390.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art descends among the wildflowers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWut1RrD9Iu_R70oxPEtxDW92wdVLmcI2cOLTFxZQMBXlX6_9RQ2915PlHJFYOt8TFlEPdSPgduSBQSVP_tHL4sU_M0MKORGnvY-PGT9do-KFMtSPpF7RKvPSp3wcrzlFdTDRgrXrpKRI/s1600/IMG_2393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWut1RrD9Iu_R70oxPEtxDW92wdVLmcI2cOLTFxZQMBXlX6_9RQ2915PlHJFYOt8TFlEPdSPgduSBQSVP_tHL4sU_M0MKORGnvY-PGT9do-KFMtSPpF7RKvPSp3wcrzlFdTDRgrXrpKRI/s320/IMG_2393.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little cool at our lunch stop, but we warmed up quickly!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBy9jAMVxEa4XRhyphenhyphenSW3ssRpL-H882r30G3YRuI2GJgvOHsEpzWskt_PBPqO5ajKZQEowp3c5iKFEKLqS10dmVd20h9Oomh80fmSaOpo2G2KBalc8kUWMY3dBA28r3GmVgRkq1fFhyphenhyphenWVUML/s1600/IMG_2397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBy9jAMVxEa4XRhyphenhyphenSW3ssRpL-H882r30G3YRuI2GJgvOHsEpzWskt_PBPqO5ajKZQEowp3c5iKFEKLqS10dmVd20h9Oomh80fmSaOpo2G2KBalc8kUWMY3dBA28r3GmVgRkq1fFhyphenhyphenWVUML/s320/IMG_2397.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Non-stop wildflowers!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlGll0qFEwTdny7wDLVzNAR14KupERWGLzSpqoKgdrJYkgndVKAKvaF9A1YvX9bbh1WEXIEZDExnPCz-DLF03JVgqKwNBA8BBHO50hSdeqO7LarbCKpgLNNmQcnuCXcvctiE5jDXQKDXU/s1600/IMG_2398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlGll0qFEwTdny7wDLVzNAR14KupERWGLzSpqoKgdrJYkgndVKAKvaF9A1YvX9bbh1WEXIEZDExnPCz-DLF03JVgqKwNBA8BBHO50hSdeqO7LarbCKpgLNNmQcnuCXcvctiE5jDXQKDXU/s320/IMG_2398.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon's bike... guess I should have taken his picture!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihS5wUtFDbYlTk1WwgUe6c9unOqn9-sTSSdXW185o3kX1Fuaq2EoJ89CpcMYG2LtdO7LkSAHCawrRvUn3wE216uaVnehIu6a61-rwqplJBpDK1ICdIIb30ZMMb9ZMnY1VvmmVL5wjJWZ8V/s1600/IMG_2400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihS5wUtFDbYlTk1WwgUe6c9unOqn9-sTSSdXW185o3kX1Fuaq2EoJ89CpcMYG2LtdO7LkSAHCawrRvUn3wE216uaVnehIu6a61-rwqplJBpDK1ICdIIb30ZMMb9ZMnY1VvmmVL5wjJWZ8V/s320/IMG_2400.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art cruises through the fireweed.</td></tr>
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Thanks to Jon for taking the photos, and to Art and Lynn for hosting us at their cabin in Hope. It was good to be back!bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-21440548055901143372013-07-29T16:30:00.001-08:002013-07-29T16:30:46.473-08:00garden tour, 2013Sunday was the annual Anchorage Garden Tour, when, for five hours several local gardens are open for public viewing. <a href="http://akbikegirl.blogspot.com/2011/08/garden-tour.html" target="_blank">Two years ago</a> I biked it with my friends, Corinne and Paul, so when Corinne said it was coming up, I jumped on board. A few other friends decided to join in.<br />
<br />
Seven of us gathered with our bicycles at a local park and headed off to the first garden, in the Airport Heights neighborhood. We visited four more gardens in Turnagain, and then a final garden on the shore of Sand Lake, just south of Raspberry Road. The day was warmer than I expected with no need for the rain gear I'd packed. I was glad a couple people brought sunblock because that was not even on my radar. Along the way, we biked neighborhood streets and greenbelt trails. We even had a picnic lunch in a park across from one of the gardens. All told, I biked 30 miles. But it wasn't about the mileage, it was about the gardens.<br />
<br />
What I love about visiting the different gardens are all the ideas I pick up and stash away for later, i.e., that day when we are finally ready to start dealing with the landscape in both the front and back yards. Meanwhile, here are some ideas I liked:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9Ss-mY9q-j9TWsC8yVTfjZZBxU_fNHsakMXX_sSILIvuG1gLPV1qTxb9CnTkB9zRKdmQsW4rdPUyrnLg6tulWa3bterjShs0hE4ysqZyzEdz6diXZP9QnrqSZFbo6D3LwufA7-3z6UNy/s1600/IMG_2283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9Ss-mY9q-j9TWsC8yVTfjZZBxU_fNHsakMXX_sSILIvuG1gLPV1qTxb9CnTkB9zRKdmQsW4rdPUyrnLg6tulWa3bterjShs0hE4ysqZyzEdz6diXZP9QnrqSZFbo6D3LwufA7-3z6UNy/s320/IMG_2283.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain-gutter garden!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-elgsPjlLqtCxwZkFgaDiOAiQTw5y30fBO1BGHVAM0y4Oyt7Fyd3YhrpDENBFp5sgqPJdn9SzvXH1VpOaEh9lrqOXzvMjDAU5QIfyBcTRApvnLzYNcJlzHREfVSQcegwnrfA907AaK1f5/s1600/IMG_2288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-elgsPjlLqtCxwZkFgaDiOAiQTw5y30fBO1BGHVAM0y4Oyt7Fyd3YhrpDENBFp5sgqPJdn9SzvXH1VpOaEh9lrqOXzvMjDAU5QIfyBcTRApvnLzYNcJlzHREfVSQcegwnrfA907AaK1f5/s320/IMG_2288.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painted furniture (and no lawn to mow!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Tfy3-V2Yt6rBDwG9EQTxGMdD6R3kvbBJZG2MSQUJzS-rGc9CykswP-oKYjORO1mbg-8KhMcsrKzO7aNqwjd8zSV8lXcnFgy4zHTgSA9bqJBV3NBXKCNsoxzA_7aIpJ58mdxdKlAEtbOG/s1600/IMG_2290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Tfy3-V2Yt6rBDwG9EQTxGMdD6R3kvbBJZG2MSQUJzS-rGc9CykswP-oKYjORO1mbg-8KhMcsrKzO7aNqwjd8zSV8lXcnFgy4zHTgSA9bqJBV3NBXKCNsoxzA_7aIpJ58mdxdKlAEtbOG/s320/IMG_2290.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outdoor art on the garden shed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OKIaTEmHNewHtdcgj3qVRKJqqhOkX1OpQ-GzBIrKDPWi1hDykLtYEIQWn7m_PJeeXjwmvom42Nk1aqc9C_csY9VqspmVkHJONElVWSxmrTMSJ8hlncjpl4xGaqTwfP6Nd0dq2XY8AnlE/s1600/IMG_2292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OKIaTEmHNewHtdcgj3qVRKJqqhOkX1OpQ-GzBIrKDPWi1hDykLtYEIQWn7m_PJeeXjwmvom42Nk1aqc9C_csY9VqspmVkHJONElVWSxmrTMSJ8hlncjpl4xGaqTwfP6Nd0dq2XY8AnlE/s320/IMG_2292.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umbrella to make mini-greenhouse!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoCMrAMIskYTxgYMMYnZiwyn0hK1_l3hiatExte0kwD7Wz8oPpQjwIlbBhyphenhyphenM5JU8oVTNyKpUoLz7KVX2-Iqw7wNlScVyAmaA3wPQE25C7PB1sB6TZZHleW0wFWngyIlEIVGn5dtC_4tir/s1600/IMG_2293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoCMrAMIskYTxgYMMYnZiwyn0hK1_l3hiatExte0kwD7Wz8oPpQjwIlbBhyphenhyphenM5JU8oVTNyKpUoLz7KVX2-Iqw7wNlScVyAmaA3wPQE25C7PB1sB6TZZHleW0wFWngyIlEIVGn5dtC_4tir/s320/IMG_2293.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corinne matching the poppies!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2SEnQ7BN2mUCFtKJxdl8Y-yp31gizaEfMuEnubu3ybOOd_2zfKrEtWXm8v44j8itZaeTf7nTPQGtHcv-YCbqnFufIwQx9PwI9rg1YhEyLoAEevuMkJ413VT0z-ATYxGbNIRO6bIFTxmZK/s1600/IMG_2297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2SEnQ7BN2mUCFtKJxdl8Y-yp31gizaEfMuEnubu3ybOOd_2zfKrEtWXm8v44j8itZaeTf7nTPQGtHcv-YCbqnFufIwQx9PwI9rg1YhEyLoAEevuMkJ413VT0z-ATYxGbNIRO6bIFTxmZK/s320/IMG_2297.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hen house (though that screened area looks like a perfect place to write!)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsBGC6WbeKfUixI8BUd6rdD0hCX1NpibCwNO-ucsDcbHjIrTHVo5qMszP8yvn0pWUNVe1G40KRm6FARX7c3eXFOnV3Rf_J2pOewmygqXDXsjlFzxrD4oexoUdvO4Cdq6uUptXiGGGizEQ/s1600/IMG_2316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsBGC6WbeKfUixI8BUd6rdD0hCX1NpibCwNO-ucsDcbHjIrTHVo5qMszP8yvn0pWUNVe1G40KRm6FARX7c3eXFOnV3Rf_J2pOewmygqXDXsjlFzxrD4oexoUdvO4Cdq6uUptXiGGGizEQ/s320/IMG_2316.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Choose one color; now it becomes all about shapes & textures.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qOdbyyDynThelf1LZwtdqJpvHcfSf5oZMlt0kEvafBbY5Ai-Drr__Hw1X88znvvwSFBXui7hbkyDzNliuaPhke0KqfYZrY3sR-hLwjrqYicUGdlOIf9Xn-c-jjY28wr_FIE2BF_ERSU8/s1600/IMG_2318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qOdbyyDynThelf1LZwtdqJpvHcfSf5oZMlt0kEvafBbY5Ai-Drr__Hw1X88znvvwSFBXui7hbkyDzNliuaPhke0KqfYZrY3sR-hLwjrqYicUGdlOIf9Xn-c-jjY28wr_FIE2BF_ERSU8/s320/IMG_2318.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close-up.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgLnLHoTQFqRQ7xKMOut0tyrNNVMDiVppsXFlEkcVTouPyz0GhEgX8AQ-GNKSfjIi0ilBhLJFLtuAuYgdJlHex6K1SyPRB8o1rFWAr9wxt0MD6Y6hq2Qpb9jjMw5bkFRjc4WpiiFNSKPf/s1600/IMG_2323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgLnLHoTQFqRQ7xKMOut0tyrNNVMDiVppsXFlEkcVTouPyz0GhEgX8AQ-GNKSfjIi0ilBhLJFLtuAuYgdJlHex6K1SyPRB8o1rFWAr9wxt0MD6Y6hq2Qpb9jjMw5bkFRjc4WpiiFNSKPf/s320/IMG_2323.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My shadow & I love this angled planting!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pRR-eBrncVY2ossPRglV7jpvl-ECPwQL-c-IfZhc2Zh3Hy2A-jzYWH-c6AaI2x-T-Wy5YhUVOp7D5LWAmauYC1j2Sywo8ch99k4OdWsALOZyyS6U5XhK1_ILiDv-opONZKzCyDb17Xew/s1600/IMG_2327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pRR-eBrncVY2ossPRglV7jpvl-ECPwQL-c-IfZhc2Zh3Hy2A-jzYWH-c6AaI2x-T-Wy5YhUVOp7D5LWAmauYC1j2Sywo8ch99k4OdWsALOZyyS6U5XhK1_ILiDv-opONZKzCyDb17Xew/s320/IMG_2327.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fence made of reclaimed metal with tile & glass, paint accents.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYLcoqz5yV91guHk4FculY4uRQXPmMTozKSdrsNuusJrud8yYfVRogs3N7EGjFwHyLaiXdIzhFmBiu_-OO30cdCcFLYqNsQe6qh6wQRRbaIUoY1-Zp0EWRjwgQi07m7-eZs3L30T-qRlM/s1600/IMG_2334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYLcoqz5yV91guHk4FculY4uRQXPmMTozKSdrsNuusJrud8yYfVRogs3N7EGjFwHyLaiXdIzhFmBiu_-OO30cdCcFLYqNsQe6qh6wQRRbaIUoY1-Zp0EWRjwgQi07m7-eZs3L30T-qRlM/s320/IMG_2334.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watermelon berries!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1j2dYaTJ-j0Nt4siJUFQQJAcDWvEx-yxWOWPhIc5L7gfciJT7KQhs75QVc-7mAw1AmEeLhrNmzG-O51YxfWxHXPBiSBjZab4hmYoBG1FN6IWhFi6wj-MU5OFonVCSfrfmTvWy__L6zK1/s1600/IMG_2337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1j2dYaTJ-j0Nt4siJUFQQJAcDWvEx-yxWOWPhIc5L7gfciJT7KQhs75QVc-7mAw1AmEeLhrNmzG-O51YxfWxHXPBiSBjZab4hmYoBG1FN6IWhFi6wj-MU5OFonVCSfrfmTvWy__L6zK1/s320/IMG_2337.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice kitty.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83TqkREcEwLyxaR76lQeg2wZOkdAxnvreHbZAFUBH22D7gCzsHkUTc5IGSnUgeSarapoj13h3F6Tadg-Ik1x9sfrJqRJxkhLierxpPJKqD1Qs8DJ3_iVnnxRcOh-oQh36TVWFneGLEp97/s1600/IMG_2341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83TqkREcEwLyxaR76lQeg2wZOkdAxnvreHbZAFUBH22D7gCzsHkUTc5IGSnUgeSarapoj13h3F6Tadg-Ik1x9sfrJqRJxkhLierxpPJKqD1Qs8DJ3_iVnnxRcOh-oQh36TVWFneGLEp97/s320/IMG_2341.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's patriotic to re-purpose your old sports equipment! <br />(Be careful of the black arm rests on a sunny day!)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eY_lnJbmsGmEcnMaeDpDJRCwih7mb9ZjC2uhyphenhyphenIxJHAlehAoRSR-WyshmOxKe8FPuCIaVrICu3NK0CV1a_vuzZB8evDGWj_KWJS6H8Kw1XKfiOLVzG2_nTnkklT6mS3QtClF72K1rqufN/s1600/IMG_2346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eY_lnJbmsGmEcnMaeDpDJRCwih7mb9ZjC2uhyphenhyphenIxJHAlehAoRSR-WyshmOxKe8FPuCIaVrICu3NK0CV1a_vuzZB8evDGWj_KWJS6H8Kw1XKfiOLVzG2_nTnkklT6mS3QtClF72K1rqufN/s320/IMG_2346.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm claiming the hammock and the float plane!</td></tr>
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<br />bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-27493952574361846882013-07-26T15:56:00.000-08:002013-07-26T15:56:33.638-08:00rough terrainSomething from last week has been on my mind. While Jon and I were driving to Seward for our weekend camping trip, I brought up something that happened earlier in the week. Along the shores of Turnagain Arm, just south of Anchorage, a woman's body was recovered.<br />
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Her name was <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/adn/obituary.aspx?n=Martha-Levensaler&pid=165990055#fbLoggedOut" target="_blank">Martha</a> and she was someone Jon had known years ago, having dated Martha's then-roommate. I had met Martha a few times through the Alaska Women's Environmental Network (AWEN) and at the Alaska Center for the Environment (ACE). But neither of us knew her well. When a news report had listed her as missing, I worried. Her husband had said she was "despondent," not answering her phone, hadn't shown up for work. They found her car, then they found her body.<br />
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As we drove along the Arm, I told Jon how I wondered what the husband had meant by <i>despondent</i>, because in the past few weeks I'd had days in a row where I felt so low that even riding my bike didn't interest me. I'll admit now that I didn't answer the phone. I did go on a hike with one of my friends and when it didn't cheer me up, I told her I'd had a problem with this depression for a long time. She asked for how long and I told her since I was a teen. My friend seemed to not know what to say. I wondered if I'd made a mistake or maybe she just needed to think it through. A weight settled inside me and we dropped the subject. I've never told any of my other friends about my depression. Jon is the one who sees it, encourages me, knows that at times I am inconsolable. Listens to me when I tell him "This is not how normal people are!"<br />
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Now I was scared. What had happened to this woman who had been a light in the community, a leader, a warrior for the environment? What about me? What was to stop me from getting to that point where I could not go on?<br />
<br />
Jon asked if any of my friends knew Martha, and because I use social media a little more than I like to admit, I told him a few were. Why not ask them if she had a problem with depression, he suggested. I was doubtful. Look at me, I reminded him. I tell nobody. Throughout our lives, we act. We have our public side, then we have the side we show our partner and very few others - if any. Jon and I talked about why this is the case. And what we agreed is that people with depression are afraid we will be judged. Judged for being weak; for not appreciating all that is before us; all that we have; be it family or friends, possessions or just a brilliant summer day.<br />
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Two weeks ago, I was very down. There was little that would make me smile. I didn't want to smile. My energy was drained, but I convinced myself that I should do some research and the book I needed was at the library on the university campus where parking is pricey. I dragged myself out of the house, climbed on my bike and rode the few miles to the Consortium Library (where I discovered that I'd forgotten my note with the book title, forcing me to speak with another person). Eventually I found the book, checked it out and biked home.<br />
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I rode through a route that goes between my street and the nearby school, through a cul-de-sac to an intersection. As I made my turn, something in the rock garden on the corner caught my eye. I hit my brakes. Two perfect boletus mushrooms were pushing through the loosened soil. I looked at them. Allowed a smile. I considered picking them, wondered if my neighbors knew what deliciousness was growing in their yard. I left them, in case the family planned to pick them for dinner. Later in the evening, when Jon called to say he was leaving the shop, I told him to be sure to bike past that house and notice the rock garden. He arrived not an hour later with not two, but three mushrooms from his ride.<br />
<br />
These little unexpected moments of joy can pull me from my malaise as if a switch has flipped on a light. I've often wondered if these deep canyons in my mind magnify those
moments of soaring happiness. Do I experience life's highs more
intensely because of the mental distance traveled to get there? Because
when I'm in that headspace, I can see that this is indeed a beautiful
world.<br />
<br />
But just like knowing that the day-after-day sunny weather we've had this summer will ultimately end with skies that cloud and bring rain, I know the down days will return. I will wonder again how many days the darkness outside or within will last. I will try to keep myself busy. Try to not leave too much time to ponder my failings, my inadequacies, my insecurities, disappointments. Those things that lead to the downward spiral. I will try to focus on the positive moments for as long as I can. Try to link together as many good days as I can, continuing to focus on the simple beauty around me.<br />
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postscript:</div>
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It has taken me a few days to write this and I'm still nervous as hell about posting it. I did call a friend who is listed among Martha's friends on social media. While their interests sometimes overlapped, they were acquaintances and he had no knowledge of the struggles Martha went through. I'm glad I spoke with him. He's a writer and a teacher of writing, an observant and generous person. Though it was tough sharing with him my reasons for being concerned, his encouragement told me I needed to complete the thought.</div>
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For my friends who may be worried, I'm mostly okay, though I've found it's much easier to mend a shoulder than a mind and not nearly as hard to speak of a physical ailment than a mental one. I realized as I was riding my bike on some trails this Wednesday that part of what compels me to share this story is this relationship I have with words. If I can give voice to these feelings; if I can speak its name; if I can call it out; if I can tell the world it's lurking, maybe I can take away its power. So, call it my flip-off to Depression. There. I've said it's name. Yet I am so nervous about hitting the "publish" button, the real moment of truth.</div>
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We've had a couple rain storms in Anchorage in the last two days. I'm okay with that.</div>
bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-81466880687186551542013-07-26T15:43:00.000-08:002013-07-26T15:43:48.102-08:00bike camping Last Friday Jon and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. After talking about a few options, we decided to drive toward Seward with the bikes and camping gear in the car, then bike up to Lost Lake. We've biked the entire length of the trail several times and I've long wanted to spend the night camping there. I figured seven miles to the lake would be very manageable as a first camping trip of the year. In fact, it was to be my first camping trip since 2011! I was ready.<br />
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We hit the trail just before 7 p.m. with Jon pulling the BOB trailer while I went light with rear panniers and my Camelbak. Parts of the trail were steep and sloughing away. In a couple places it was verging on being overgrown. Several times I got off to walk a rocky or otherwise sketchy section, pushing the bike or lifting the back end over something. After a few miles, the trail emerged from the trees and became a winding path, mostly rideable - even the elevated boardwalk, which I cleaned without thinking (best leave the thinking out when getting ready to ride the narrow planks).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWq3qy0lSGMathalx_88yG9bEdig8R7wvy-HJ95x6HCKqNxHaNGzqqlgO5SK9CJf-HRZgvce_-Qm-qWaUAuOzhyphenhyphen6lGTxlsirb1N7j1FJXZlAPsVs3sY29o5cKz5j0yFomhsjrrqzgZsX3/s1600/IMG_2217.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWq3qy0lSGMathalx_88yG9bEdig8R7wvy-HJ95x6HCKqNxHaNGzqqlgO5SK9CJf-HRZgvce_-Qm-qWaUAuOzhyphenhyphen6lGTxlsirb1N7j1FJXZlAPsVs3sY29o5cKz5j0yFomhsjrrqzgZsX3/s320/IMG_2217.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon bikes toward the lake; Resurrection Bay in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGBsst6p7rDqM1Ys0CEkgfUwDx5yW8z8XnNIZcD2F6ZrDlVRjZZcu3eK3yrlBseB0z-7EUwiyFbneSC7oxn1Tid7uDttpZX-agJGbsNJAXs3ryQmTfu7BhJss72GnZ13GmkgCqRlEDO-H/s1600/IMG_2221.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGBsst6p7rDqM1Ys0CEkgfUwDx5yW8z8XnNIZcD2F6ZrDlVRjZZcu3eK3yrlBseB0z-7EUwiyFbneSC7oxn1Tid7uDttpZX-agJGbsNJAXs3ryQmTfu7BhJss72GnZ13GmkgCqRlEDO-H/s320/IMG_2221.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Lost Lake at 9 p.m.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Near the high point, the wind was kicking up but I rode in short sleeves toward the south end of the lake. After a little wandering we found a level campsite high above the lake and slightly sheltered from the wind. Despite mosquitoes buzzing on the outside of the tent, we eventually got to sleep.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2v3klCttFpdQE0NZdXFtjdwiUDf-v-UsaH9NTcg7dXbYPylUunEwutcJy1GVgSepPX-9rkZgk4KvOWMbEmwSE-93bYEXYBRV55Pz-Zgy_Eq5PgUtQi48mSLdL3VwOlpc5GjSGpGquKby/s1600/IMG_2230.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2v3klCttFpdQE0NZdXFtjdwiUDf-v-UsaH9NTcg7dXbYPylUunEwutcJy1GVgSepPX-9rkZgk4KvOWMbEmwSE-93bYEXYBRV55Pz-Zgy_Eq5PgUtQi48mSLdL3VwOlpc5GjSGpGquKby/s320/IMG_2230.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">11:15 p.m., shortly before turning in for the night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0NEsnaNxBvvFfUEUoAw1G73-xU6VG7V5YQOas0zn3WKeg1eyuli-fzH9kSul_UqATMYDr8kuhFCdGtcP_0MjmexjubTPGiuoJS5APSKuuSeSzwl8ETklTlDOYIvwRZop7rnVWB2ojsUZ/s1600/IMG_2234.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0NEsnaNxBvvFfUEUoAw1G73-xU6VG7V5YQOas0zn3WKeg1eyuli-fzH9kSul_UqATMYDr8kuhFCdGtcP_0MjmexjubTPGiuoJS5APSKuuSeSzwl8ETklTlDOYIvwRZop7rnVWB2ojsUZ/s320/IMG_2234.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home for two nights.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next morning, we woke to sprinkles on the tent, but soon the rain moved away (apparently headed for Anchorage, we later heard) and I climbed from the tent to make coffee. There is something perfect about sitting with a cup of coffee in the great outdoors, watching the morning light play on the lake. After breakfast and a few chores - like pumping water through our filter to fill our packs - we started out on a hike.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSnk8z8d_iD6CvDfidCFlkx5tS_Z3uLw78W_MvWsx2-6vvEiYLBiZzqMGoMvyLQapmk9kWAn_BZviKSFXBm8smkrccrprj3bpj7AQYGypnfQYKZNqcECgEES0bNx5wRJH_7RVKRML2unIA/s1600/IMG_2238.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSnk8z8d_iD6CvDfidCFlkx5tS_Z3uLw78W_MvWsx2-6vvEiYLBiZzqMGoMvyLQapmk9kWAn_BZviKSFXBm8smkrccrprj3bpj7AQYGypnfQYKZNqcECgEES0bNx5wRJH_7RVKRML2unIA/s320/IMG_2238.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge we didn't need to cross with bikes and gear.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Our goal was to circumnavigate the lake. We didn't know if it was possible; rather, we didn't know how far upstream to the headwaters of the lake we would need to go to make a safe stream crossing! Eventually we crossed just above a melting snow slide and where the creek braided. Jon went barefoot and I just kept my boots on - only a little water crept over the tops and I was mighty happy that I had better footing as we crossed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvWYW6o9nuXEcDH0RywLm252a12SCYEkQ7mZCkpYF6-3HKOqOBF3GI05RhHOwz5Ce-FNObuSKShkKOpYhrz0XlRT-gdPeVveJYHe77zKlC_imhYiE6jos7IKBuoqveWsovZhP6dqQNxk7/s1600/IMG_2242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvWYW6o9nuXEcDH0RywLm252a12SCYEkQ7mZCkpYF6-3HKOqOBF3GI05RhHOwz5Ce-FNObuSKShkKOpYhrz0XlRT-gdPeVveJYHe77zKlC_imhYiE6jos7IKBuoqveWsovZhP6dqQNxk7/s320/IMG_2242.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ptarmigan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUINgffzEye6RmLugP2_635JQRpgiBMKO0yDpZcYJkz3U8MgsYRHQdkHMi7uqioGvythI7JNdVRmxVVw0upbZWtinvB7wNc2YmIMCkKJKJTs-zI1OT5jglAcyhHGah_ZafjJddH7kRdrq/s1600/IMG_2244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUINgffzEye6RmLugP2_635JQRpgiBMKO0yDpZcYJkz3U8MgsYRHQdkHMi7uqioGvythI7JNdVRmxVVw0upbZWtinvB7wNc2YmIMCkKJKJTs-zI1OT5jglAcyhHGah_ZafjJddH7kRdrq/s320/IMG_2244.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We found a cave!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrJGB4Nz9k9gBTGEIqWObqn_fhhurfR381k1d91m53IdvCJH-CnmuYVR4ZlQoTDEdTXwibMqDqLBTgHij_tPujj9KuDqY9rcV5DQBa3ewGWoLY_3ZXkF-bp990kcSJG7f01oqrrfa7nsp/s1600/IMG_2246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrJGB4Nz9k9gBTGEIqWObqn_fhhurfR381k1d91m53IdvCJH-CnmuYVR4ZlQoTDEdTXwibMqDqLBTgHij_tPujj9KuDqY9rcV5DQBa3ewGWoLY_3ZXkF-bp990kcSJG7f01oqrrfa7nsp/s320/IMG_2246.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Was it a mine? I wonder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhIjgCmn2d-He2_8tgrN-ZoeF2VxqJZgwSg9COkI20J2em20HSrf3f5Tc_OaoOX9JThy4UDk7OOed1BCL9XDJSY1sV4u3ysWfkvznFmHXtmuzhPlfkfOu9nBRvW8tuLkGsLdheoSbTqZM/s1600/IMG_2250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhIjgCmn2d-He2_8tgrN-ZoeF2VxqJZgwSg9COkI20J2em20HSrf3f5Tc_OaoOX9JThy4UDk7OOed1BCL9XDJSY1sV4u3ysWfkvznFmHXtmuzhPlfkfOu9nBRvW8tuLkGsLdheoSbTqZM/s320/IMG_2250.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little white flowers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI60mYrjq4qCdfg3bGCswxN0bBg-Do2ohYqkXsRXyco_diWp_pI64vYiariLfpdFcoDfQT0IkKA7uyHWNUMKYPV6FyMY43WV6qCZCCXG2STjYfaqdYLkMBlcQ8KSo_SgyKEaIQbT5QT_C/s1600/IMG_2254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI60mYrjq4qCdfg3bGCswxN0bBg-Do2ohYqkXsRXyco_diWp_pI64vYiariLfpdFcoDfQT0IkKA7uyHWNUMKYPV6FyMY43WV6qCZCCXG2STjYfaqdYLkMBlcQ8KSo_SgyKEaIQbT5QT_C/s320/IMG_2254.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many wildflowers!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMW9VWp0FsTYhdCdJ0N39xo5WVd2OyFzJN282qd72aLO3IyETta2IqPkurJw33PH5PYLwd49FqvobnrsBhbjjgf7uwJgOMN7nij5mc4uqxZEOctwpoAR3RpCf2q8DC6mz03KuPJLimF41/s1600/IMG_2263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMW9VWp0FsTYhdCdJ0N39xo5WVd2OyFzJN282qd72aLO3IyETta2IqPkurJw33PH5PYLwd49FqvobnrsBhbjjgf7uwJgOMN7nij5mc4uqxZEOctwpoAR3RpCf2q8DC6mz03KuPJLimF41/s320/IMG_2263.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headwaters of Lost Lake. We'll cross on those gravel bars.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIV5m5dmXddPnxo4RZIXq1sMUNOkRyAG3tr9FDpAXF4rbjiW4pFllseQJGH2fEu1Qb8R2P7Z0QfEpFI4VLTxwaVoDiNfKMm-PLO2PX3KhNYZJ1tOUAiZVdnTJHvIDJha_FcmGNN8ZIkjN/s1600/IMG_2269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIV5m5dmXddPnxo4RZIXq1sMUNOkRyAG3tr9FDpAXF4rbjiW4pFllseQJGH2fEu1Qb8R2P7Z0QfEpFI4VLTxwaVoDiNfKMm-PLO2PX3KhNYZJ1tOUAiZVdnTJHvIDJha_FcmGNN8ZIkjN/s320/IMG_2269.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading back to camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A few hours later we were back at camp, devouring dinner and wine
(after briefly soaking our feet in one of the ponds) before turning in
early. Exhausted.<br />
<br />
On Sunday morning, we had a leisurely morning of coffee and breakfast. We watched from our perch as several hikers walked
by. We would pass them later on our descent after our before-the-crack-of-noon start. We would also run into
several cyclists we knew, most from Anchorage, who were riding the trail
the way we usually do: as a day trip, maybe with a lunch stop in view
of the lake. I took my time on the descent, stopping a few times just
to rest my hands from the almost constant braking. Jon pulled away from me and I watched the BOB trailer bounce down the rougher sections of trail. We finally arrived
in the parking lot, brimming with cars on a hot, sunny day.<br />
<br />
I was pretty happy with how the Fargo - not to mention my shoulder - handled on the trip. I think I'm ready to tackle the Continental Divide!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoz7fThetkFsIyl0VOZBEEwIqHdGY7fudVedWwndc-CoueGpB7Bv7ScndmANwJD5AhPlDAu_NGCIBWx8_o2prxB4yYey-U9dWoOlDT65Qv4G3F4eq4GqN09XubNrUe7oCHSpZqGQzH0Cd/s1600/IMG_2278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoz7fThetkFsIyl0VOZBEEwIqHdGY7fudVedWwndc-CoueGpB7Bv7ScndmANwJD5AhPlDAu_NGCIBWx8_o2prxB4yYey-U9dWoOlDT65Qv4G3F4eq4GqN09XubNrUe7oCHSpZqGQzH0Cd/s320/IMG_2278.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Until next time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-65306307057034023652013-06-28T12:20:00.000-08:002013-06-28T12:20:09.915-08:00repeatsHere we are, a misty rain falling and words piecing themselves together. The sun and warmth have been wonderful in Anchorage, but my writing inspiration has been nil. Let's see, besides work and volunteering at the museum, here's a little of what I've been up to.<br />
<br />
I've been mountain biking and thinking an awful lot about technique. Earlier this month, my biking group hosted a clinic for its members at Kincaid Park. We had a young man teach us a few things about riding singletrack, specifically, how to best ride the many banked corners that were built on the new trails in 2011. Kevin is a talented rider, a soccer coach and recently earned his degree in phys. ed. He knows how to break down the elements of trail riding and express them to a group in a way most riders cannot.<br />
<br />
After a discussion and brief warm-up, Kevin watched as each rider pedaled through a short stretch of trail near one of the parking lots; then, he told us what he saw and described how to improve. Most important was not hitting the brakes while in the midst of a banked corner, at least not if you're riding at all high on the bank. Instead, tap the <i>rear brake only</i> before entering the corner, then ride it out. Tapping the brakes while in the corner could slow momentum and drop us down to the low spot on the trail, maybe causing a crash, he warned. We rode the section the other direction while Kevin watched from the side. More discussion and we rode it again, this time biking the entire length of the trail. More discussion and a return to the parking lot.<br />
<br />
After listening to what he said, practicing getting higher and higher on the corners, tapping my rear brake to enter the corner at just the right speed, I reached my "aha moment." It was the moment when I realized that the crash that was the final straw in tearing my rotator cuff back in 2011 was not just from crashing to a stop after coming out of a banked turn, it was from hitting my brakes during the turn itself. The slowdown in my momentum had sent me out of my high spot on the turn, to the opposite side of the trail, hitting my brakes again to save myself from crashing into something on the side of the trail. What I thought was one event was truly a series of unfortunate events. Knowing how I caused the accident is some comfort since now I know with more certainty how and why it happened.<br />
<br />
Lesson learned: hit the brakes before the corner, not during. It reminded me of my days of learning to drive a car. Dad didn't take me driving much, leaving most of my instruction to the school's drivers' ed teacher (yes, our school had one), to Mom and my oldest brother, Mike. On one occasion, I was driving with Dad and approached a curve in the road a little too fast. Near the apex of the curve, I hit the brakes. Dad scolded. Told me to apply the brakes before, not after. No explanation. Just is. Four years later, my brother John was driving home from work late one evening. He must have been going too fast. Maybe he fell asleep. The car went off the road and rolled. He was killed on the same curve where Dad had scolded me about my braking.<br />
<br />
That was what happened to young people where I grew up. Missed corners on two-lane highways late at night. Not many survivors, but even without a memorial posted, we learned to take those corners more seriously, with more caution. Small towns have long memories and still remember who was lost.<br />
<br />
A week or so ago I biked with my husband Jon on the trails at Kincaid. It was our first time riding them together since they were built. I'll admit I thought twice about descending the trail where I crashed back in 2011 when the trails were brand new. He was on his new Anthem 29er and I was on a shop demo (also a 29er). Before we began the descent, I asked him to give me a little space because I may need to stop or might ride slower than he would. Then I dropped into Toilet Bowl (yes, that's the name), rode the series of banked corners and run-outs, tapped my rear brake when I needed and came out unscathed at the other end.bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-19670661774372455532013-04-15T19:39:00.000-08:002013-04-15T19:39:13.692-08:00oh, behave!<span class="userContent">Sunday was yet another sunny spring day for Anchorage. I spent the morning finishing my final project for a class I'm taking and then decided to head off to the park for a short loop on my snow bike.</span><span class="userContent"> It was noon and, though the air was warming, the snowy trails remained firm and wonderful for biking or for skiing.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">I pedaled up the trail thinking about bears that would soon be ambling out of hibernation; about work and how most of my customers are lots of fun to help with only the occasional "Mr Know-it All" to make me roll my eyes and wonder who he's trying to impress: me or his girlfriend. I came across lots of other people out enjoying the early afternoon. Runners, dog walkers, skiers, some other bikers. I tried to yield the trail if I saw the others first, but sometimes runners were quick to step aside; we exchanged greetings and continued on our ways. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Xq9gcp2Ghof5V_cYpuIEGRQXygTnhD1I_z3NMX6ukGeFhZ96MXlVogrbu6gzWEiLajKT6l_YKNjJq8cYdK2CU49OsRaSbdK2ffR7JYwacL4ftwbWa584Z4NTsG5nFQb4vyYUxSID7WJ1/s1600/IMG_2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Xq9gcp2Ghof5V_cYpuIEGRQXygTnhD1I_z3NMX6ukGeFhZ96MXlVogrbu6gzWEiLajKT6l_YKNjJq8cYdK2CU49OsRaSbdK2ffR7JYwacL4ftwbWa584Z4NTsG5nFQb4vyYUxSID7WJ1/s320/IMG_2011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist Unknown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="userContent">Shortly after passing a rather large group of cyclists, some of whom I knew, I arrived at one of the trailhead parking lots. On a hunch, I took a look around at the license plates on the cars, searching for a vanity plate that had been mentioned during a discussion at a recent trail-user meeting.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">Earlier this month, while I was at a the monthly
meeting at the BLM, an equestrian told another cyclist and me that some other snow bikers had been very rude, cursing & admonishing some equestrians
because their horses were "wrecking" the snowy trails. She told us <span class="text_exposed_show">what the couple's vanity plate said. I wrote it down and wondered who it was. On Sunday, when I was riding through the parking lot, I saw the plate. I saw a business name decal on the rear window. I knew who the car belonged to. It was a couple I'd just seen on the trail; people known to be active in the bike community.<br /> <br />
After making my discovery, I kept riding as the trail got rougher from divots kicked up by some
horse hooves. I tried to ride the smoothest line, but it was somewhat
rough. Yep; the snow was kind of torn up. Soon, I met a pair of equestrians. I got off my bike to make room
for them on the narrow trail. Before they rode past, they warned me about a mother moose
and calf on the trail ahead that had compelled them to turn around.</span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> I thanked them, got back on my bike</span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> and continued up the trail.</span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />Soon I came across one
of the moose browsing on the side of the trail. The other was out of
sight. I called to the moose in the high sing-song voice I reserve for wild animals, just to make sure it knew I was there. When I turned back to retrace my route, I heard cracking branches nearby.
Now I was between them! I stepped off the firm trail and started hiking through knee-deep snow
to get around the younger moose (wishing I'd worn my gaitors to
keep the snow from spilling into my boots). Just a few feet into my detour, the youngster decided to
follow his mother off the trail and I was on my way.<br /> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7FsDstNxs1LYPkKiGXvT07ZzOPoySGaJ-Y-AJHnRI7ikNzQJJsg1hN9IsFkxvVsWfW9l2Y2FsRYgreXqDG0bzblPcpEK_KeldVxF53454d30m1nFN7gI1NjaoShVkCKC9lEKBn2mJGmn/s1600/IMG_1977.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7FsDstNxs1LYPkKiGXvT07ZzOPoySGaJ-Y-AJHnRI7ikNzQJJsg1hN9IsFkxvVsWfW9l2Y2FsRYgreXqDG0bzblPcpEK_KeldVxF53454d30m1nFN7gI1NjaoShVkCKC9lEKBn2mJGmn/s320/IMG_1977.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some other moose on another day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">As I pedaled up the trail, I thought of all the encounters I'd had that day: people who'd made way for me; others whom I'd allowed to get past me. An old dog who wasn't about to step off a narrow trail, for whom I walked my bike, front wheel high in the air to wheel by him. The runners whose shoes probably filled with snow when then stepped off the trail to wait for some bikers, some friends I'd seen twice since we seemed to be riding the same loop, but in opposite directions.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span>
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">It's all pretty easy, you know? It can be very civil and even a little charming. We say <i>thank you</i>, <i>no problem</i>, <i>beautiful day</i>, <i>wonderful sunshine</i>. Me? I'm just happy that I'm back on my bike and that we still have winter in the woods while it's springtime in the streets. If you're out riding, skiing, hiking, snowshoeing or horseback riding and you're angry at other folks and creatures on the trail, you're doing it wrong. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Though I will make exceptions if the creature is threatening to attack.</span></span>bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-54965561724374874432013-03-25T20:22:00.001-08:002013-03-25T20:22:18.257-08:00the next big thingSunday afternoon. Snow was falling. I was skiing in Chugach State Park with two of my good friends, Corinne and Jo-Ann. Corinne mentioned something she'd posted recently on <a href="http://corinneweekly.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">her blog</a>, then she asked the question: is your blog done or just on hiatus? To which I answered that I would return to the blog when I felt I could keep it current. Enough posts, at least once a week, was what I had in mind. But right now I'm busy. Recently returned to a few days a week at the shop; taking two classes; volunteering in the museum archives, helping organize a <a href="http://singletrackadvocates.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">fundraiser</a>, helping organize the ride and clinic schedule for my <a href="http://alaskadirtdivas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">biking group</a>. Getting in a ski or a bike ride. Crap! I am busy!<br />
<br />
Then I was tagged in a post by <a href="http://www.kateyschultz.com/2013/03/the-next-big-thing.html" target="_blank">Katey</a>, one of my friends who is also a writer, and a disciplined one at that. Katey did a post on "The Next Big Thing," a blog hop where writers from around the world share what they're working on by responding to ten questions. Am I supposed to tag someone? If so, I'm going to tag <a href="http://gusfordjohnson.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Uncle Gus</a>, who is also working on a novel. Alright, ready or not, here is my entry to "The Next Best Thing." Before I begin, did I mention I'm also working on revising my novel? I am.<br />
<br />
Ten Questions:<br />
<br />
<i>What is your working title of your book?</i><br />High Water Line<br />
<br /><i>Where did the idea come from for the book?</i><br />
I was riding my bike on a trail near my house. It was a year after my dad died. My parents married late, for their generation, when he was about 32 & my mom was around 29. He served in WWII and went all sorts of places before and after he met Mom. I had a thought: what if before he met her, he had another family, people we didn't know about. What if they were in Japan. The earthquake & tsunami had happened 5 months previous. What if they were affected by it. I just kept asking myself "what if" and the story wouldn't go away.<br />
For the record, this was supposed to be one of several short stories that revolved around the theme of this natural disaster from several perspectives, including some stories based here in Alaska. But this story kept expanding and I didn't want to turn my back on it as it took on its own energy. <br /><br /><i>What genre does your book fall under?</i><br />
Realistic, contemporary fiction. (I stole that answer from Katey.)<br />
<br /><i>Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?</i><br />
Really? Think Redford wouldn't mind playing a guy in his late 80s? I'm not sure what actress in her 40s should play his American daughter; and I don't know what 60-something Japanese actress should play the other one. (And I don't want to see their images while I'm still revising.)<br />
<br /><i>What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</i><br />
After the 2011 Japan tsunami, a Midwestern woman learns that her elderly father had another life before meeting her mother, a life that includes another daughter whose mother is missing after the tsunami floods a town where the father served in post-WWII Japan. <br />
<br /><i>Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</i><br />
I'd like to be represented but am not at this time.<br />
<br /><i>How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</i><br />
About 10 months.<br /><br /><i>What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?</i><br />
I don't know what else is out there that is like this; haven't researched it.<br /><br /><i>Who or what inspired you to write this book?</i><br />
Initially, my dad; then my friend, Mika, in Japan; the events surrounding the tsunami, the objects washing up on beaches. A few friends, other writers have encouraged me as I press on.<br /><br /><i>What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?</i><br />
The themes included in this book are: the idea of a passing generation and the loss of memory, collective & individual; concerns about contamination in our global environment, climate change, political upheaval and its impacts on individuals; the idea of what makes up a family. I felt there was lots of
material to dive into because of its place in time: Spring 2011. bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-6972610593114914702012-10-13T13:19:00.001-08:002012-10-13T13:31:14.558-08:00searching for john bannonI've just returned from a trip to Nova Scotia. I'll fill you in on the details of a road trip with my friend, Lynn, that began in Iowa and took us to the Maritime province where she was born and raised.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcDJa3PSmlES-G-fT35DNj0L0OJ36DoPD2mB6GR56v6Q5DU1H-HavTpZ78fyUvQ_rBNvYQKnvxHV5KurY0D31_E580oXCKdjXFvODIuIk1vvDOkhbUG1xwn08BZfxiH2WThNZu2JufP-c/s1600/IMG_1793.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcDJa3PSmlES-G-fT35DNj0L0OJ36DoPD2mB6GR56v6Q5DU1H-HavTpZ78fyUvQ_rBNvYQKnvxHV5KurY0D31_E580oXCKdjXFvODIuIk1vvDOkhbUG1xwn08BZfxiH2WThNZu2JufP-c/s320/IMG_1793.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We arrived in Halifax last Sunday, the day before Canadian Thanksgiving, and enjoyed traditional family meal (much like the US meal, it included turkey with all the fixings) with her family. The next day, we were off for some sight-seeing at Peggy's Cove where visitors look at the famous lighthouse, wander around the rocky coast, stack rocks and visit the tourist shops. They also might stop to wave at a <a href="http://www.novascotiawebcams.com/south-shore/peggys-cove-lighthouse.html" target="_blank">webcam</a> that looks out at the lighthouse, hoping that someone at home is watching at the right moment to see them.<br />
<br />
That's what I was trying to do when I stepped inside the Sou'wester gift shop to log onto the wifi to send an email to Jon. I was in an entryway of the building, which was crowded with cruise ship tourists who had taken a bus from Halifax. I started chatting with a man named David, who, despite the sunny day, was disappointed with his visit. Because he was unaware of the time change from the eastern US to Nova Scotia, he had missed an earlier bus that would have taken him from the ship to the <a href="http://museum.gov.ns.ca/mmanew/en/home/default.aspx" target="_blank">Maritime Museum of the Atlantic</a> and the <a href="http://halifax.ca/history/tfairview.html" target="_blank">Fairview</a> Lawn Cemetery. Turns out, his grandfather had been a crew member on the Titanic and had died after the sinking, on April 15, 1912. David wanted to pay his respects and to do so he and his wife had flown from England to New York where they'd boarded a cruise ship for Halifax.<br />
<br />
I told David and his wife, Beryl, that I could try to find the grave and send him a photo; that was the best I could offer. I took down his email address and his grandfather's name. Lynn joined my quest; we'd see what we could learn. <br />
<br />
Honestly, I hadn't even thought about the Titanic when we'd arrived, but Halifax is where the ships that retrieved bodies were based. (The dead were buried at sea or taken to Halifax; the living, taken to New York aboard the <i>Carpathia</i>.) They were cable ships, such as the <i>Mackay-Bennett</i> - ships which laid and repaired the telegraph cables that lay on the ocean floor between Europe and North America. Later that night, I went online to see if I could find where John Bannon was buried.<br />
<br />
What I learned was that he was 32 years old and married, listed as having lived in Southampton, England, and held the position of <i>greaser</i> in the engine department. He was <a href="http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/victoria/the-story-of-titanic-survivor-thomas-patrick-dillon-published-in-melbournes-the-herald/story-fn7x8me2-1226325486933" target="_blank">last seen </a>paddling away on a piece of debris, but as far as I could learn, his body was never recovered. I wondered what David wanted to see. Was there a memorial; someplace where I'd find his grandfather's name inscribed on a wall or monument? I found none listed. <br />
<br />
The next day, Lynn and I stopped by the cemetery and strolled between the headstones, listening in on stories told by the tour guides. We found no memorial aside from those to individuals, named and unnamed, whose bodies had been recovered. Each headstone included a number which represented the order in which the body was pulled from the ocean. I asked a guide if there was a listing anywhere in Halifax of all the people who had not been recovered, who had been lost at sea. He didn't know. But he promised to find out. After leaving the cemetery, I had Lynn drop me off at the maritime museum. I wanted to check out the Titanic exhibit as well as other displays. The staff told me there was a list of names in the exhibit.<br />
<br />
On the second floor of the museum, a small space is set aside for the Titanic (just one of many maritime disasters described at the facility). There I saw a ledger, part of a report on the investigation into the disaster, which included a list of all the crew members and their departments. The rightmost column told the person's fate. Most crew were lost.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcDJa3PSmlES-G-fT35DNj0L0OJ36DoPD2mB6GR56v6Q5DU1H-HavTpZ78fyUvQ_rBNvYQKnvxHV5KurY0D31_E580oXCKdjXFvODIuIk1vvDOkhbUG1xwn08BZfxiH2WThNZu2JufP-c/s1600/IMG_1793.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbRTEHpqXrFzMlwCMPPZ3rS86UPVCcWvMa-H3prf5H9I_AltpESqDiy9f0NO91X3PvZ_cg9chIZbSe6uRDBI-QdNcIogNwMEcsA87TuDVbSZRWJSFy-qut_mEu9WrvY_M2evH4h3tr2e3/s1600/IMG_1800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbRTEHpqXrFzMlwCMPPZ3rS86UPVCcWvMa-H3prf5H9I_AltpESqDiy9f0NO91X3PvZ_cg9chIZbSe6uRDBI-QdNcIogNwMEcsA87TuDVbSZRWJSFy-qut_mEu9WrvY_M2evH4h3tr2e3/s320/IMG_1800.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The report. John Bannon is listed at the bottom.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylHh5ME6okQ35lqvWlKlucf9R4oRAIdl6QHbVeaMFRba_AOn1GwuD_FfXhVSacq_ZRpjjbapyHG1snVr7s7lvmrtbEJ7efo8LRHBmiqlmSCErNLwhMQ0PocSiE7neV_Ah1NHD6KWPjPPf/s1600/IMG_1803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylHh5ME6okQ35lqvWlKlucf9R4oRAIdl6QHbVeaMFRba_AOn1GwuD_FfXhVSacq_ZRpjjbapyHG1snVr7s7lvmrtbEJ7efo8LRHBmiqlmSCErNLwhMQ0PocSiE7neV_Ah1NHD6KWPjPPf/s320/IMG_1803.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mural detail at the museum.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpmtXrGGG-zb-8hn9-BoV6RTvhgwelfJlWCP0QNghHhhfOLRWgvdHdf0LtK6tTdzo12uC4jyIzI7K42oKUmn-92m76CjWr-b_UOOjYdhesyZg_T8j5st1O3NcTS8sY4BJt9492PyPQZEL/s1600/IMG_1804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpmtXrGGG-zb-8hn9-BoV6RTvhgwelfJlWCP0QNghHhhfOLRWgvdHdf0LtK6tTdzo12uC4jyIzI7K42oKUmn-92m76CjWr-b_UOOjYdhesyZg_T8j5st1O3NcTS8sY4BJt9492PyPQZEL/s320/IMG_1804.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mural, a little blurry, but you get the idea.</i></td></tr>
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Looking for one person among the 1,517 killed made visiting the exhibit much more poignant. I felt connected to the event, as though looking for my own ancestor, especially as I read the name in the ledger and looked at a cross-section of the ship that showed where crew members worked and lived, deep in the ship. I wondered about David, the elderly grandson of John Bannon. Where he might look to find - or get closer to - this idea of his grandfather, whose last resting place is unknown, but is most likely at the bottom of the cold North Atlantic, somewhere between The UK and New York. Who knows how far he could have gone on his makeshift raft? Maybe David sailed nearby. Maybe even considered this.<br />
<br />
I haven't given up on finding out more about John Bannon. I keep researching, seeing what else I can uncover. Like the possibility that
John may have originally been from Liverpool, instead of Southampton where 724 members of the <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/the-forgotten-victims-how-the-titanic-tragedy-handed-a-devastating-legacy-to-the-people-of-southampton-7466557.html" target="_blank">885-person crew</a> signed on to work aboard the Titanic. I also learned that he was Catholic,
which would mean that had his body been recovered and identified, he would have been
buried at Mount Olivet Cemetery instead of Fairview. This is just one person of all the people who were lost, each with their stories, their families left behind to wonder and grieve. Generations still searching, especially during this one-hundredth anniversary year.<br />
<br />
So, here I am, back in Anchorage, with my new awareness of a man who was lost and missed, but 100 years later, not forgotten. I thank David for letting me into his family so I could learn this story and share it with more people. I hope he finds the answers he is searching for and has another chance to travel back to Halifax.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>For facts on number of passengers and crew on board, lives lost, rescued or recovered, <a href="http://www.titanicfacts.net/" target="_blank">here's a site</a> to start your research. These are the numbers I've used. There's lots of information out there; you just need to know what you're looking for.</i>bikegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05774265628828868112noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3385939106182317834.post-90593155187964013982012-09-30T14:29:00.003-08:002012-10-05T20:06:12.876-08:00midwest cultural tours: bookendsWhen Jon and I traveled to Wisconsin in late August, we started and ended the trip in Minneapolis, Minnesota, visiting with my brother Dave and his wife Kara. We always have a good time when we stay there, even when we're just hanging out talking. Dave and Kara live in the cool Nakomis neighborhood, near a greenway. When we arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, Kara put together a snack tray and mixed us some Arnie Palmers (in classy places, referred to as an 'Arnold Palmer,' according to Kara), then we headed out to their back deck where we nearly melted in the late August heat. It felt awesome after our cool Anchorage summer.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEPPa1T6MJS-CqVY0GA4oGkD-4jak2vt58GRdNR6gVXwJM_0UQTQ_7cG1WpZ_gfzDZJma8MptA9-fLL3hhsMWf9f1rvz81fk5TnMuk9rjyFq015YL9zbFw_DPDPr9f3OVUO7EddveTB0u/s1600/IMG_1413.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEPPa1T6MJS-CqVY0GA4oGkD-4jak2vt58GRdNR6gVXwJM_0UQTQ_7cG1WpZ_gfzDZJma8MptA9-fLL3hhsMWf9f1rvz81fk5TnMuk9rjyFq015YL9zbFw_DPDPr9f3OVUO7EddveTB0u/s320/IMG_1413.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture in the Fine Art building (sorry I don't have the artist's name).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Over the next few days, we had no problem filling our time: shopping at some stores in Nakomis and one of my favorites in the Cedar/Riverside area: Midwest Mountaineering. (They have a great selection of wool from <i>Icebreaker.</i>) There are also plenty of excellent places to eat or get a drink in the Twin Cities. After shopping with Kara, we headed to Longfellow Grill where we could sit outside enjoying half-price appetizers and a drink or two. Dave joined us after work just before we finished our appetizers (tempura green beans, buffalo calamari (spicy!) and pulled pork quesadillas). When we eventually returned to the house, we had to decide where to go for dinner. My question: do they have outdoor seating? Yes! <a href="http://www.cafeena.net/dinner-menu" target="_blank">Cafe Ena</a> had sidewalk seating, and the scent of blooming flowers filled the air around our table. Three of us had the Coriander-crusted sea scallops, which was very good. Jon was a renegade and had the red snapper. Mmm.<br />
<br />
Jon and I decided that the next day we'd go to the Minnesota State Fair. After all, we were missing the rainy Alaska State Fair. Why not melt in Minnesota? We packed a few things in Jon's backpack, Kara handed us a couple bottles of water (good call!) and we drove to the fair's Park and Ride where we caught a bus to the grounds. The Park and Ride was at a <a href="http://www.positivelyminnesota.com/Data_Publications/Economic_Trends_Magazine/May_2008_Edition/The_Twin_Cities_Ford_Plant.aspx" target="_blank">Ford assembly plant</a> that had <a href="http://www.startribune.com/local/blogs/the_latest.html" target="_blank">closed</a> late last year. I had no idea there <i>was</i> a Ford plant in the Twin Cities. It was huge (136 acres) and had been in operation since the 1920s. It's hard to see a facility that large and not wonder about all the people who've lost their jobs (For the record, the closure was scheduled before this current recession began.) We climbed into the motor coach and in a few minutes the Ford plant was behind us as we rolled along the tree-lined streets with lawns browned by the summer's drought.<br />
<br />
What can I say about the fair? Dairy building, Fine Arts, Agriculture, the Eco building, seed art, a surprise parade! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCIj_lwfax8prv2mGcvs5Wmc1VdDEbM2HIXSkcaDfSUsOxrjH0hrb4tvjyVAkF-BkeKvOc5ns6SF4M_GVoy7WJ7KYRzQOvKqVr-GBcnn2RmIdG5GjAu4hZ1fMw8JJO_oymugK2hoU3qzs/s1600/IMG_1390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCIj_lwfax8prv2mGcvs5Wmc1VdDEbM2HIXSkcaDfSUsOxrjH0hrb4tvjyVAkF-BkeKvOc5ns6SF4M_GVoy7WJ7KYRzQOvKqVr-GBcnn2RmIdG5GjAu4hZ1fMw8JJO_oymugK2hoU3qzs/s320/IMG_1390.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seed art can be a little political.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTMbIaBr1yq2SkHeq_2gBl_QZKTW5R6z2Zu13kAY4q9iaSA5c5qdXz1LUDnQEG2iHfRAZoppM3swDWGHb5yzMM00uyAb0TSnuMJu9R8yJr1LnJHshn77FWHP6LOp-ALl3KgMm4gxPwWoM/s1600/IMG_1396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTMbIaBr1yq2SkHeq_2gBl_QZKTW5R6z2Zu13kAY4q9iaSA5c5qdXz1LUDnQEG2iHfRAZoppM3swDWGHb5yzMM00uyAb0TSnuMJu9R8yJr1LnJHshn77FWHP6LOp-ALl3KgMm4gxPwWoM/s320/IMG_1396.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seed art can be political and clever.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pA4uQtvYiUKV6lRibpzPbtodJmMCHPHHTpYLmjFCb1BgTRmwWQEeoAlV35413BmDrsMU_NufUhB477XR7L-k8skEeXvUybKQ1WhxPX67Ze4ebZQzelzoaYsD8EQGWJcpNPxVGTPQrxDx/s1600/IMG_1397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pA4uQtvYiUKV6lRibpzPbtodJmMCHPHHTpYLmjFCb1BgTRmwWQEeoAlV35413BmDrsMU_NufUhB477XR7L-k8skEeXvUybKQ1WhxPX67Ze4ebZQzelzoaYsD8EQGWJcpNPxVGTPQrxDx/s320/IMG_1397.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seed art for art's sake.</i></td></tr>
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The food: breakfast burrito, yogurt, <a href="http://www.apples.umn.edu/zestar/index.html" target="_blank">Zestar!</a> apple, <a href="http://prontopup.net/shoppingcart/pages/Our-History-.html" target="_blank">Pronto Pup</a> (like a corn dog, but dipped in the batter right in front of you), meat balls, fried walleye, lemonade. Oh, and the IPA tasting! I found out later that we missed the ethnic food section and as we were getting ready to leave, we walked past places that smelled pretty delicious. (Note to self: we <i>must</i> visit Midwest during the fair again!) We talked with bee keepers, admired Christmas trees, looked at landscape competition entries and flower arrangements. As for the animals, we checked out the chickens and other birds, even saw a few horses, but the cows and hogs were already being loaded up late in the afternoon to be returned to their farms. Apparently, the 90-degree heat was rough on the animals as well as the humans.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0yJf4lAE2pdnp7RU6IA8kwbNQLOHpDUJRMH8zRxS6hEuROd08jPswf1m-i8MJF-W_ssjSWKKiJDonkewFlLuqaWvzTWZF6R0Z9ciTGX4eKeV_Ljm8ds6c_MVhChlS_nNEGyP4To9Ku-D/s1600/IMG_1401.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0yJf4lAE2pdnp7RU6IA8kwbNQLOHpDUJRMH8zRxS6hEuROd08jPswf1m-i8MJF-W_ssjSWKKiJDonkewFlLuqaWvzTWZF6R0Z9ciTGX4eKeV_Ljm8ds6c_MVhChlS_nNEGyP4To9Ku-D/s320/IMG_1401.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A flight of IPA at the craft beer aisle, so refreshing!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iLu92_AkksuPHnV6vfJRKFLeQTP5YblCq3bHhUEcujoP9ul3IisWpl6GLWzGaELeZCkRE_stsg5r8XXrZacRlfDtTr4O96giYckQF8G_ACgqap-H8XclMLk8dKo1ys4UoYEGvhvk-Lma/s1600/IMG_1408.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iLu92_AkksuPHnV6vfJRKFLeQTP5YblCq3bHhUEcujoP9ul3IisWpl6GLWzGaELeZCkRE_stsg5r8XXrZacRlfDtTr4O96giYckQF8G_ACgqap-H8XclMLk8dKo1ys4UoYEGvhvk-Lma/s320/IMG_1408.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The second largest pumpkin (the winner had already split, literally).</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5eaPhL9PHBgSSe7DNY8sCxvM-muFzXZRsogEq-CfY56mFMC2puRXZSE862tT4BB6-5LZfETUN3ncbuJLb2rS7zf6XTJP2PNp69YcKkSerCc4tEIbyXsoNOD4JGt-G1qv-dkMWPAczqKL5/s1600/IMG_1414.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5eaPhL9PHBgSSe7DNY8sCxvM-muFzXZRsogEq-CfY56mFMC2puRXZSE862tT4BB6-5LZfETUN3ncbuJLb2rS7zf6XTJP2PNp69YcKkSerCc4tEIbyXsoNOD4JGt-G1qv-dkMWPAczqKL5/s320/IMG_1414.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A parade? At the fair!?</i></td></tr>
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We were pretty tired by the time we climbed aboard the bus for the ride back to the car, but our day wasn't done yet. There was something else we wanted to see: the first ever<a href="http://www.walkerart.org/openfield/programs/internet-cat-video-film-festival/" target="_blank"> Internet Cat Video Festival</a>! So we headed off with Dave and Kara for a light snack then walked with the flow of cat-loving humanity along Hennepin Avenue to the Walker Art Center. I tell you, the culture just does not stop! Thousands showed up for the outdoor fest and it was already getting dark when we arrived. We could barely see the screen from where we sat on a blanket on the grassy slope. The sound didn't always reach us over the murmur of the crowd, but the collective "oohs" and "awwws" brought us all together. Even Dave and Kara, who are admitted <i>dog people</i>, enjoyed the show, if not for the content then for the bragging rights to say they were there.<br />
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The next day, Jon and I packed up for the drive to Wisconsin. Before hitting the highways, we made a few stops: liquor store; a bike shop Dave had told us about; a bakery (awesome) and an eco-friendly renovation supply store Jon had learned about at the fair's eco building the day before. With our list of stops, it took us awhile to get on the road, but we were mighty happy to have those bakery sweets for our long drive to Wonewoc. We would see Dave and Kara the next day when they joined several of the siblings and some nieces and nephews for a family barbeque. Jon navigated with the few maps we had and soon we were off the interstate and on the back highways of western Wisconsin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRSKB4LAEtvSkdhNwNeiAZcfixJJjYkTh6_lgk-t2J1RCLLFieACrd5YP44ozz5WYAE_juMdEnabWPJ5dxy1azP3rABOl4mxbxlz4PFKqjxxuF4vOsmWR5bNZOXUC94Sdw2qlAo5h29VL/s1600/IMG_1560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRSKB4LAEtvSkdhNwNeiAZcfixJJjYkTh6_lgk-t2J1RCLLFieACrd5YP44ozz5WYAE_juMdEnabWPJ5dxy1azP3rABOl4mxbxlz4PFKqjxxuF4vOsmWR5bNZOXUC94Sdw2qlAo5h29VL/s320/IMG_1560.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, yeah, do not forget the cheese!</i></td></tr>
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After just over a week in Wisconsin and another long afternoon of driving, Jon and I made it back to Minneapolis and Dave and Kara's place. A little weary from the drive, I thought I'd nap before dinner, but instead we chatted about our visit, changed into fresh clothes, then off we went to one of my favorite places in the Twin Cities: <a href="http://www.bluenilempls.com/" target="_blank">The Blue Nile</a> -- Ethiopian food. Something we can't get in Anchorage. The restaurant was quiet; we ordered our drinks and entrees for four that we would share, using our injera (bread) to pick up the chicken or lamb or lentils in our hands. The sauces soaked into the large pores of the bread and I had to keep using my washcloth to wipe my hands. I don't know why this feels like comfort food, but it tastes like something I should have been raised on!<br />
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In the morning, we took another walk through the neighborhood with Dave and Kara. When we stopped to admire a garden, the homeowner came out and insisted on giving us a tour (and me without my camera!). We followed stepping stones, went through the <i>torii</i> (a <i>torii</i> marks the entrance to a Shinto shrine) and entered a peaceful Japanese-style garden cozied between the house and the detached garage. Mary (the homeowner) encouraged me to sit in a chair in the corner of the garden, telling us the space was designed to be enjoyed from a seated level. I watched a <a href="http://www.midwesthomemag.com/media/Midwest-Home/September-October-2011/East-Meets-West/" target="_blank">water feature</a> and agreed. (Here's <a href="http://blog.lib.umn.edu/learning/newsletter/2011/06/form-from-peace-and-joy.html" target="_blank">another link</a> with an image of the garden.) We moved along to a bench with a stone table. The table top was mostly smooth, but of an irregular shape and was taller than a coffee table, but lower than a dinner table. She said she'd decided it would be the perfect height and as I sat on the bench and reached in front of me to an imaginary teacup, I had to agree; it was perfect. She then insisted on leading us inside to a daylight basement where we could look out at the view. I again wished I had my camera. She's inspired me to plan my yard carefully. We all think about what the view will be from the street. But it's also important to think about what we see from inside. And, with the daylight basement, it was like sitting almost in the garden. Food for thought for next summer. <br />
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After a final errand with Kara, Jon and I again sat on the deck drinking cold beverages one last time. Watching people coming and going to and from the stairs that lead to the greenway just down the hill. It would have been nice to stay around and enjoy more of the late-summer warmth, but we were ready to head home. To check in on wind damage from a storm the previous week; to be home with Kitty who is as charming as any internet cat video; and to get back to all the fall chores on our list.<br />
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An afterword:<br />
After we were home for a few days, I went online in search of recipes for injera. I <a href="http://aroundtheworlddinners.blogspot.com/2010_06_01_archive.html" target="_blank">found one</a> that turned out to be fairly simple and didn't require teff flour. We did add a little more liquid to thin the batter and experimented with cooking both sides. It went great with the beef stew seasoned with berbere and the carrots. I look forward to making it for friends. It will be perfect this winter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqT5BIdgjodp7EHWYqaBpqtotcuhYswlAdx417zUEg-orqNpptsg4hTHF_WGQg-4LovWNyohuFtVoYhs7oLoICmuXPdlAkjYIRYzCJHf-wiNA9cEqNc5pekwGNnezIhGCcqtlsaqTjH3ae/s1600/IMG_1585.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqT5BIdgjodp7EHWYqaBpqtotcuhYswlAdx417zUEg-orqNpptsg4hTHF_WGQg-4LovWNyohuFtVoYhs7oLoICmuXPdlAkjYIRYzCJHf-wiNA9cEqNc5pekwGNnezIhGCcqtlsaqTjH3ae/s320/IMG_1585.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Making injera.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WufsDnfGnwiYPumMNGssoVd4D9FzXEzQ9h-64mBESLpXu7UrfIMq_LTEeTxyAJw3mjOUM2QQkTd_2M12WHYm2v2oFDcF0OXg7UQOV_vm40A8zubplE0alCv53FkDA4PettDbcDWLsaTj/s1600/IMG_1587.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WufsDnfGnwiYPumMNGssoVd4D9FzXEzQ9h-64mBESLpXu7UrfIMq_LTEeTxyAJw3mjOUM2QQkTd_2M12WHYm2v2oFDcF0OXg7UQOV_vm40A8zubplE0alCv53FkDA4PettDbcDWLsaTj/s320/IMG_1587.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Injera with beef stew and carrots. By all means, use your hands!</i></td></tr>
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