Travel tips and Paige's birthday

 Hittin' the road back in '99

I had an email conversation with a friend recently who will be traveling to Spain soon with his wife. He wrote me to ask if I had any tips about traveling in Europe.  Well, I'm sure my friend knew (or if he didn't, he soon learned) that I'm always willing to tell people what I think. (wink)

Hangin' in Ireland with Mahatma Candy

Europe is safe

The first time I traveled to Europe was when my brother, Calee, and I went for a quick five-day jaunt to London in February, 1997.  In my pre-trip research, nearly everything I read warned me to be on my toes against pickpockets and tourist scams.  When we arrived I half-expected to be stripped of all my belongings before we even reached our hotel.  Now, after having traveled extensively throughout western (and a little bit of central) Europe, I can state definitively that the stories you hear about thieves and scams are exaggerated.

The key to avoiding trouble is to not invite it.  Keep your passport, your ATM card, and your money in a travel pouch, inside your clothes, right next to your skin.  Be sure to keep them in a plastic bag so that they don't get wet if you sweat.  Leave your expensive jewelry at home.  Ladies, I recommend that you forgo carrying a purse.

Always count your change.  Once, in Paris, a bartender deliberately short-changed me and flatly denied it when I pointed it out to him.  In the end he got my money (it was about 50 cents), but I hope I at least shamed him to one degree or another.  Another time, a barrista at La Escorial outside Madrid tried to rip me off, but one of my travel companions, a Mexican woman, let fly with a string of invective that took a strip of hide off of him.  He meekly handed me the rest of my money.

Regarding violent crime, the most violence I ever saw was in Ireland, where I witnessed a couple fistfights in the pubs on weekend nights.  (I was present at said establishments only for purposes of objective observation, you understand.)

Um belo dia em Lisboa

Don't be afraid of the so-called "language barrier"

The truth is, in any major city in western Europe, from Lisbon to Stockholm to Berlin to Naples, you can easily get by speaking nothing but English.  There is no language barrier.  It is good manners, though, to at least learn one or two words in the local language.  Especially, "thank you."  You will find that the response you get from people is much, much better if you at least try to say something in their language. 

When speaking to someone for whom English is a second (or third, fourth, or fifth) language, keep your sentences short, clear and simple.  Pronounce each word.  Don't use slang. 

When my sister, Mia, and I were in Lisbon in spring of 1999, I witnessed a young woman organizing a tour of the city, directing tourists to various buses.  She was being peppered with questions from dozens of people in five or six languages.  She deftly fielded each question and replied in the language in which it was asked, effortlessly.  I asked her "How many languages do you speak?"  She looked at me and guffawed, "I tried to count once..."

In smaller towns, you may at times find yourself in a place where no one speaks English.  When that happens, you will quickly learn how easy it is to communicate with gestures and facial expressions.  Above all, don't worry.

Las paredes blancas de Grenada

Dealing with money

Don't worry about converting money before you go.  The exchange counters in the airports and train stations are rip-offs.  Go straight to any bank machine and use your ATM card to draw your money directly out of your bank account.  Doing it this way guarantees that you will get the best exchange rate available.  You will have to pay the ATM fee, which could be anywhere from $1 to $5.  But don't worry:  there are ATMs everywhere in Europe.  I've used them in Europe, Asia, South America, and Africa.

As I gained travel experience, I found that the way it worked best for me was to go to the ATM upon arrival at a city and withdraw all the money that I thought I would need while at that city.  That way, I never had too much cash on me at any time, but I minimized the number of ATM fees.

Now that the European Union has converted to the Euro, things will be much simpler.  No need to run conversions in your head as you cross borders.

Grubbin' at the youth hostel in Copenhagen (Jason, Nelson, and Martín)

Accommodations

Youth hostels are a great way to go, regardless of your age. As a matter of fact, they are an excellent way to go. You will meet lots of fellow travelers from all over, and they can give you tips about things to see and good places to eat. Plus, you can often make friends. It happened to me many times when I traveled. Some hostels have private rooms, but most are dormitory sleeping. They have lockers where you can store your valuables.

The big advantage of youth hostels is that you are immersed in the travel life.  You learn much.  You get a much more immediate and intimate experience than you do staying in a hotel.  Hotel rooms can often turn into prisons from which it is hard to emerge.  My belief is that, if you're going to travel, get out there and mix with the people and the country as much as possible.  If you only come out of your hotel room to do a quick tour of a museum and eat at some tourist-elegant restaurant, you might as well stay home and watch it on teevee.

Pensiones also make for good accommodations. A pensione is a house with rooms that the owner lets out to travelers. Often, when you get off a train or bus, there will be people greeting you as you disembark, offering rooms. I've rented rooms that way several times and I've never had a bad experience. In San Sebastian, I rented a room from a matronly Spanish doña, who paid me the compliment of looking at me lasciviously.  I hadn't even noticed, but after she had handed us the key to the room and gone on about her business Jay, my Australian travel companion told me "She was checking you out pretty heavily."  Nice little ego boost.

Parisian cityscape

Get information!

The surest, best way to get up-to-date information is to contact the Tourist Information office.

Just about every city and town has a tourist information center where you can get great tips about what to see and do during your visit. You can count on them to be honest, too. They can even find you accommodations and sometimes sell you passes for the various tourist attractions.

Happy Birthday, Payee!

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear...

...little girl who would suck her thumb,

...and clutch her "manky" in her little fist,

...little Payee,

Happy birthday to you!

A benediction of sorts

 Me and Dad in 1962, in the apartment that he and Mom rented in Corvallis while Dad earned his bachelor's degree at Oregon State University.

Wisdom?  How's this?  If I live long enough, whatever I write today will one day seem painfully naive to my future self.  Because life is like a fire hose.  It doesn't "shut off."  And things come at you so fast that you scarcely get a chance to look around before everything has changed. 

So let that be my little courage:  the fact that I put it out here, for everyone to see, with the expectation that I will one day be embarrassed by it.

Ross Cariaga, Jr. passed in his home, in the house he built with his own two hands on the southeastern shore of Upper Klamath Lake, surrounded by his family, on June 9th, 2001.  He was 59 years old.  The end came at 8:00 a.m. in the recliner chair in the expansive front hall of his house.  The recliner sat in the corner nearest the sliding door that opened onto the kitchen.  From that recliner, he could look out through the vast tall windows on the south side of the house, across the great expanse of the lake.  In springtime, the surface of the lake would be dotted with pelicans, grebes, mergansers, ducks and Canadian geese.  My sister Mia, my Uncle Don, and Dad's wife, Tami, were at his side at the very moment of his death.

The last year of his life had been a real fight.  He'd been suffering from complications due to Lupus for several years, and in that last year, his health deteriorated precipitously.  His circulation became so weak that he developed gangrene on his finger tips.  He was in constant pain.  It was a trial for him and for all of us.  

I was the only one of the seven children my father had from his three wives that was not present at his death.  It was a more or less conscious decision.  I had been to Klamath Falls the week before.

"Well, Dad," I said, "you've had a good life."

He was lying back in the recliner.  He had a blanket pulled up to his chin.  "A good life," he said.  "A hell of a life, son."  He nodded once, emphatically.

"Seven kids.  Three wives.  All of them good women."

"That's right, son.  All three of them good women,"  Dad said.  Speaking emphatically, the way he always did. My brother Calee was nearby and overheard what Dad had said.  Calee half-grinned, seemingly abashed.  But Calee and Dad had their own relationship to resolve; I didn't expect that Calee would understand.

I was glad Dad said that.  All my life I had resented the way he had treated his wives; the way he had treated all of them, but especially my mother.  And he knew I resented it and that I didn't understand it.  He knew that to me his behavior was pointless and cruel.  He knew I resented it, and so when he said that, he let me know that he understood that I resented it, and that he was sorry for it, if for no other reason than for what it had done to me. 

And he understood that when I said "Dad, you've had a good life," I was really asking him a question:  "Dad, have you had a good life?"  He knew that I was asking him what I should look forward to when my time came; I was asking him if I should be afraid and he didn't want me to be afraid, and so he said "A hell of a life, son."  He was always like that:  emotionally two steps ahead of everyone.

It was the last time I ever spoke with Dad.  And I knew, at the time, that it was probably going to be the last time I spoke to him, and I spoke with that knowledge.  So, I felt we had said what needed to be said between us.  It was enough for me.  I feared that if we talked any more, we would only complicate matters.  That's why I wasn't there at the very end.

Dad and his kids, May 2001

There have been times, since then, when I've thought of other things that we might have said, perhaps should have said, but I suppose that's the nature of death.  Isn't it?

I was talking with my Uncle Don about it several years ago.  "You know, Uncle Don," I said, "when Dad died, I didn't really want to face it.  I couldn't face it.  I worry about that sometimes."

Uncle Don said, "Son, don't.  I know your Dad, and I know what he'd tell you.  And I'm telling you... just don't!"

President Obama, take down British Petroleum!

Make them pay, Mr. President! 

I think it would behoove us all to come to some stark realizations fairly quickly:  the Mississippi Delta, the Gulf Coast that we have known all our lives is gone forever.  It will never return.  No one alive today will ever again know it as it has been before now.

Thank you, British Petroleum.

BP is in the process of poisoning the entire Gulf Coast of the United States.  The results of their negligence will cause grievous and long-lasting damage.  Damage far greater than any conceivable terrorist attack. More devastating to this nation than any military attack throughout her history.

Right now, thirty-some days into the crisis, BP is marshaling all its vast resources.  But not to stop the catastrophe in the gulf waters.  They have no idea what to do, all this talk about a "top-kill" notwithstanding.  No, BP is even now bringing all of its formidable empire in line in order to stave off the repercussions of its negligence.  That's the way these corporate mobsters work:  take, take, take and when something goes wrong, when you destroy the Gulf Coast, have the lawyers get to work.

It is hard to understand why British Petroleum is not being treated as a declared enemy of the United States.

The Gulf Oil spill is not an accident; it is the result of criminal negligence.  Negligence committed with the complete security that the billions of dollars of profits BP has been raking in, would dwarf any petty punitive damages meted out by the federal government.

Let me postulate, for a moment:  what would be my fate, were I to exhibit similar reckless behavior on an individual scale?  What if my own negligence in pursuit of profit caused a destructive fire in my neighborhood?  Would I be left in control of my own resources and allowed to deal with the problem as I saw fit?  Or would I be arrested and thrown in jail? 

I have a great deal of respect for Barack Obama.  The man has been gracious in the face of base and degrading insults from boorish, ignorant people.  But unlike the tea-baggers, these capitalist mobsters that run Big Oil are serious, deadly men.  And they will stop at nothing; Dick Cheney has proved that.

I believe that the BP Oil Spill has the potential to fundamentally change political realities. We could be at a real crossroads in the history of this country.  This is certainly not the first time in American history when the federal government has come into conflict with Big Business.  But the stakes are higher than ever before.

So, Mr. President, the time has come.  At this point, British Petroleum is a threat to this nation.  Seize its assets.  Arrest its executives.  And don't stop there.  We need a crackdown, Mr. President.  Take down British Petroleum.

Update:  The ANSWER Coalition has a website at which you can sign a petition to advocate the seizure of British Petroleum assets.   If we, the people, nationalize BP watch and see how fast the other Big Oil pirates start falling into line!

So long, Evalina

Evalina on her 90th birthday (Cousin Maryann in the back)

Just a note today, to say goodbye to my Aunt Evalina, who passed on May 15th.  Maty and I attended her memorial yesterday.

Evalina was my mom's aunt, the wife of my grandfather's brother, Dick.  I'm sad to see her go, but I'm sure she would have no complaints.  She had ninety-five years of life and she had lots of family and friends around her.  I'm mostly sad for her two children, my cousins Maryann and Rick, and their families. 

 Evalina and Maty

One of the last times I saw Evalina was when Maty and I, newly-married, stopped by to visit her when she was living at an assisted-living home in Keizer.  We walked into her apartment, and the first thing she said to Maty was "Welcome to the family."  I'm so very grateful to her for that.

A short while after that visit, cousin Maryann showed up at our door with a beautiful table center piece, fashioned from glass into the shape of a leaping dolphin.  It was a wedding gift from Aunt Evalina. Maryann told us that Evalina had chosen it because she wanted to give us a unique gift that we would always have to remember her by.

 Evalina's wedding gift to Maty and me

So long, Evalina.  I'll miss ya!

(Here's the poem printed in her memorial card...)

While Waiting for Thee

by Sharon A. Bryington

Don't weep at my grave

For I am not there,

I've a date with a butterfly

To dance on the air.

If I'm missed, find a flower,

I'll be there, too,

Sniffing its fragrance

Right next to you.

Don't be sad

When you remember me,

For I'm singing in the sunshine, 

Wild and free,

Flirting with the lightning, 

Playing tag with the wind,

Chasing the thunder

Time and time again

Soaring with the eagle, 

Swimming in the sea,

Enjoying all nature

While I'm waiting for thee.

Who needs terrorists? We've got Big Oil!

Al Qaeda got nothin' on these guys!

 As the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico unfolds, it is now apparent that the threat posed to these United States --indeed, to all of humanity! --by multi-national resource-extraction industries is far greater and far more lethal than is any threat posed by a relative handful of Muslim extremists.

That's right, people.  British Petroleum, Exxon, Shell Oil, Halliburton, and so on are the biggest political threat to the world in existence.  They are terrorist organizations.  The prima facie evidence cannot be denied.

British Petroleum, which made $5.6 billion dollars in profit in the first quarter of 2010, is even now inflicting economic and environmental damage on this nation that will far out scale what was done to us on September 11, 2001. Let me repeat that:  this Gulf spill is a greater disaster to the United States than was the attack inflicted by al Qaeda, when they knocked down the Twin Towers. 

BP failed to follow federal regulations (as reported by Scott Pelley on 60 minutes) and now, due to its criminal negligence, we are suffering this disaster, which is still unfolding, a full month after it began.  No progress has been made toward stopping the oil from gushing into the Gulf.  There has been no slowdown in the flow.  They have no solution.

Meanwhile, BP's chief executive Tony Hayward is muttering soothing placations, telling us we don't need to worry.  It's a "relatively tiny" spill, he says!  The environmental impact will be "very, very modest," he says! He has no idea what is going to happen!  No one does!

British Petroleum is so powerful that their attitude toward the federal government of the United States is nothing short of contemptuous. And why not?  Our government is being exposed as impotent.  The Obama administration is doing nothing.  The oil continues to gush into the sea.  The feds don't know what to do about it.

And something else, something much more frightening, is becoming apparent.

Ask yourself:  Why isn't Eric Holder issuing indictments?  Why aren't British Petroleum assets being seized?

The truth is terrifying:  Because Obama fears Big Oil!  Because Big Oil has either bought off or intimidated our federal government!

In 1991, we were told that it was imperative that we go to war to take down an Iraqi strongman who had gotten too big for his britches.  But now, US Senators urge us not to be too hasty, not to overreact.  We don't want to hurt BP, they say.  They say this even though, unlike Saddam Hussein, BP has inflicted real and terrible devastation on our homeland.

They would kill us all.  They will kill us all.

If the Bush administration taught us anything it is this:  until the people rise up and put a stop to them, these huge international corporations will grind us all under their heels.  That is the lesson of the Bush administration.  The Bush administration, which consisted of men who made obscene fortunes in the energy industry.  The Bush administration, with front man Junior Bush, CEO of Harken Energy, and Arbusto.  The Bush administration, led by Dick Cheney, CEO of Halliburton, who received a deferred Halliburton salary while he was sitting vice-president!

Terrorists?  Who needs terrorists?  Big Oil will kill us all faster than any hopeless, skinny kids from Pakistan.

Faces in the trees

I wonder, do you also see the faces in the trees?
Does it seem to you they frown or do they smile?

Eyes:
Rooted in wood-knotted heart;
Through bark and flesh they see;
Past all tomfoolery;

Ears:
Deafened, will not hear your part;
Aloof to verse and rhyme,
Entreaty, wasted time;

Nose:
Immune to all rankness and reek;
Insult can never reach,
Nor dignity be breached;

Tongue:
Fibrous lignin forbids them to speak;
No praise to spare for us,
Nor cluck-cluck of disgust;

I wonder, do you also see the faces in the trees?
Does it seem to you they frown...

...or do they smile?

Steak dinner with Mitch McConnell

Scene:  Wednesday night.  The day after the primary election.  An elegant, linen-tablecloth steak house within the Washington DC beltway.  Waiters hustle between tables.  The din of clinking glasses and dinnerware fill the air.  Republican Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell sits in a booth to one side of the large dining room.  A cloth napkin rests in his lap.  He primly slices a small morsel from the rib-eye steak on the plate before him, lays the steak knife across the lip, then raises the fork to his mouth.  He chews deliberately, places the fork on his plate, then raises the napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.  Republican House Minority Leader John Boehner emerges from the crowd milling in the dining room, apple martini in hand, and slides down into the seat across from McConnell.

Boehner:  Hell of a week, eh, Mitch?

McConnell:  I don't recall inviting you to sit.

Boehner: Tough break, about Grayson, Mitch.  Your own protégé.  Trey Grayson was the guy you were gonna hand it all over to when you called it quits.  And they rejected him like a bad kidney.  [He shakes his head, takes a pull off his martini, winks, and raises his glass to McConnell.]  You'll get 'em next time.

[McConnell picks up knife and fork and undertakes to slice another bite off his steak.  He keeps his eyes on his plate.]

Boehner:  I mean, talk about ingratitude!  After all you've done for Kentucky, a bunch o' tea-party hicks go and choose Ron Paul's boy.  Rand Paul instead of a good, solid McConnell Republican like Trey Grayson!  How's that for appreciation?  All those years you spent kissing Bill Frist's ass and this is the thanks you get?  I tell ya, if I were you, I'd hold a press conference. I'd have a thing or two to say about some people.

[McConnell chews silently.  He doesn't look up.]

Boehner [singing]:  Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shining; Shine on the one that's gone and left me blue...

McConnell [slamming his fist on the table]:  Listen to me, you glorified golf caddy!  You shut your trap, do you hear me?  You blew a slam dunk in Pennsylvania twelve!  You and Michael Steele squawking about how that race was going to send a signal to the White House.  You had Cantor out there shooting his mouth off about a GOP House in November!  Well let me tell you something, you inebriated jack-o-lantern:  While you were getting railroaded by Nancy Pelosi on health care reform, I was holding my caucus together.  I took all the heat for that!  I don't whine!  I fight!

[He holds Boehner's eye for a moment, then drops his gaze back to his plate.  He picks up his utensils and cuts daintily at his steak.]

Boehner [wryly]:  But you still lost, didn't you?  

[Enter Massachusetts Republican Senator Scott Brown.]

Brown:  Oh, hello, Mitch, John.  I didn't see you sitting here.

Boehner:  That's alright, Scott.  Mitch and I were just remembering the good old days.  Isn't that right, Mitch?

McConnell [ignoring Boehner]:  Scott, sit down, will you?  I'd like to talk to you about our strategy for blocking Chris Dodd's financial reform bill.

[A din arises, near the entrance to the dining room.  Democratic Congressman Joe Sestak has entered and is being warmly congratulated by the clientele for his primary victory over Arlen Specter.]

Boehner:  Get a load of those jokers!  If there's anything worse than a poor loser, it's a poor winner, eh, Mitch?  Say, isn't that Harry Reid over there? 

Brown:  Yeah.  Yeah, that's Harry alright.  Say, listen, Mitch, have your chief call my office and we'll set up a meeting.  I've gotta go talk to Harry for a minute.  [He hurries away, toward the crowd of partying Democrats.]

[McConnell drops his eyes to his plate and goes back to eating his steak.  He takes small bites, chews deliberately.  Boehner smiles, loosely.  He takes a long slow pull from his drink.  Over the rim of his glass, he watches McConnell chew.]

Boehner:  Anyway, Mitch, don't take it so hard.  You've been in this game long enough to know that it goes in cycles.  Wheel spins, you're on top; spins again, you're underneath. 

McConnell:  ... 

Boehner:  What was that?

McConnell [softly]:  I said kiss my ass, you son of a bitch.

Boehner  [standing up to leave]:  You know what your problem is, Mitch?  [He throws his head back, empties his glass and smacks it down on the table.]  You don't know when to laugh.