iron girl traveling

I Still Think Sadistic...

2010-09-19T17:54:00.000-07:00

The waitress at Fox's Lobster House is either blissfully unaware of a life outside of romantically idyllic Maine (really, with the coastal views I'm enjoying from my dinner table, who could blame her), or wickedly sadistic. She places the steaming lobster in front of me, I tie the plastic bib tabs tight behind my neck, and realize.....I have no idea how to eat this thing. The closest I've had to a whole lobster was at Legal Seafood, and at least they had the courtesy to crack the carcass, remove the lobster meat, mix it with LDL-level enhancing scallops, crabmeat, and buttery goodness, and place it back in an easy-to-consume package on my dinner plate. Not a bad way to go. But this thing....I scan the other tables for potential clues of what to do next. Of course the table to my right ordered the bisque. Why didn't I think of that? The table to my left has three ladies from Utah, and I deduce they may be of little help. Sure enough, the waitress has to help one of them tie her bib on; at least this blond can handle a bib. Fortunately, my #1 Travel Buddy has done well to teach me the art of removing claw meat intact, and she would've been proud of the slab of meat I dunk in my butter cup. But the body...after several near reenactments of Pretty Woman's oyster-shucking scene and one contact swimming in lobster juice, I emerge victorious with a hunk of lobster goodness that I simply have to admire a moment before eating it. She has waited for that moment to approach my table, and ask, "Need any help here?" Is that sincere concern for my lobster-eating experience, or a mischievous glint in her eye? She's observant enough to have noticed the bib-challenged table, but waits until my last mouthful to belatedly point out the lobster-shucking instructions on my placemat, strategically hidden under extra napkins. I wonder. But by my final forkful of Maine-blueberry pie a-la-mode, I decide I really don't care.

Traveling Buddies part tres

2010-05-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

3. Activities: Have a good combination of sharing common interests and being open minded to each other's . On our upcoming Philadelphia whirlwind tour, we both are looking forward to taking the ghost tour, geocaching in a few historical spots, and touring Independence Hall. I'm going along with C. to check out quilts and homemade jams in amish country, and she's not all that reluctantly going with me to the Mutter Museum and Eastern State Penitentiary. To quote the all-knowing Calvin (as in Hobbes, not John), a good compromise leaves everyone unsatisfied. But with a good travel buddy, you can always learn something interesting and have a good experience sharing the others' interest.

2010-04-26T20:10:00.001-07:00

Travel Buddy Part Deux:

2. Hotel preference: I used to prefer ghetto-cheap to save money for activities; by now my travel buddy has taught me that safety and convenience of location are worth the extra cash. Safe and clean on a moderate budget is almost enough, we agree we don't need the W or Omni. But when we went super-cheap for a quick overnight in Vegas, the blood smear on the door (we have pictures if anyone doubts this), while titillating my obscene crime scene proclivities, relieved me of all accommodation-procurement duties. In my defense, when at an upscale hotel in San Francisco that my friend reserved, we returned from a late night out at the theatre to find a magnificent artwork of vomitus on our door that had actually projectiled almost 6 inches under the door and into our room. The hotel was booked to capacity, so we dangled our legs off the edge of the Tempur-Pedic(r)mattress with plush down comforters and 600-thread-count sheets as housekeeping futilely steam-cleaned the offended area and sprayed lavender room deodorizer. I'm amazed we didn't wake up the next morning with massive hang-overs from the residual alcohol fumes. So make sure you're in agreement about budget and quality issues.

Who's Your Travel Buddy?

2010-04-14T22:23:00.000-07:00

My coworker/friend and I are planning a long weekend to Philadelphia, and the texts, emails, and phone calls have been flying frantically back and forth as we figure out how to squeeze as many activities into each 24-hour day as possible. After several years and several successful trips together, we are now travel buddies, bracelet buddies, necklace buddies, adventure buddies; I'm really working on her to become tattoo buddies. No luck so far. But we've found in each other all the key ingredients in a great peripatetic relationship. My next few blogs will help those of you who may still be in search of your travel buddy 'soulmate':

1. Eating styles: cheap? authentic? touristy? One big meal, several snacks? Know ahead of time. One friend - not the one I usually travel with - took a road trip with me recently, and rather than experience a restaurant with more local flavor, she wanted Subway. As in five dollar foot long. She even cheerily sang the jingle all the way there. It wasn't a deal breaker, but if I'm in Puerto Rico and find myself at a Burger King, I'm not happy. (That actually happened with my fully experienced travel buddy, but it was a unanimous decision because we were burnt out on deep-fried Alcapurrias and desperately needed green salad. Besides, that's her in the picture thoroughly enjoying a fish taco after an exciting day buoy-watching in Puerto Rico). Know if your travel buddy needs a hearty breakfast or yogurt on the run. Does dinner need to be at a trendy, upscale restaurant or can you scarf Philly cheese steaks as you race from a Duck Tour to the ghost tour?

J.G.

2010-02-11T18:54:00.001-08:00

Who is John Galt? This weary world-traveler may never find out. Not because I'm too busy traipsing across the globe; unfortunately, my carry-ons have been collecting dust lately. But I've come to rely on my travel time to squeeze in guilt-free reading time. Atlas Shrugged pulls up when I press the 'now reading' toggle button of my new Nook, and I'm dying to find out who John Galt is. By the time I trundle off to bed after a busy day of not-traveling (isn't it amazing how time is so inversely proportioned to length of to-do lists?), I'm barely able to lift my finger to push the 'next' button. Many people complain of the waiting time wasted in airports, growing more belligerent with each delayed flight. (Seriously, people, if your aircraft has been held back for a maintenance concern, do you want to rush the mechanics entrusted with making a 138,000 pound iron tube stay as gravity-defiant as the clouds? And contrary to popular belief, the ticket agent isn't hiding his/her magic weather-changing wand out of sheer spite. Lay off the Harry Potter thinking already). But an oversold flight, weather delay, or aircraft swap fills me with excitement -- more time in my literary heaven. Sure, it's something easily done at home; however, that small voice muttering about the unloaded dishwasher, the front lawn deep enough to hide my 18-pound cat, marathons to train for, seeps into my subconscious and strangles the spirit out of the characters I'm desperate to get in to. All that is nonexistent in the airport, and I read in peace. So I need to book an oversold flight to the farthest destination on the east coast, and discover...who is John Galt?

Waddayamean, credit card number?

2010-01-27T22:09:00.001-08:00

I feel queasy. I just bought my first Southwest Airlines plane ticket. Ick. How foreign to pull out my credit card to complete a reservation. My remaining passes will be expired before this trip in May - an office trip to Anaheim for a Dental Convention (ok, Disneyland, but I'm sure there's a Mass Disaster course somewhere I'll squeeze in). So this is how the traveling hoi poloi feel, paying hard-earned money to ride the silver birds. I'm not liking it. Being such the people-person I am (what ARE you sniggering at?!?), maybe I should get a job as a ticket agent to continue flying free. Ok, now that we've all gotten a good laugh in, I'm rethinking the $149 I just spent and what that means. I just might get an A-group boarding pass - no more wedging into middle seats (see post about POS'es). No more guilt asking for a second glass of spicy tomato. No more contingency plans if I don't make my destination on the same day as leaving home. And, the holy grail: actually getting vouchers if I'm bumped off a flight! Not quite worth trading the freedom to hop a flight to, say, Nome on a whim. Better start sharpening my cheap-flight google skills for the upcoming year.

We should go home now

2010-01-17T08:44:00.001-08:00

Something big is changing in my mom's life; the self-proclaimed homebody has asked me to take her traveling for the second time in six months. So we're sitting in the Denver airport right now, and I'm already exhausted from all the things that I see as Bad Travel Omens. After arriving on a late flight to Denver, we were told that we weren't supposed to use my mom's particular pass to overnight and continue on the next morning to Tampa. I had even called the rez line before leaving home to make sure we could use her ticket that way. So now I'm worried that we may be stuck in Denver. And it's COLD. And by now you all know how I feel about the COLD. So that potential mishap aside, we stand outside for 45 minutes waiting for the hotel shuttle (did I mention it was COLD?), and we are about to be left behind for the second time because the shuttle only had one open seat. At the last minute, the driver offers to let me ride in the back with the baggage. So there I sit, hunkered down amongst the backpacks and Samsonites, fearful of being jettisoned out onto the freeway with every road bump, wondering if I should take the shaky start of our mother-daughter trip as a sign of things to come. Once at the hotel, the receptionist (her second day on the job) gives us the wrong room key. Once settled into our room, we both sleep fitfully; I have some awful nightmare about being bitten by a rattlesnake and am alternately directing my own medical care and yelling at the tour guide for not knowing the appropriate snake-bite procedure. By the time we're back at the Denver airport, I'm really nervous about whether my mom will be allowed on the Tampa flight, and I'm distractedly stuffing security passes and ID into my pockets while trying to sweet-talk the ticket agent. My mom leans over, and in a loud stage whisper, says something about imagining my pocket like a bomb, a big explosion, etc. I'm frozen in place, envisioning Mom being interrogated by the airport police for suspicious terrorist activities. Then I realize she's innocently referring to an effective mnemonic device to help me remember where I'm putting my ID so I won't be panicking in the TSA line. She sheepishly realizes how she could sound to fellow travelers and is appropriately embarrassed. But that only lasts a few minutes....somehow she, the passenger that was talking about bombs and explosions, makes it through security with her shoes on. She immediately feels redeemed. I, on the other hand, have nerves so frazzled that I'm ready to head home. TO BE CONTINUED....

Tundra Telle

2010-01-08T17:30:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine is concerned that, in this economy, clients in need of her services as a psychologist may become scarce. My advice to her: move to Nome. The population of Alaska will assure her of the future of her chosen occupation.

The extremely friendly Alaska Air ticket agent in Nome was as blond-haired, blue-eyed as I am. So I bravely asked (you can assume everyone here carries a large gun without making a you-know-what out of u and me), "How did you end up in this town?" I wisely left out the adjective "God-forsaken" that ran on an unending loop through my mind as I explored Nome. "Well," eyes as blue as a glacier crevice sparkling,"I came up for a weekend about 30 years ago and just never left." "huh." This kind gentleman was fixing a glitch in my non-rev reservation to get me the heck out of this town, so I again wisely withheld my more candid response. This man had just returned from a trip to India; he was helping his mom move back to So Cal after living overseas for several years. His brother lives in Mongolia. So I guess within his family, he would be considered the more mundane.

Repeatedly, others were giving the response, "It's a great small-town feel. Everyone knows everyone, we're like family." I've visited Oregon. I've lived in Nor Cal and So Cal. I've lived in Alabama, Florida, Missouri, and Georgia. There are plenty of small towns, close-knit communities. But without the intensely severe isolation from the rest of society. So why go to this extreme? I could seriously live there myself for several months, only to analyze and marvel at the psyche of those who have chosen to make Nome their home. Also, the whispered rumors of skulking Soviet subs make for good fire-place stories.

There's just something about Nome. There must be, for any population to exist there. The city is about 12 blocks by 7. At least a third of the motorized vehicles were dashboard-deep in snow, out of commission for the winter. So were several boats, cranes, and planes, skeletal limbs akimbo, poking obscenely mechanical angles out of the deep snow banks. It's as if everyone hibernates for 6 months, allows the snow the absorb all semblance of outdoor existence, and waits it out until summer.

The tundra was a fascinating thing. During a few hikes to geocaches, I'd walk across alternating stretches of snow and tundra. The spongy underfooting felt like a pseudo-trampoline; all the energy of your footfall sunk in like a trampoline's surface but instead of rebounding and following the equal/opposite reaction law of thermodynamics, your foot would stall at the bottom of the footstrike. No energy was returned to your step. But it was minor enough you didn't really notice a huge difference. I wondered if I'd been abducted by aliens and placed in an artificially all-natural (jumbo shrimp, military intelligence)environment like an extraterrestrial version of the San Diego zoo. Maybe I was being observed by these aliens, a foreign creature behaving naturally in its own environment. But somehow they couldn't replicate the terra ferma concept; it was authentic enough to keep my brain from acknowledging that I was no longer on Earth, but there was a subliminal warning that the ground wasn't cooperating with my footsteps as it should. That, and the beginning stages of frostbite as I tried unsuccessfully to dig through two feet of snow searching for a cache should have clued me in that I was somewhere un-earthly.

I made this trip last March, and the memories still stir a fascination in me that Fiji can't even conjure. As disparaging towards the state as I may seem, I returned last October, this time to Juneau, and I'm determined to visit at least one more Alaskan town before the passes expire. I'll be employing the services of my shrink friend any day now.

2009-12-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, fellow bloggers and bloggees. Hasn't this been a crazy year? I hope that those of you that read this celebrated the joy of traveling sometime this year, even if it was a simple overnight road trip. There is something about exploring this big, bold, beautiful world that fills us with appreciation for creation, for humanity, for adventure, for discovering the unknown, and ultimately for the home and family we get to return to. Please send me a short snippet of the most meaningful travel experience you had this year. And, if by the infrequency of my postings you think I've been allowing dust to settle on my carry-on, think again. This year I was blessed with amazing experiences in Dominican Republic (where I rang in 2009), Puerto Rico, Baltimore, DC, Alaska (both Nome and Juneau -- why am I so strangely attracted to that cold, forsaken place?), Victoria BC, Seattle, Spokane, Moaning Caverns, San Diego multiple times, Portland, Rhode Island, Monterey, Vegas; I think that's most of it. So here is my early New Years resolution: I will have a new posting every week. Maybe by traveling less next year - the passes are about to expire - I'll be forced to relive this year's memories to keep the travel bug alive. Ok, quit laughing, you're thinking what I'm thinking. There's no way I'll be happy to live in the past. I've already got a running list of new destinations for 2010, even if it takes paying for a ticket! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Hail Mary, full of grace...that's all I know.

2009-11-06T18:56:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I'm not a big fan of crabcakes. They were probably very good ones, the ones I ordered at Shuckers at Fell's Point, but trying to eat both fist-sized cakes after an order of
calamari might not have been the best way to appreciate them. I was too mesmerized with the view of the sunset over Chesapeake Bay to really care at that point. The retiring sun was painting merciless hues of red and orange behind silhouettes of schooners, sailboats, and other assorted maritime majestics. Plus the miles of power walking around Baltimore's Inner Harbour area had left me too hungry to be picky. And most importantly, I had a game plan for dessert: Meli Patisserie and Restaurant. My Napoleon was so incredibly sinful, I just might have to learn the words to Hail Mary to ease my conscience. I was so excited when the waitress served my dessert and coffee ('Meli' was written in chocolate script on the dessert plate) that I literally dumped my creamer pitcher all over the table in my efforts to take a picture of the masterpiece. Of course, that didn't stop me from getting a to-go dessert later on that evening after the Ghost Tour.
The tour itself was one of the best ones I've been on. Since that entailed being outside for an hour and a half in 40ish degree weather, you know that's quite an endorsement from me. The guide, sticking to her Colonial character, accent and all, had just the right balance of humor, historical education, and creeps-ville stories. She was a bit sadistic; because of the mass graves (immigrants that didn't make it to the Promise Land on the coffin ships) under the cobbled streets, she made us hold hands as we walked across. Four grownups holding hands like kindergartners. If that doesn't get you funny looks from the pub patrons, then you might be in Vegas.

TWA 800

2009-11-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

"Ah sho am glahd ah droave heyah on tha freewayah," he says in a Southern accent as thick as the gravy on any decent Southerners biscuits. We're walking a loose circle around the amazingly reconstructed TWA-800 fuselage situated in the NTSB's training center in Ashburn, VA. I've never appreciated how perilously thin the metal skin is that separates airline passengers from atmospheric pressure at 35,000 feet. I almost think twice when boarding my flight home at the end of the week. Well, not really. I'm in a class of mostly medical professionals - forensic anthropologists, medical examiners, coroners, NTSB mass disaster response agents, even an FBI agent. We're reviewing ad noseum how to (VERY CAREFULLY)sort through the rubble and debris of various disaster scenes to locate, retrieve, and identify human remains, in both associated and disassociated states. And I don't mean 'states' as in America's United. Two and a half days of slide after slide of airplane crash sites, WTC scenes, mass grave sites, nature's after-math destruction, multi-car crashes, even a presentation of University of Mercyhurst's summer class that explodes a car filled with pig carcasses to study the dispersion of debris, both biological and non. These amazing people live in a realm of death's certainty, and the accompanying pain of the residual living that are trying to cope with extreme loss. These people see in blood-and-guts detail just how calamitous our various means of transportation can be. And yet they probably burn more miles of asphalt and rack up more frequent-flier points in a month than I have this past peripatetic year. So for those of you who are particularly fearful of flying .... if these professionals have confidence in the airways, so should you. At the very least, recline your seat comfortably, adjust your little neck pillow and sleep well knowing that if the plane does go down in a fabulously explosive crash, some of the most dedicated and compassionate professionals will be piecing you back together again.

No, I don't have Tourette's

2009-10-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

My ears perked up on this one: if a flight is completely full, choose the middle seat between two of the most ample passengers you can find. If you can make yourself look as pathetically crammed into your seat as the over-stuffed carry-ons that people seem to think they can jam into the overhead bin, you just might get a refund for your flight. Ok, so that's pushing it a little bit; usually you can ask to be reseated if you find yourself in such a circumstance. It takes a legitimate measure of discomfort substantiated by a flight crew member to convince the costumer service supervisor to refund that portion of your flight. But still, with the end of my traveling privileges close at hand, I'm clutching at any straws however pathetic they may be. And I found myself in this controversial situation recently.

I was more than grateful to make it on an oversold flight whisking me away to Providence, Rhode Island. I took the first available seat...between two P.O.S. No, not pieces of...well, my mom reads this blog, so I'll let you fill in your own blank. P.O.S. is a term used in the airline industry for Passenger of Size. In this obviously sticky situation, an over-sized passenger can be charged for two seats. Telling someone they're going to be charged double because of their size wouldn't be my idea of a fun job; that's why when I worked for the airlines, I was absolutely content to empty the lavs, scrub the galleys, load the over-sized luggage in a cramped bin. Of course, if the plane has unused seats, the passenger can then request a refund.

So what do you think? Yes, it can be embarrassing and emotionally traumatic to be told that you must pay double the amount as an 'average' size person. Think of the person stuck in the middle seat, though. And I do mean 'stuck'. Only the suspicious glare of the tenured flight attendant motivated me to fasten my seat belt. After all, I was so tightly wedged in my seat with upper arms the size of hamhocks on either side of me, no amount of air turbulence was going to dislodge me. I couldn't drop my tray table down without asking my seat mate to lift his arm off the shared arm rest so that I didn't whack his funny bone with the table corner. Any movement to reach the overhead light, replace a magazine in the seat pocket, or retrieve items from pockets (for some reason, the window-seat guy kept repeatedly digging his phone out of his pants pocket, and I had to play dodge-the-flying-elbow), caused over-sized limbs to encroach on my seating zone. Flying non-rev, I have no room (get it?) to complain. But if I had paid $300 to fly for 4 1/2 hours with this limited personal space, I would have been officially a disgruntled passenger, or unofficially an ... well, never mind, my Haldol just kicked in.

CORRECTION: Official term in COS, customer of size. But POS worked better for this post.

2009-09-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

The guide was holding my rapt attention describing the horrific deportment of Japanese-Americans to internment camps during WWII. It was a clear, beautiful, warm day in Portland. We were standing in the Japanese-American Historical Plaza, gazing at a memorial sculpture. Happy crowds of people were walking, touring, running up and down the riverwalk, soaking up sunshine that is purportedly so rare in these parts (I'm starting to believe it's an Oregonian conspiracy to avoid an influx of thermophilic Californians.) Suddenly, Blue Sugar Poet turns to me with a wickedly lopsided grin. She points to a nearby spot. "Doesn't that look like someone puked over there?" Just inches from the base of the sculpture was a grotesquely dried-out spewage spot; all our idyllic surroundings, and this is what my friend picks up on. "A woman after my own morbid heart," I think to myself. An hour later, these sentiments are further substantiated as she gleefully tears into the voodoo donut, jelly guts dripping off her chin. We were fortunate enough to have a tour guide that could sneak in the back door to snag one of these donuts. At the Voodoo donut shop, regardless of time or weather, patrons line up around the block for donuts topped with fruit-loops, maple bars topped with bacon, donuts on 'roids (the Tex-Ass donut), and the ODB (if you have to ask, just go check it out). Once inside the surprisingly small store, you can pass part of the wait time reading newspaper articles posted on the wall above small glass counters of toy skulls and skeletons. These are articles on unusual deaths and the mysterious circumstances surrounding them. By the time you reach the counter, you don't find the pastry selection quite so bizarre.

Other highlights of this one-day trip: visiting the chinese gardens, touring the Shanghai tunnels (not as scandalous as I'd expected, but other interesting factoids: the Willamette River is so polluted that over 50% of juvenile fish along some stretches are deformed, bars used to have urinal troughs along the base of the barstools - no pesky trips to the head between emptying and replenishing the male bladder - and the Made in Portland sign may be revamped (thanks, U of O). After the tour, BSP and I went to the Japanese gardens - I've been to two other J. Gardens in the last month, and saying that Portland leaves them in the dust is as worthy an understatement as saying Tim Twietmeyer would leave me in the dust if I ever ran Western States. All in all, a day well spent.

2009-08-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

Ah, bikram running. Heat training. Love it, love it, love it. Liar, liar, liar. I am left more vomitus-prone after this 3 miler than any 18 trail-miler. All for an upcoming 5K. No typo there, folks, no inadvertent omission of a '0' after that 5. I have had 18-mile trail runs that left me more refreshed than this blasted 3-mile speed training run. At mile 2, I was entertaining thoughts of either slowing my pace or breaking up that remaining 3rd mile into halves. Ok, quarters actually, but I'll never confess that face-to-face to Blue Sugar Poet. Really, I tell myself, it's not worth pushing to the point of hating this sport, the point at which I wake up on training days with knots in my stomach. I'll feel much better if I back off a bit. No you won't, says that annoying inner sprite that feeds off bipedal mileage. You'll feel worse knowing that you didn't achieve your purposed goal. Stupid little sprite. I push hard, and at mile 2.5 I'm approaching a busy street that requires a non-governmentally sponsored crossing. I'm praying, begging, soul-bartering that oncoming traffic will force a short pitstop. Apparently my soul is recession-proof; several cars flying down the busy street stop me from an immediate crossing. And I nearly pass out. That smug little sprite smirks. See, I told you it would feel worse to stop. So after crossing the street, I kick up my pace, ignoring the lack of sweat on my skin (read red flag for heat exhaustion - it still seems silly to pack water for any run less than 7 miles). And I finish my 3 miles, only 90 seconds longer than my desired overall pace. 2 days later, 9 miles of dusty, hill-crammed trails taken at a more temperate speed felt like a cakewalk.

What smells like smoke?

2009-07-19T06:40:00.000-07:00

Portland seems to be the bain of my travel existence. My security document was printed out, the first flight out in the morning looked good, and my GPS was charged up in case I had a little time for geocaching along the road. Then Blue Sugar Poet sent me a text that one of her pikkens had the flu, roadtrip postponed for another day or so. Since patients are lined up outside our dental office early Tuesday morning because they just love the gingival pain I inflict, I won't be able to participate in the roadtrip. Still, we make plans to meet up in Portland and run around for a few hours. As I pull up to the airport (ok, I admit I only gave myself a half hour before boarding my 645 a.m. flight but thats what happens when you fly non-rev with a carryon and you've regained your faith in your security check-point passability), the throngs of passengers lined up outside the terminal give me cause for concern. Warning bells are going off - literally - and a mechanically female voice is repeadedly insisting that all passengers remain calm and exit the terminal. Turns out a fire (probably at BK, right, J?) had closed things down for over an hour. Needless to say, as soon as the clearance was made for people to return, the security line was insane. But maybe the traveling winds are changing for the better. Im on the plane, only 30 minutes late, and looking forward to seeing some Shanghai tunnels.

BSP vs. Telleraiser - lightweight division

2009-07-16T20:41:00.000-07:00

Blue Sugar Poet was holding out on me. Fly into Portland, she says. I'll pick you up and we can drive back to Sac, she says. Just me and the girls, she says. Later discussion with her husband, pretending to enjoy his temporary bachelor status, mentions another pikken joining the herd - already 4 strong, not including BSP and myself. Oh, and the dog. The dog. Let me tell you about the dog. During our 50K training period, BSP brought Champ out for one of our runs. For eight miles, we logged new speed records just to prevent facial road-rash as uberdog set the pace. Curls with 20-lb weights wouldn't have given me a better bicep workout than trying to reign in this dog's power. So, yes, I'm having visions of National Lampoon dancing in my head. As long as I'm not the grandmother.

But seriously, I'm excited to make this road trip. I've never driven any real asphalt between California and Oregon, which is as shameful for a Californian "native" (if you know me, you're laughing; there's no moss on the bottoms of my feet, but Cali has been the closest thing to home for me) to admit as it was shameful to be wearing a parka in San Diego. At least I had my Chargers beanie on.

So I've packed my rain gear and my hiking boots, I've upgraded my phone plan to include Internet so I can twitter as we travel, and I've got another great book - The Angel's Game - to outlast the absurdly oversold flights to Portland. Wish us luck!

** Pikken -- pidgeon English for child

Houston, Humidity, Hoola Hoops.

2009-06-25T21:25:00.000-07:00

Houston -- don't ask why. I just needed to hit the airways. Plus, being able to comfortably wear shorts, tanktop, and flipflops is a rarity that I enjoyed. It's not such a rare occurrence for the general public; with my reptilian blood, I frequently find myself with people in shorts & t-shirts complaining of the heat while I'm in jeans, long-sleeves, and casting about for any ray of sunshine to stand in. So hitting Houston in the mid-90s with humidity enough to choke a Texas long-horn was worth the middle seat on a red-eye with 3 rambunctious kids in the row behind me,kicking the seatbacks and slamming-dropping-slamming-dropping tray tables.
Even if the weather had dipped into the low 40s, however, (here's a new rating system for me: the lower the temperature I'd endure for an experience, the better it is) the Houston Space Center would have been worth every extra layer I'd have to put on. Amazing hands-on activities for adults and kids, photo ops with Darth Vader and Storm Troopers, tram tours through NASA's Johnson Space Center, viewing the Mission Control Center, the Saturn V Complex at Rocket Park. And of course, dead center in the compound, the corral of Texas long-horns (the only ones I saw during my 240-mile roadtrip).

Speaking of the roadtrip...this took me to Galveston Island. The water didn't seem that much warmer than the ambient air - which I actually enjoyed. But the ocean didn't start to hint at hues of blue for at least a half mile out. Choppy waves stirred up so much sand that, when standing knee-deep in the water, I couldn't see my toes. I wasn't exactly overwhelmed with Galveston's coastal beauty, but let's be fair; Dominican Republic, Fiji, Puerto Rico have left their marks on me. Apparently there's enough attraction to the area that the Convention Center keeps things exciting...I missed the hoola-hoop convention by one week. The Duck Tour was an experience worth $15. And maybe worth oh, let's say, 72 degrees. There is amazing history behind Galveston, and a spirit of tenacity everywhere you look. The guide kept pointing out historical sights that were in various stages of reconstruction due to hurricane damage either recent or long past. Every point of interest seemed to be rated on how well it had survived - or how severely it had been damaged by - the storms. He insisted the Train Museum was a must, as well as the trolley that had been in operation since the 1800s. Too bad Ike had closed both operations last year. My mom cracked up at my description of the tour. "Yeah, that sounds like the zoo we took you to in Ghana (West Africa)." She paused to wipe away a mirthful tear. "The whole time, they kept saying, here's the elephant pen. They died last week. Here's where the giraffes are. But they're dead too. And here's where we used to have gorillas, hyenas, so forth, but they died en route to the zoo." No wonder I have such a twisted sense of humor. My mom used to take me to zoos with no animals. But I digress...a little further away from the tourist strip, down a long 2-lane road with the bay on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other, vacation properties overlooked sandy stretches of relatively peaceful coastline. Thanks to the frequency of hurricanes, and our intransigence to not allow nature to deny us beach-front property, building codes dictate that structures be elevated 15 feet above ground. Homes, some looking stately, some looking like single-wide trailers, all resemble old women with their skirts gathered above their knees to avoid a troublesome mouse.

All in all, it was an interesting trip. On the horizon is a trip to Portland (I know, I know, you're all on the edge of your seats to see if I finally make it this time) to help Blue Sugar Poet drive home to Sacrademento. Did I mention this will also include her four girls? I have a feeling caving and canyoning will be tame by comparison. Let the good times roll!

2009-06-18T20:16:00.000-07:00

Have all the planes been grounded? Did my inflatable neck-pillow develop an irreparable puncture? Are there no decent books left worth reading? Have my pass privileges been revoked? Did my favorite carry-on bag disappear? All good possibilities for why Iron Girl hasn't been traveling. Or at least, why I haven't been writing. Truthfully, Puerto Rico was amazingly experience enough to have satiated my wanderlust for the last few weeks. But earlier this week, driving out to the airport to pick up some friends from their weekend trip to Florida (great job on almost making rank in your age group, Blue Sugar Poet! I'll make sure you get the pie you deserve), I caught the bug again. The jet fuel fumes, the buzz of travelers as they chug the last of their water before hitting the security line, the shuffle of photo IDs and security documents, exotic (or domestic) destinations on the brains of adventurers. I've gotta get back out there. So this, my long weekend, will hopefully find me in Houston, exploring Galveston and NASA-oriented tours. The flights are a bit full -- what happened to a weak economy with fewer travelers? But I'll load up on books (any advice or feedback on the Kindle would be appreciated)and hopefully I'll be reporting back about all the Texas-size fun this weekend holds for me.

Meanwhile, back at the office

2009-05-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

Clothes are still sitting in my carry-on, waiting to be unpacked. Shells, coral, and sea urchins are patiently awaiting their placement in shadowboxes. Various kitsche keychains and magnets have yet to be passed out to friends & family members. And I still have a bit of a buzz from the 20-foot drop off a zipline. My boss, however, thought nothing unusual about asking, "So where's your next trip?" I almost snipped, "What, Puerto Rico isn't trip enough for ya?" Then I realized what a compliment he had just paid me. Yes, if I had a stamp in my passport, the ink would still be damp from my last trip. But this is the person he has come to know: peripatetic , adventure-seeker, airport junkie. I kinda like being known for my RLS (restless leg syndrome) when it comes to this season of globe-trotting in my life. Thanks for the compliment, Dr. M. I'll do my best not to disappoint.

Canyoning

2009-05-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

If Puerto Rico is ever on your vacation calendar, give Rossano a call and book a tour with Aventuras. True, 5:45 is terribly early to start the day. But the parvocellular ganglion-exciting (I just love that word)van and the boom-box blaring the theme song to Indiana Jones will set the appropriate adrenaline-pumping mood for the day. Although they run a comedy routine almost non-stop, these guys take safety very seriously and you will feel well equipped to begin whichever adventure - canyoning, caving, ziplining - you choose with Aventuras. Just a sample of our day: rappelling 150 feet to a cliff ledge, hooking into cables to crab-walk from rebar to rebar to another ledge where we're hooked into our first zipline which drops us into the river; swimming against currents to the base of a thunderous waterfall; hanging from a zipline, swinging feet up to hook heels on the overhead cable so we can disconnect the carabiner then hanging for an instant before dropping 20 feet into the river below; running jumps off 30-foot cliffs to swim behind another thundering waterfall for a group picture; rockclimbing to get back to the trailhead for a 30-minute hike out of El Yunque. Throw in some hot chocolate served along the river's edge, and I've currently got a favorite canyoning spot.

2009-05-23T16:47:00.000-07:00

Puerto Rico will take quite a few blogs to cover, so bear with me as I reminisce the next several days. Since we had an extra 4 hours to spend in New York – believe me, you’ll hear that story soon – we scrambled to book as many tours as possible in Puerto Rico to maximize our time. I had been trying to convince Cindy to try canyoning, a hybrid sport of rockclimbing, cliff jumping, river hiking, rock scrambling, waterfall scaling, ziplining, and whatever else it takes to get from point A to point B as you follow a swollen, rushing river. Since she’s afraid of heights, she suggested the closer to terra firma (apparently dark, claustrophobic spaces aren’t a problem for her) tour of caving. So after multiple phone calls, we had the first 3 days of our trip booked with different tour companies. The caving trip was to begin our first full day in Puerto Rico. So we’re up at 4:30 a.m., which is really 1:30 Cali time. We’re on the bus taking us into the El Yunque rain forest, and we reach our first rest stop about 20 minutes down the road. Cindy has gone inside to pick up snacks and I ask our tour guide – the best guide EVER – how cold the cave waters will be (I’m ever the wimp when it comes to cold. Did I mention Nome is cold?). He gives me a strange look, and says, “Well, this is the canyoning trip. The caving trip is tomorrow.” Naturally, I’m excited that I get to go canyoning. 40 foot free-jumps into a river? No problem. Stopping midway on a zipline, swinging my heels up to hook onto the line, disconnect my carabiner, then drop the 30 feet into the river below? Piece of cake. Swim against stream into the pounding force of a maddeningly thrashing waterfall? Like walking. Face the wrath of Cindy when she finds out she’s on a canyoning trip? I’m cowering like a kitten. Did I survive? Of course. Did she have fun? Well, after our introductory stretch of rapelling 150 feet to a miniscule lip of granite, where we have to clip our carabiners into a horizontal steel rope and inch our way over to round two of ziplining into the river, she hoists herself out of the river she has had to swim her way out of with eyes adrenalized. Her grin is wider than the Amazon. (wrong continent, I know.) You'll get more details and vids tomorrow.

I want that job...

2009-05-19T17:50:00.001-07:00

Playa Flamenco in Culebra, Puerto Rico, has the distinguished honor of being #2 or #3 top beach in the world. I find myself asking why. I'm trying to figure out who gets to award that honor, and why he/she picked Flamenco. With so many beaches in the world, what criteria was used to place Flamenco on the top-10 list? So what if the sand is so fine, I no longer feel the need to pay for a spa pedi when I just got the pleasure of nature's own pedicure, exfoliation and message treatment simultaneously occurring as I pad along the beach? That's nothing spectacular. The amenities are handy...changing rooms, picnic tables, umbrella rentals, food & drink shacks nearby. But just because the bbq chicken kabobs with rice & pegeon beans was the second best meal I've had in PR (Restaurant Bili on Vieques was the best) shouldn't count for much. The crescent of white sand that embraces the waters of the Carribbean isn't too shabby. In fact, the ocean waters, obvious fans of my blog, were passionately creating every shade of blue imaginable just to resuscitate my parvacellular ganglions left for dead by the whiteness of Nome. Is that top-10 worthy? Leaving footprints in an almost virginal palate of sand, I slipped my snorkel mask on and dipped into the sea. So what if it's like an underwater safari? One coral type imitated banyan trees with their massive canopies, other type imitated termite hills. Herds of marine wildlife darted in and out, testing out my new underwater digital camera. What's so great about all that? An abandoned pier left two fingers of stone and concrete reaching into the waters, creating a family-friendly cove where toddlers could experience the splendor of the ocean without being attacked by killer waves. Are any of these reasons good enough to place Flamenco so high up on the world's list? There must be at least a dozen beaches better suited for such distinction. I'm sure I've been to at least a few that are better qualified; a little too much Puerto Rican adrenaline from canyoning and buoy-watching has muddled my memory a little, but there must be better beaches. Granted, I'll need to actively beach-hop for at least 10 or 20 years to find those places, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. With minimal complaining.

P.S. Can't post videos yet, check back by Thurs.

Has it only been 2 days?

2009-05-17T20:41:00.000-07:00

So it's only been 48 hours and we're feelinglike we've been here a week. No clubbing yet, but that's hard to do when you're up and running at 4 a.m. Yesterday was supposed to be caving, but by a fluke turned into canyoneering (my fave, Cindy's fear). Today was a dive off the coast. So here's a few clips to give you a window into our weekend getaway...

2009-05-14T22:54:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit distracted from trying to finish the Nome trip blog. Currently, my friend and I are sitting in the airport waiting for a redeye to transport us to Puerto Rico...so here's our first attempt at a video blog......blonde #1 and blonde #2

Pilots and parvocellular cells

2009-05-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

In light of the funereal tone last post, I almost laughed out loud when the pilot came on the intercome while waiting departure from Anchorage. "Well, we're gonna sit tight for a few minutes and wait for some weather complications. The ceiling in Kotzebue is good under about 300 feet, but doesn't look too good above that. And in Nome...it's not looking very friendly there, either, so we might have to play around with that a little bit." Am I precognisant? Then to top it off, we're decending through low-visibility haze into Kotzebue when the thrusters kick back on and I'm pressed back into my seat. "Well folks, we didn't make that landing, so we're gonna swing around and take another shot at it." I seriously wondered if anyone following my blog had called this guy up and asked him to have a little fun at my expense.

But I'm back, I'm alive, and I'm thawed out. It was interesting watching my pictures slideshow through on my laptop. First, there were the pictures from my weekend in San Diego. The dazzling blues of the ocean, the golden hues of the sandy beaches and tanned bodies, the deep greens of rolling palm-treed hills; the only things white would be the polar bear exhibit at the world-famous San Diego zoo and my legs. Next were photos of Anchorage. I had a 3 hour layover, spent mostly trying to snatch a few uncomfortable hours of sleep stretched out on the bus-station style bench seats. But before my 6 am flight, I stepped outside to catch a glimpse of the breathtaking sunrise. Stretches of evergreens making an emerald blanket snug up to the base of the snow-etched mountains. The rising sun painted such awe-inspiring colors that I no longer felt a need to see the aurora borealis. Then I snapped a few pics from the airplane window at the inbetween destination...Kotzebue. White. An achromat's paradise. Again from the plane window, I shot landscapes en route to Nome. White clouds hunkered down between white mountain peaks. By the time I landed in Nome, my parvocellular ganglion cells in my retinas were screaming for stimulation. TO BE CONTINUED....

Parka's packed

2009-05-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

To Nome I go! The flights are looking good, the skies are friendly, and my parka is packed. The journey there will be a bit convuluted. From Sacramento to Seattle to Anchorage to some god-forsaken small town to Nome. Good thing I happen to love airports. What I'd like to do at each airport, being a tea-totaller myself, is buy a glass of local brew for a fellow traveler on each leg of this trip. With my luck, I'd buy a brewski for the guy that turns out to be the nervous light-weight pilot of the turboprop headed to Nome. Since I'm headed in this morbid direction - not a real surprise to most of you that know me - let me take a moment to say a few things just on the off chance that the plane goes down, or some misguided terrorist confuses Nome for a city of political importance, or an irritable grizzly gets hungry during a geocache expedition. Just in case I have to be buried - whole would be nice, but if DMORT has to be called in to piece me together and ID me by dentition, I know they'll get the job done - here's a few thoughts.
*** At least I went down doing something spontaeous and anomalous. Of course, it'd be ironic if I died traveling somewhere so cold rather than headed to the tropics.
*** My life has been so full of excitement, adventures, heartbreaks, love, laughter, experiences; celebrate a life well lived, not a life cut short.
*** Make sure you play Green Day's 'Time of Your Life'
*** In lieu of flowers, sponsor one of those benches that provides a place of quiet contemplation overlooking the Pacific.

But seriously....I'm sure I'll be around to post many more blogs. In fact, Puerto Rico is on the horizon if Alaska's monochromatic backdrop is too dreary for you. Well, I'm off...I've got plenty of reading material -- Jeffrey Deaver is the author of the hour -- to see me through roughly 13 hours of travel. Is the Aurora Borealis visible this time of year? That'd be incredible. I'll let you know.

Who knew Nome was cold?

2009-04-28T18:24:00.000-07:00

All four people that heard of my plans to try to hit Nome had the same response. "Nome? Alaska? You know it's cold there, right?" My mom had a hard time getting those words out between gales of laughter. She knows how much I hate the cold. Another friend asked, "Why? To watch naked men chase caribou across the Tundra?" I was a bit befuddled by this question, but it was no less befuddling than my proclamation of flying to Nome. I'm not even sure how it popped into my head. And really, why would anyone go to Nome unless to visit a dying family member or to discover a guaranteed oil reserve? But to Nome I'll go. I'd never spend money to fly there, but to be able to fly for free, traveling to such an obscure destination, just to say I've been to Nome. Not many can say that. And the geocaches! None have been logged in this year; some haven't been found since 2007. Flights were oversold this past weekend, but check in soon...I'll make a second shot at it this next weekend. If I figure out how to twitter between now and then, just be prepared for non-stop complaining about the bitter cold while I'm there.

Portland deserves a second shot...

2009-04-16T08:34:00.000-07:00

That's the mixed blessing of flying standby. I had checked the load facters online and knew the first 3 departures to Portland were full, but decided to give it a shot. After a little research of the area, I was looking forward to visiting the Japanese and the classical Chinese gardens. Maybe get a little rollerblading in. The weather was forecasted as 72 and sunny -- Oregonians trying to show up San Diego. There are disappointingly few geocaches around the gardens, so I need to check into that and see why Portlanders are such slackers in the 'cache arena. Maybe they could use a few well-placed letterboxes. Anyway, I was pretty optimistic sitting at the gate (blew through security with no incidences this time, hope I'm not being lulled into a false sense of security) as departure time approached and there had been no requests for passengers to give up seats for travel vouchers. Group A lined up, boarded the plane. Group B lined up, boarded. The agent at the counter was by now avoiding looking in my direction, and I watched group C line up to the "41-45" section and knew my fate. Out came the cell, dialing my personal Blueshuttle service to pick me up. Of course I was a little disappointed to not be on my way to a sun-filled day of garden hopping, stocking up on travel experiences to share on my blog. As I was leaving the terminal, though, I ran into the Southwest station manager, the ultimate travel guru. I aspire to have half as many stamped passport pages as this guy. He was bummed out that I couldn't make any flights out that morning, but had all the insider info on how to get around town on public transport for less than $8/day, where to hit the best sushi bar, about the largest used book store in the country, and the best local pubs. So instead of blondly - I mean blindly - hitting a few spots on my day trip, I'm excited about the more enriching travel experience I'll enjoy when I hit PDX in the very near future.

Do I look poofy?

2009-04-02T20:53:00.000-07:00

I approached the security line with a bit of performance anxiety. My palms were sweaty, I tried desperately to think of any way Cindy could have slipped contraband into my carry-on. I breezed through and regained a bit of my confidence as I headed out early last Monday morning for Salt Lake City.

Approaching Salt Lake City, the plane slipped through a thick cloud layer. For about 45 seconds, the cloud divider pushed brilliantly blue sky above, framed rolling topography of snow-dusted mountains below. Evergreens cast rugged 5 o'clock shadows on the faces of the Utah mountain range. The proximity of the mountains with their aggressive incline caught me off guard. In Denver, you can scan the Rockies from base to peak with a minimal vertical eye sweep, head staying stationary. Leaving the airport at SLC, you actually have to tilt your chin up to look towards the mountain tops. Potbellied clouds obfuscated the mountain peaks, adding a mystique. Within less than 40 minutes, I had gone from airport baggage carousel to snowy slopes.

"Yeah, yesterday you could pick up a handful of snow and..." phoofff..."blow it off like powdered sugar. Today, " my chairlift buddy continued, "it's settled a bit. Not like that Tahoe stuff. That's some heavy, wet snow." Well, that was the purpose for going to Utah to snowboard: all the hype over the fresh powder. I nodded sagely, hoping he didn't ask for a verbal CV of my snowboarding qualifications. Ok, so I've carved in Montana, Colorado, California, Nevada, and now Utah. Banff and the Swiss Alps (preferably heli-boarding) are on my to-do list. But I did notice that settled or not, snowboarding in Utah was an experience worth being cold for (that's a lot from me). Forgive my dangling participle. The legendary light, fluffy powder had settled like month-old powdered sugar poured into a measuring cup and tamped firmly on the kitchen counter until densely packed. Snow on the less-traveled runs provided enough grip on the board's edge to allow sweet, tight turns. But shift that center of gravity a quarter of a second too soon, and it would ferociously bite the board into instant immobility, the rest of your body slamming helplessly into suddenly not-soft white stuff. Still worth it. The shorter double-black diamonds had manageable runs through trees, and Salt Lake City has proved its reluctant acceptance of snowboarding as a sport with its terrain park and pipes. There were still flat spots that are the bane of any snowboarders existence; I cast about for any nearby skiing Cubans, but no luck.

After a few hours, I headed back to the airport and caught the last flight out to Vegas. I stood in a surprisingly long check-in line at the hotel. It's busy at 10:30 p.m. on a Monday at the Stratosphere. Who said the economy was hitting Vegas below the belt? An anxious woman in front of me was checking in, her mom and her kids, ages 10 and 13, waiting off to the side for her. She's moving from Chicago to Vegas to get a fresh start after a nasty divorce, and she's hoping that her kids will get a little more enthusiastic about the move after a few days on the strip. Oh, the hasty judgements I would have been guilty of making just a few years ago. Her eyes were faintly bulging as she watched a flat-screen above the registration desk rolling video on all the delights the Stratosphere, tallest building west of the Mississippi, had to offer. Breathless and slightly bug-eyed, she turned to me and said, "Would you ever go on that? I wouldn't be caught dead on that!" She was referring to the Insanity ride. I grinned wickedly and answered, "Actually, I came to Vegas just to ride that one." My last few attempts to make it on this ride over the years had been aborted by high winds. Apparently, being on a spider-legged marvel that hangs you over the edge of a 900-foot drop and spins you around is deemed unsafe in high winds. Spoil sports. Bet they'd let you ride it in the Dominican Republic. So up to the top of the tower I went. And over the edge I went, 900 feet over a disappointingly boring view of a freight container yard. My co-riders provided the rest of the entertainment: a small group of Asian business men who dropped their stoically straight faces to shriek excitedly like high-schoolers and two macho American guys who exchanged expletives the entire ride (imagine a game of marco/polo but oh s***/oh f*** the entire time).

I wasn't thinking twice about toy guns or play dough when I checked into the Vegas airport (wake-up call at 4:15 a.m. after a few quarters in the machines post-Insanity ride). I was breezing through security with my new-found confidence when my bag was being scrutinized by TSA. "Is this your bag?" the agent asked, pulling it off the belt. "We need to take a quick look inside." I almost blurted, "But I didn't even geocache!" As the patient gentleman combed through my bag, he chatted about the inadmissible items for carry-ons, including drinks. I was a bit stupefied. Then he pulled out the small plastic honeybear. Once through security at the airport in Salt Lake City, I had stopped into a gift shop to pick up a few souvenirs for family. I hadn't even thought about the fact I'd be leaving Vegas airport before returning home, so the huckleberry honey didn't even register as a potential TSA issue. Humbled, I hung my head and took him up on his offer to run back down to the ticket counter to check my bag. Coming back through the second time, I defiantly tossed my purse through the scanner, and stepped through the arch. Having sounded no alarms, I was beelining to my purse & shoes on the other side of the scanner - hurry, before TSA finds something wrong with my shoelaces or something - when the short, elderly security lady physically blocked my path. "Sorry, honey, I need to pat you down real quick. You're a little poofy there." Her hands deftly patted my midsection where my sweater poofed. All I could think of was the look of sheer panic and pain that my kickboxing class was going to have when I finished with them on Tuesday. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered that second side of fried okra at Cracker Barrel in SLC. My plane landed in Sacramento at 7:45 a.m., and by 9 I was finger-knuckle-deep in plaque and prophy paste at work.

I can hear God laughing...

2009-03-22T20:25:00.000-07:00

The irony was bittersweet. My last blog, written on a very sunny, almost 80-degree afternoon, ended with the statement that I was grateful to be back in Cali where spring doesn't include hail. Today, after church, I took a small gaggle of neophyte geocachers out to a park where a large, easy-to-find cache was hidden. Overhead, the sky hosted a few clouds but was predominantly blue. GPS in hand, swag bag (still no toy gun) slung over shoulder, we started down the dirt trail towards the towering oak trees. Then, halfway to my waypoint, HAIL. Yes, springtime in California, and I'm dealing with HAIL. I swear I could hear God laughing as I shook off ice particles from my jacket. Me and my big mouth.

Roxy the Rat and the three-legged cat

2009-03-18T18:01:00.002-07:00

After crashing for a few hours after the 50K, I was up at 5:15 a.m. to fly to Spokane the next morning. I hastily threw together a carry-on and hit the airport. I pride myself on being pretty proficient when passing through security, so I was a little curious when the TSA agent kept my bag under the scanner and had a confused look on his face. After all, I only threw in my hairdryer, a makeup bag, extra sweater, and my geocaching swag-bag (trinkets for trading on geocache treasure hunts). Muttering under his breath, he radioed in for his supervisor. Soon the next-in-authority was frowning next to him, alternately pointing and murmering. Then the supervisor turned on his heel, speaking into his radio for backup. As he passed me, he barked, "Do you have anything like a belt in your bag?" A little confused, I answered, "Yes." "With a belt buckle?" Not a good time to indulge in the obvious sarcasm that could be used in response. Again, a simple "Yes." "A belt buckle shaped like a gun?" I almost laughed, but he had already sped off and before I could get my shoes back on, 7 TSA guys were glued to the monitor like it was the Victoria Secret fashion show. Should I have brought chips and dip? Realization came suddenly; between my post-50K exhaustion and last-minute style of travel preparation, I hadn't thought twice about the ziplock baggie of swag that my coworker (and geocache mentor) had provided for my geocache swapping needs. I didn't get hauled off to any side room for further frisking or questioning, but needless to say, the toy gun keychain and mini-tub of playdough didn't make it on the plane. Humbled, I forfeited my status as experienced security-line guru.

My stopover in Portland began my assimilation into the perpetually damp Northwest. Why is my sister so determined to move back to this climate? Is she really that determined to find Edward? No, it can't be that, her hubby is as perfect her match as she could find. Spokane continued to uphold the wet weather reputation. I enjoyed the easiest car-rental experience I've had in years; no shuttle to wait for, just a short walk - in the rain - out to the awaiting car. Windshield wipers working frenetically, I arrived at the relatives' home. Technically, these are J's relatives; this could potentially be an awkward reunion. I've only met this cousin, her husband, and her 2 kids twice before now. But somehow a connection was made, one that the tech wonders of texting and facebook has deepened over the years. Now I'm worried that any pursuance of a continued relationship subconsciously expects a side to be chosen. Family should stick to blood-relatives, especially when life pitches the hard-core curve balls at you. This is where one is accepted even at the most vulnerable, scars and all. But we waltzed the fine line rather gracefully, knowing that the thousand-pound gorilla was in the room but refusing to let it cut into our limited time together. Besides, how can I not enjoy watching these kids grow up? Not that I can exactly use that term any more.

The older son, big C, is gearing up to head back into Idaho's Bob Marshall wilderness. He spends weeks at a time in the middle of this vast backwoods marvel, hiking out of a base camp where nothing electrical or motorized is allowed. The spark in his otherwise quiet, guarded eyes when he begins recounting his 10-plus mile hikes in to clear trails (my 50K accomplishments pale in comparison), using hand saws to dismember fallen trees at least 3 feet wide, of hand-carving wooden spikes to secure bridge planks over creeks. Or should I say 'cricks'. Then there is the spaghetti sauce made with venison that he and his uncle and grandfather had gotten on a hunt last year...so delicious any Bambi-lover would consider slinging a rifle to procure more. I respect, but will never understand, vegans, and this particular dish makes me all the more grateful I've never made that conversion. He and his sister talk about their favorite uncle, and this is where the statement about pet-sitting Roxy the rat and the three-legged cat (said with an entirely straight face) just cracks me up. It sounds like a Neil Gaiman novel.

The younger daughter, little C, has me wrapped around her little finger. She'll be a vicious threat to any male on campus when she eventually gets to college. I'm not too keen about girly-girls, but this one's got an edge that I love. One minute, she pulls out her midnight-blue satin prom dress, excitedly showing off the little scrunchy-ruffly thing on the back. Alright, I begrudgingly admit the black peep-toe wedges are pretty kick-butt. But then 30 minutes later, we're in her room and she's describing in great detail each of the elk, deer, and various wildlife skulls and jawbone fragments that are perched on shelves all over her walls. She shrugs a little self-consciously, stating that she used to have a lot more out on display, that these are just a few that she's left out. I'm gawking around, empty eyesockets and sun-bleached dentition gruesomely grinning back in a macabre display of osseous room decor. All I can think is, "This chick is awesome!" Hopefully she'll line up her babysitting jobs to earn enough money to visit me this summer...I can't wait to show her California.

During a random break in the rain, we walk down the street to - get this - the nearby cemetery. As if they've researched me and know what I like. Just inside the iron gates is the Sunset Mausoleum, front and back walls made predominantly of glass. Mourners and visitors can fill their eyes and souls with the majesty of the mountains rising up from the banks of the Spokane river. And, as the name suggests, to be here at sunset must be miraculous, must give hope to those who want to believe in life after death. We follow winding pathways past tombstones and mausoleums from as far back as the 1800's. We drop down to a smaller mausoleum housing a life-sized statue of a naked doctor limb-locked with his equally nude wife and onto an observation deck overlooking the Spokane river below.

Earlier, somewhere between a 2-minute downpour of rain, a 5-minute sketch of sunshine so warm I pull off hat and gloves, then hastily throw them back on when hail shatters down before the sun makes another schizophrenic appearance, I have found my third pair of micro geocache 'earrings'. We spend a little time looking for a larger cache, hiking down a hillside sloping away from the cemetery. Skidding down loose gravel, plunging knee-deep in residual snow banks, clambering over fallen logs (why isn't big C practicing his path-clearing skills now?), unsuccessfully trying to avoid the piles of deer scat, I wonder why my legs are still functioning when it's been just over 24 hours since I completed my 50K. We don't find that one right away, but the bug has bitten this family and I'm excited to hear about their future geocache finds now that they know there are so many within walking distance of their home.

All too soon, I hop a flight home, gunless this time. I step off the plane and strip off my 2 outer layers, breathing a sigh of relief that at least in California, 'spring' doesn't include hail.

WWWeeeee are the championnnnsss....

2009-03-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

We're done, and we're alive. 50K behind us, and our lives have opened up just a little more time each week that won't be spent running. The weather couldn't have been better, and the runners - not to mention all the hardworking volunteers - couldn't have been nicer. Yes, I reached a spot or two of deep soul searching, and came out singing praises to my God that created such incredible beauty and created such a resilient human body that can endure the stress of 31 miles of trail. Well, I'll have to report back in about 36 hours about the whole resiliency thing. But over all the run went very well. I took a spill on a downhill leg - Jana missed the whole thing - so maybe the Telle curse is finally broken (inside joke with everyone whose ever taken part in a sport or activity with me). But I've always said, if you're not bleeding, you're not playing hard enough.

Oh yeah -- I won. Further updates on what will be the tiebreaker.

2009-03-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

Tommorow will be a different kind of journey. I and about 400 of my closest friends will be celebrating the incredible creation that is Northern Cali for about 50 kilometers. Across firetrails, singletracks, creeks, paralleling the American River, enduring brutal uphill climbs and joint-pounding downhills, trying to remember to occasionally lift eyes up to visually enhale the beauty around us. There will be points of reaching deep, dark regions of the soul that most of us don't have the opportunity to explore. I'll try to bring back a souvenir.

The Green Mile...

2009-03-11T21:46:00.000-07:00

My unconventional method of travel as I know it has its date of execution - April 10th. I am walking my own personal green mile of free travel. Ol' Sparky will put an end to non-reving, and flights will now have to be researched and purchased. I have chosen my last meal...an overnighter to Philadelphia, a tour of the Mutter Museum as the dessert. I shuffle down the corridor, ankle chains of change fees, Sept. 11th security fees, and baggage handling fees restricting my gait. I was denied a Coke with my final meal because I didn't have $2 on me. I make myself as comfortable as possible in this wooden chair when the phone rings. What's this? A last minute pardon? The Governor has allowed a stay of execution! J has sent me 5 new passes, all good for another 90 days! And they are on other airlines, opening up my destination prospects! With at least 2 long weekends coming up in April and May, I'll be able to prepare for some longer trips and more interesting blogs. Suggestions, anyone???

It's no irritable grizzly...

2009-03-04T22:03:00.000-08:00

Well, yes, it is. She is. Jana is the 'bear' of our running partnership...she's the faster of the two when the hill slopes downward (there's been debate on whether that animal fact is correct, whether bears run faster uphill or downhill, but for the sake of this post, join me in Telleland and agree that bears run faster downhill). If the hill slants up, my stubborn little stubby legs make me the mountain goat of the partnership. So as she's pulling further and further away from me downhill, I yell, "go grizzly!", and when I pass her on the uphill, I give her an encouraging bleat. So who is going to pull ahead on Way Too Cool 50K? The outcome has been a topic among us for awhile. Remember those two annoying cartoon chipmunks that were overly polite?

-You first.

-Oh, no, you first.

-I insist. You first.

-No, no, no. Really. YOU first.

-I couldn't possibly. You go first, I insist.

ad nauseam.

This is our conversation about who will pull ahead in the 50K.

-You're going to win. You crank out the hills.

-No, really, you're going to win. You sprint downhill.

-No, I'm positive, you're going to win.

-You don't get it. I KNOW you're going to win.

and so forth.

So who's going to cross the finish line first, toss their timer chip in the bin, get in line for the free massage first? Here's our stats:

-I've been racing for about 5 years, and have been competing in ultras (any race longer than a marathon) for the past 3. Jana completed her first run last year - but it was a 20 miler trail run, and she beat me by 15 minutes.

-I can't match her on the hills. She's the 'bear' and I'm the 'goat'. So we leapfrog. As soon as she starts to walk the hill, I just call over my shoulder, see you on the other side. Sure enough, I'll pull ahead, start down the back slope, and listen as those Asics start pounding closer and closer behind me. She pulls ahead, and I watch despondently as she lengthens the gap. So the hills even us out.

-It's been a hard season physically for Jana; she's battled colds, stomach flus, sinus infections, other TMI stuff during our training months. Every practice run has challenged her body, already compromised by illness, on a physical level beyond just sheer mileage. Yet on the flat trail sessions, I'll look down at my GPS and she's cranking out 8-1/2 minute miles.

-She has accumulated far more weekly miles than I have. She has more discipline to go out for speed work or longer neighborhood runs between weekends. I'm lucky if I log 10 miles during the week.

-She has a sprint-stop-sprint-stop method to her running. We'll be a mile in, and she'll stop to stretch. Another few miles, time for a Gu break. I pull ahead as my legs stubbornly plod through cramps, dehydration, steep inclines, mountain lion attacks. But her faster pace when in sprint mode closes any gaps I open.

-Then there's the sheer determination. Anyone who's spent time with her has seen the competitive glint ... and I'm not talking about the sparkle from her nose ring. I affectionately call her Seabiscuit; if you try to pull ahead of her, she digs deep and pulls from some unseen reserve to leave you in the dust.

Our last trail run left us in pretty good spirits, and more convinced than ever that this will be a close call between the two of us time-wise. Yes, we could be more team-minded, stay side by side, cross the finish line arm-in-arm, running buddies forever. But there's a competitive spirit that is one of the cornerstones in our relationship, a commonality that draws us together as friends. And one of the most unique friendships you can have in life is to be able to beat your training partner and still go out for fries and marrionberry shakes at Ikeda's with a good attitude afterward. Thanks, Jana, for being that friend. And my money's on you, but only with a 5-minute spread.

Forensics in Denver

2009-03-01T18:13:00.000-08:00

The morning my plane came in for a landing in Denver was incredible; the Rocky Mountain ridge held bay an angry swell of snow-pregnant clouds. Directly overhead were brilliantly blue skies, the kind even San Diego had deprived me of the previous week. During lunch breaks and after evening sessions, 16th street mall was a few blocks from the convention, with funky shops, delis, trolleys, and pubs. Between the delis, bakeries, and the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, I had: an over sized brownie with chocolate chips the size of dominoes, something pecan-carmel-chocolately sinful, a Rice Krispie treat brick, a peanut butter cup on steroids, chocolate-nut covered toffee bar, THE BEST key lime pie EVER, 7-layer chocolate cake with ice-cream, plus malted milk balls, starkists, and sourpatch kids to stay awake in seminars. This was within less than 48 hours. TALK ABOUT A SUGAR HIGH AND A GRATEFUL HEART FOR FREE DENTAL WORK. I asked my boss (who was the primary instigator of these sugar binges) if he realized what a nutritionally bad influence he was being just 2 weeks before my ultra race. He grinned wickedly, laughed sinisterly, and said, "I know...I want Jana to beat the h*** out of you!" Truly, I felt the love in the high-altitude Coloradoan air.

Glucose over-load aside, when people ask me what I learned in Denver, I have to calculate whether they really want an answer or if they're just being polite. Usually the latter, I figure, so I respond in vague terms. Otherwise, they'd get the following list of fascinating new facts I've learned:

- The S-21 Cambodia prison camp where 12,499 people were killed (only 8,895 remains have been accounted for) is now the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.

- Blowflies can defecate at least once or twice even if they haven't eaten since their larval stage.

- In an interspecific competition of a resource, better place your bets on the more predatory C. Rufifacies.

- 'Resource' at these kinds of conventions usually means dead body.

- An archaeological approach in cases of exhuming human remains prevents lesions due to recovery.

- Calliphoridae are the most significant insects in investigations of suspicious deaths.

- If you can't find a firearm to commit suicide, a hammer, socket wrench, pliers, and duct tape can be just as effective.

- After 21 minutes of non-accelerated fire, fingers will disarticulate (fall off).

So if you checked out after the first fun-fact or two, don't get your panties in a bunch if you don't get a full answer from me when you ask about my latest trip. Only a special few can handle the depths of the darkness in my mind...you know who you are!! But seriously, there is a method to my madness. I am in the process of applying to be on the California DMORT team; this is a specialized group of people who are deployed in cases of mass disasters where human remains need to be retrieved and identified. I've struggled with my fascination with this morbid side of life, wondering what healthy Christian - or even normal human being - would want to fill her mind with these images, dwell on these procedures. At a training seminar at the Medical Examiner's office in Detroit a few years ago, one of the instructors finally verbalized the general sense I couldn't put into words. It takes a special person to detach from a crime or disaster scene, handle fragments of what used to be a living breathing person, categorize those fragments, match up dental records if available, and return a loved one to a grieving family to properly be put to rest. Yes, sometimes sick and twisted humor is used as a defense, but never at the expense of the deceased. Yes, a strange compulsion to eat frequently and heartily comes on strong. And yes, I sometimes wonder about the nightmares I will undoubtedly struggle with. But this capacity was placed deep within me, and later this year I will be attending the National Transportation Safety Board for further certification as a mass disaster respondent. Only God knows where this will lead, but I'm gonna have a literally bloody blast learning more and more until it gets put to use.

Viewing mass grave exhumations makes you hungry...

2009-02-20T12:08:00.000-08:00

It's absolutely gorgeous here in Denver. The sun is strong, the buildings block the cold wind. I had the best hot corn beef/sauerkraut sub at Fontano's Chicago Subs here at the 16th street mall. The afternoon sessions at the forensics convention are promising...more details on that later. My boss is complaining about his B-group boarding pass he just printed out at the airport for his return flight tomorrow. I'm looking at an ominous cloud bank just beyond the Rockies that forbodes difficult stand-by traveling for tomorrow. And it's gonna be a bear if I'm late. I have to meet Jana for our second-to-last trail run before our 50K unltra, then rush to shower & change for a crab feed. No rest for the wicked, or at least the travel-hungry. Then early Sunday morning I'll be off to Phoenix for a few hours. And yes, I know, I still owe all you readers the info on my day trip to San Diego. That day was emotional and spiritual, so the blog on that is taking me a little longer to compose. So thanks for your patience....I've got to go. My boss is anxious to find out if pipe-bomb construction is better with PVC pipe or galvanized steel, whether to use DBSP or pyrotex. I'm glad I'm not on his flight tomorrow.

Sweet Home San Diego

2009-02-17T13:19:00.000-08:00

My pant leg is still damp from a miscalculated wave, my phone is gritty with sand, and the TSA agent shoots me a wierd look as the shells fall out of my jacket pocket going through security at the airport. Yeah, it was a good day to drop down to San Diego. Especially when Sac was about 42 degrees, winds gusting up to 60 mph. Although the sun didn't quite break through the high cloud cover in San Diego (which I could correctly identify as sirius clouds thanks to a recent Cranium tournament at my sister's), I still needed my sunglasses and seagulls cast shadows on the sand.

But I almost didn't go because of the travel snob I've turned out to be. Flights to more interesting destinations were too overbooked for stand-by travel that weekend. I kept plugging in Feb. 15th for my return date, confused as to why so many people were flying that weekend. Then the significance of the date sank in. Alright, so I guess some people may still be gooeily romantic enough to take their sig-ots (significant others) away for the weekend. Or maybe there really were that many guys trying to skip town to avoid the inevitable complications caused by the unrealistic expectations that we females have attached to V-day. Anyway, I had to 'settle' for San Diego for a few hours on that Monday. I had a bit of an attitude, feeling it didn't really count as one of my travel goals; after all, I had lived there off and on for several years. But what a bratty snob...here I am, fortunate enough to skip out of Sacramento where the weather is low 40s, rainy, gusting winds, and I'm COMPLAINING???? I quickly developed my top five reasons for flying to San Diego for the day:

1. Trade wind, rain, cold to visit a town known for being 74 and sunny.

2. I need a new sea-shell inspired necklace.

3. Just 10 minutes of breathing the alchemy of seaweed and salt in the coastal breeze at Ocean Beach is worth 3 hours of recirculated airplane cabin air.

4. Yes, Kono's Cafe potatos really are that good.

5. Sand between my toes is like fine wine for my soul.

How blessed am I that I can walk through security with a small backpack and take a day trip to the most beautiful city on the west coast (fine, argue me here) just for these simplest of reasons. I promptly adjust my attitude and have a wonderful, but bittersweet, time. This was where I began my married life. When the 737 turns on final approach for the airport, I can look down on our first apartment, and the garage where we used to stand at night to watch the fireworks going off at Sea World. I drive past the Chinese restaurant where we always had our New Years Eve dinner and made our resolutions. I have lunch at Kono's Cafe by Crystal Pier, where we would always took our visiting relatives. We bought our first house here in San Diego. I survived the hell that was dental hygiene school in San Diego. And twice, we moved away. Sometimes I irrationally wonder if we would still be married if we had just stayed in San Diego. But we did move, and now I have to move on in life. So everytime I go back to visit, it feels like an uncomfortable reunion with an ex. Such intimate familiarity, but now there's the awkwardness of having to ask politely for a glass of water or to use the restroom. As if I wasn't the one who picked out the glasses at the department store, or painted the bathroom with my own hands. Being in San Diego reminds me so much of the innocence of our early married life, the dreams, the goals, the uncomplicatedness of being together; after all, those years really were good ones. The more recent scars are healing, but will always leave that tell-tale puckered keloid tissue that speaks of damage.

So I walk the beach, grateful for the experiences and memories that God has blessed me with, and celebrate this season of wholeness that my future promises. Both locals and tourists alike wear sweatshirts, shorts, and flipflops. True to form, I have my snowboard parka on, desperately want to pull the hood up and cinch it around my ears. But I'm afraid that I'll be banned, losing my honorary san dieganite status for life. I let the breeze nip my ears, I enjoy the saltiness of the Kono's potatoes while smelling the saltiness of the ocean's breath. This will always be home to my soul, and healing for my wounds.

So it'll be a day trip...

2009-02-11T21:51:00.000-08:00

The ball was rolling for a trip to Philadelphia this weekend. It's one of the few Sundays that I won't be playing bass on the worship team at church, so I was going to take advantage of 2 full days off for a longer trip. Then, a co-worker asked me to work Monday for her. Dreams of spending my day off perusing a museum with displays of the Soap Woman, the secret tumor of Grover Cleveland, exhibits of brains of murderers and epileptics, skull collections, and Pott's disease skeletons were filling my dreams....in a good way. Yes, I'm sick, twisted, macabre, and demented. But mostly fascinated with medical oddities that are showcased at the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia. So I was disappointed that I would temporarily lose this opportunity; however, not only is my friend almost 8 months pregnant with absurdly swelling ankles, she's already picking up a day for me next week so I can go to the American Academy of Forensic Sciences in Denver. Among the seminars for that weekend: Blood and Tissue Spatter Associated with Chainsaw Dismemberment, SEM Analysis of Saw Marks in Bone, Concealment and Detection of Bloodstains Beneath Multiple Coats of Paint, Sustained Combustion of Bodies:Some Observations. And this is how I get my continuing education credits to maintain my dental hygiene license. I LOVE MY JOB!!!! So you can understand that I'm willing to put off my fascination of all things morbid to take care of patients on Monday.

Instead, I'll plan a morning flying down to San Diego to hit my favorite breakfast spot by the Crystal Pier at Ocean Beach, then on to Phoenix to spend the afternoon with a young lady who was like a little sister to me while growing up in the jungles of Africa. Hopefully this one sticks! It'll be an incredibly long day, but I'll go stir crazy if I spend 2 weekends in a row in Sacra-de-mento!!

Responsibilities

2009-02-09T15:34:00.000-08:00

If you've come to my blog to see which exciting journey I took this week, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Sunday evening came very quickly, and I was standing next to my nightstand, debating whether or not to set my alarm for 4 a.m. That's the time I would have to get up in order to catch that first flight to Seattle. A pile of unfolded (and wrinkling) laundry was piled on my floor. My bathroom was growing a new, funky species of bacteria. The list goes on. So I made the responsible adult decision to stay home. I worked all day at warp speed, and got so much done that my head is spinning. Finally, with the exception of my oversized wreath hanging in my front window (I have to borrow my neighbor's ladder to be able to get it down), I've gotten all the Christmas decorations put away. The carpets are vacuumed. I'd keep going with all the chores I accomplished, but it would bore you to tears. At the very least, typing it all out would make me suidicidally bored. I even squeezed in a bit of sun-soaked time (it's a gorgeous, sunny day in Cali!) reading The Shadow of the Wind - wow, am I sucked into this book. All in all, I know I made the right, grown-up decision to take care of necesities, but the adventurer in me is wondering what I missed out on. Wishing I had just chucked it all, packed a day bag, and hit the airport. Oh well. Next week will be an overnighter to Seattle. I'm still dying to find the funky little coffee shop with the out-of-this-world muffins that I discovered by accident a few years ago. If anyone has other suggestions for this next quick trip, I'd love some ideas! And yes, there will be a trip to Forks and La Push. I'll even do some geocaching while I'm there.

Decisions, decisions...

2009-02-03T23:10:00.000-08:00

It's Tuesday night and I'm barrelling towards a week that leaves me little time for breathing. By the end of church on Sunday, I'll be overdue on my daily routines like laundry, grocery shopping, feeding my cat (JUST KIDDING....Scully never lacks for food, and could actually stand to lose a few lbs.) Instead, my list begs to have another check mark. So where to go next? This time, I may be able to squeeze in an over-nighter. One idea rambling around in my brain is a trip to Seattle, check out some of the typical touristy sites - the fish market, for example. Then rent a car, drive to a little town called Forks, see if there really is a La Push reservation, and, if there is, whether I can try out for their cliff-diving team. If that last sentence made no sense, then congratulations on avoiding the obsession that is Twilight.

Minneapolis would also be an interesting airport to check out, along with a tour of the Mall of America. When I have a little more time, I'd like to visit Austin with my running partner and hit some of the legendary trails out that way. Or find a Nickleback concert to take my sister to, since there are currently no concert dates scheduled in California. Those of you who have experienced my macabre nature won't be surprised to hear that I'd love to hit Philadelphia just to tour the Mutter Museum's collection of medical monstrosities.

I struggle with feelings of neglect towards friends and family as I try to accomplish this 'most traveled' list. I still owe my grandmother a celebration dinner for her 92nd birthday. She's still my best friend, and I always tell her that if I inherited her genes, I'd better increase my 401K. Other close friends probably think that I've forgotten about our weekly movie nights. And my brother has most likely given up on waiting for me to go paint-balling with him. Thank you all ahead of time for your patience, your graciousness, and your tolerance as I fill my traveling cup as full as possible while I can. I'll make it up to you at some point!

Shoulda turned left at Albuquerque...

2009-02-02T21:14:00.000-08:00

I pop a Shok Blok sublingual, hoping for maximum absorption. My brain is screaming at my muscles to hurry up and make the switch from glycogen usage to fat metabolism. In basic terms, I'm only an hour into my long run and I'm hurtin' bad. Hurtin' real bad. With less than 6 weeks to the 50K, this shouldn't be happening so early into a long run. Then words spoken to me over the weekend ring through my slogging brain. "Oh, you're going to Albuquerque for a trail run? That'll be good altitude training." Suddenly I realize how I underestimated the wisdom of the statement at the time. Altitude. That's it, it's all altitude. Grateful for an excuse, however weak it may be, I take a break from thinking less-than-cheerful thoughts about Jana, my co-runner in the upcoming race, wondering why she agreed to sign up with me. I'm not even going to begin to describe the sadistically evil plots of revenge I orchestrate for my boss, who convinced me this race would be a fun one to sign up for in the first place.

All typical runners' complaints aside, however, I fell in love with the trails at the Sandia Foothills just east of downtown Albuquerque. This was just a quick day trip, another destination checked off my list before April 10th. Standing at the base of the foothills, the view of high desert town is somewhat like a lion or a great white shark. Beautiful in a mysteriously majestic way, but best admired at a distance. The drive from the airport out to the trailhead was bleak, with squat, colorless buildings blending into the monochromatic landscape. It was difficult not to draw unfavorable comparisons with San Diego, where I had taken a quick walk over to Harbor Island between plane changes earlier this morning. But the trails winding through the Sandia Foothills were worth the 5 a.m. wakeup time to catch the flight. A lot of trail variety, beautiful sunshine, a little bit of snow in the shadows, and 10 miles went by all too quickly. Of course, a little Green Day and Blink 182 on the iPod helped on the last 4 miles. And I'm proud to say that I only got lost once. Me, the blonde who inspired all directionally-challenged blonde jokes. Being lost out on these inspiring trails, though, was worth every additional stride I had to take to get back to my rental car.

Getting the passes ready...

2009-01-30T12:43:00.001-08:00

2009 will be a year of transition for me. Sadly, I have lost my marriage and along with it many dreams, hopes, beliefs, and benefits. One benefit greatly missed will be the travel perks I enjoyed being married to an airline employee. No, J., this is not even on the top 10 things that I will miss now that we will be parting paths. I have had to grieve, and will continue to grieve in my own time, many other things far more important that were lost between us.

But calling me a travel junkie is like calling Edward Cullen sexy (sorry, had to drop my Twilight obsession in here somewhere). Sitting on my desk is the final stack of spouse passes for the ex's airline that will expire mid-April. So here I am, grasping at the vanishing freedom of being able to walk up unannounced to any ticket counter, fill in departure and arrival city codes, and walk onto a plane with nary a penny spent. How many destinations will I be able to add to my check list before these passes expire? My experiment has a few curve balls. On top of my full-time job as a dental hygienist, I also teach kickboxing during the evenings, volunteer as a bass player for my church's worship team, and am in the final 6 weeks of training for a 50-K. Throw in the other typical time-consuming activities (friends, family, cat, reading Twilight), and you'll be joining me on an interesting journey of balance of priorities while blasting through as many airports as possible.