July 9, 2016

Edinburgh, Scotland

In James Court, just off the Royal Mile, we are very close to Edinburgh Castle and the bagpipers who play for the mobs of tourists that crowd the street, but here in our second story flat in this building that smells of must and time, it is quiet. Tall windows look out onto the calm courtyard, where I can see trash bins for the small cafe in the courtyard and a corner of a raised seat. In the evenings it gets a bit noisy when modern day pied pipers lead bands of tourists into the courtyard. I cannot hear the stories, only the storyteller’s raised voice and the ebb and flow of laughter. Some of the listeners perch on the edges of the raised seat. Then the crowd moves on, and the court is quiet again.

At night I wake and look out the tall window at the foot of the bed. The window frames the opposite tenement building (for so these were in days gone by) and the twilight sky. It is never truly dark at night in July, this far north in Scotland. If you look at a globe, you will see that Scotland lies on the same meridian as Moscow. No one is siting on the seat in the courtyard. I return to bed, and to sleep.

In the morning I visit the courtyard and examine the square seat. It is three tiers of stone, topped  with a metal sculpture: a classic garden trug with what seems to be a parrot perched on the handle. At the base of the sculpture is an inscription:

Susannah Alice Stephen

1960-1997

Later I learn that Susannah was a Scottish landscape architect who died in a diving accident in the Galapagos Islands, the enchanted isles on the other side of the world that I have visited myself. Her friends erected this memorial for her.

Around the base of the second stone tier is another inscription. I walk around the stone slowly, reading the words:

“Turn your face to the sun

And the shadows will fall behind you.”

Five days from now will be the anniversary of Bill’s death. He has been gone almost six years.

Turn my face to the sun

And the shadows will fall behind me.

May 13, 2016

I am standing high on the shore, above one of Cape May’s beaches, watching a banner of birds swoop in across the waters of the Delaware Bay, land on the sand, and immediately begin to probe the sands for the eggs of the horseshoe crabs. These small birds are red knots, members of the sandpiper family. They have flown from their wintering grounds in harsh Tiera del Fuego at the tip of South America, with a brief stopover in Brazil, and then nonstop for two days to the Delaware Bay. I am filled with awe and amazement for these pretty little birds. Somehow they time their arrival at the Delaware Bay for the high tide and full moon of May, when the horseshoe crabs come out of the ocean and drag themselves above the high tide mark to lay their eggs.  The birds must double their weight in about ten days time, before continuing their journey north to the Canadian Arctic, where they will breed. It is a migration of over 8,000 miles. And until today, I never knew about these birds.

Due to the harvest of horseshoe crabs for bait, their numbers have plummeted and so have the numbers of red knots, almost to the point of extinction. A moratorium on the harvesting of the crabs has helped stop the drop in numbers of both species, and there is some hope. Dedicated scientists from Australia, New Zealand, and the US track the little birds, from the tip of South America to the barren Arctic lands in Canada. In Delaware, beaches are roped off to safeguard the horseshoe crabs and the birds, and volunteers monitor the beaches.

Above the roped off beach, I watch the red knots in their mating plumage plunge their beaks into the sand (foreground.) Ruddy turnstones dig holes in the sand, looking for eggs, and herring gulls and laughing gulls probe at the insides of unfortunate horseshoe crabs who lie upside down on the beach, unable to right themselves. I wish I could help the crabs, but no one can go onto the beach and disturb the birds. At night volunteers turn over any crabs that need help. The beach is filled with the cries of birds and constant motion. And I am filled with a sense of wonder at the mystery of life.

The snow began about three pm on Friday, as predicted, falling softly at first. It fell all night, and into the next day. The initial soft dry flakes changed to tiny icy flakes, and the snow continued to pile up. It covered the streets and the sidewalks, the patios and decks. It buried the cars and the shrubbery and all the outside furniture. It turned familiar landscapes into mysterious vistas. It fell for over thirty-six hours and deposited two or more feet to northern Virginia. It hushed our noisy world and stopped our usual lives. For a time, everyone turned inward to their homes and lives, cooking pots of chili and chicken stew, playing board games, binge watching television shows.

And then on Sunday the snow had stopped and the sun was shining, and people emerged to begin the big dig out, with shovels and snow throwers and leaf blowers. Plows were slow in coming, but people dug out their cars from the two foot snow caps that crowned them, and shoveled driveways for hours. Neighbors helped neighbors, potluck parties blossomed. Children and dogs frolicked in the snow, and as the snow grew softer, the children built snow forts and snow caves and sled runs. So did the adults. Gradually as the snow plows arrived to clear suburban streets, people were released back to their ordinary lives.

I watched the snow fall on my hilltop, and shoveled my walkways on the first night of the snowfall, and ran the snowblower on the walks multiple times even during the height of the storm.. I watched my world outside fill up with snow, until the tree stump that held the sundial disappeared and the woodpile that I had assembled for my fireplace changed into a small mountain of snow explored by the house wrens and English sparrows and chickadees.

When the snow stopped and the sun came out on Sunday, I, too, went outside to start clearing the snow from my truck, but I was in no hurry. I knew it would be a long time before the county snow plows cleared my country road, and then I would have to find a crew to plow my driveway. No rush. I had all the essentials—food, drink, firewood, projects to do, books, videos, cats—to be comfortable on my hilltop for days. I would be fine, I said to family and friends.

But today five days after the storm began, I realized what I have been missing deep in my heart: people. I have not seen another human face—not a single one— since I left the community center on Friday morning after my water aerobics class. That is almost five days. Thanks to the telephone and Internet, I have had communications with family and friends—telephone calls, e-mail, text messages, Facebook postings— but I have seen no one in five days. Such a difference to past major snow storms here, when Bill and I shared the adventure together, riding the storm out together.

I am isolated, due to this historical storm, and it made me think tonight about how people are isolated in other ways—by prisons, by mental illness, by the lack of friends. One of the worst things in a human’s life must be solitary confinement, and I am grateful that President Obama is making changes to that punishment for young people who are imprisoned. Humans are social animals, and cannot be happy alone. I now can better understand a person who might talk to a basketball on a desert island. I am talking to my cats, and to myself.

I am here tonight on my Snow Island on top of my hill, with gradually melting snow criss-crossed by the slender feet of birds, printing a delicate language that our brains think we should be able to decipher if we just stared a little harder, a little longer, and by the furrows of the deer, as they waded through the deep snow, and by the deep, widely spaced, prints of the red fox. The Snow Moon rises over the hill and casts its cold light over the drifts and the snow covered hollies and azaleas. I am grateful this is not a desert island, and I am not a castaway, and in a few days or so, I will see a human face again.

December 1, 2015

This falls into that category: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.

Last March, when I was recovering from my total knee replacement surgery and feeling housebound and despondent, I decided to extend my November trip to Central America with a few days at a beach resort in Belize. Originally I would have been returning home two days before Thanksgiving, after spending almost two weeks following “The Route of the Maya” through El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, and Belize. But then Overseas Adventure Travel modified the itinerary and added two days to the trip—meaning that I would be flying home late on Thanksgiving Day, returning to a dark and empty house.

That thought was depressing, and in addition for a long time I had wanted to snorkel off the reef that runs along the coast of Belize. So I researched on the Web and found a small resort at the north end of Ambergris Caye that was close enough to the reef to offer wade-in snorkeling. Tranquility Bay Resort was miles from the town or any other resort and only accessible by boat. So I booked four nights in a one-bedroom casita facing the ocean. I would be alone, but I am used to being alone. I would be fine. I was a bit nervous about disobeying the cardinal rule about never swimming alone, but thought there would be others in the water.

On November 26th, I said good-bye at the Belize City airport to the fifteen other travelers in my small group, boarded the ten-passenger airplane to Ambergris Caye for the fifteen minute flight, and took a taxi to the wharf.

The resort’s small boat bounced on the rough waves for the fifteen miles up the coast, coming down and smacking the ocean hard. I held on and admired the passing coast and a dolphin that plunged out of the water. Finally, the boat slowed and veered into the dock and a small cluster of buildings on a dock. We had arrived. 

It was noon on Thanksgiving Day. The white casitas with brightly painted trim were charming. Lounge chairs sat in the shade of the palm trees, facing the blue ocean. Well, the blue and brown ocean. There had been a storm the night before, and sand and dirt were suspended in the water. The wind was blowing hard, not the best snorkeling conditions so I did not go in.

That night the resort offered its guests a full Thanksgiving dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert. I sat by myself at a table for four. One extended family took up a table for sixteen. There were other family groups and couples dining. It was the first time in my life that I had been alone at Thanksgiving. I tried to fill my mind with gratitude for all the Thanksgiving dinners of the past and be thankful that I had the means and energy to travel, but a sadness enveloped me. I missed Bill very much.

Somehow I had forgotten how much I dislike eating dinners alone in a restaurant, too. When I was traveling on business, if I could not eat with colleagues, I usually ordered room service. But that was not possible at this small resort. The next three nights I read the news on my cellphone while eating the delicious seafood dinners. The two waiters provided good service and never neglected me, even though they were very busy.

During the day, I relaxed under the palm trees. I watched the birds and read my books. I tried snorkeling the second day and found myself gasping for air through my snorkel in the murky water. Not being able to see clearly had panicked me, and according to a husky neighbor, there were nurse sharks at the reef. Nurse sharks are considered non-aggressive, but I did not want to meet one in the murk. The third day there was no one on the beach or in the water, so I took a quick swim and did not try to snorkel.

Finally on the fourth and last day, the water was clearer and calmer and I was able to spend some time snorkeling around a small coral head and watching a wide variety of fish there. The reef was still a long way out (you can see where the waves are breaking in the photo), and my new knee was complaining about the weight of the fin so I did not try to swim out to it. Besides, being alone in the water made me nervous. My neighbors in the casita next door had seen me go in the ocean which was a bit reassuring. I should have signed up for a snorkeling excursion with the resort, but I was worried that my knee would not hold up.

Do I regret the decision to go this tropical paradise? No. It was beautiful and relaxing. I now can check off “Belize coast” on my bucket list. But I also realize that being a solo traveler in a small group is much different than being a solo traveler in a small resort setting. And next time I go snorkeling, I need a buddy.