Coming Down the Mountain

From AOL to Substack

2026-01-28T12:50:00.000-08:00

Substack is to Blogger like Tik Tok is to writing letters. Modern, trendy, culturally relative. I follow a few interesting Substacks and thought I'd try setting up my own. I lasted about five minutes before deleting the whole thing, including the app on my phone. It was more a matter of curiosity rather than seriously trying out a new blogging format. I found the site confusing and difficult to navigate.

My very first blog was created on AOL around the year 2000. It was when the term "online log" or "blog" entered the vocabulary. AOL had a site where you could start your own blog. I got excited about the idea of writing an online journal for our older kids leaving home. They weren't the slightest bit interested. They couldn't wait to leave the nest and focus on their own lives. "No time, Mom, sorry, I've been too busy to read it."

My husband was my biggest fan. He actually printed each entry. I have no idea where those hard copies ended up. Probably in a file or a box somewhere that disappeared during a move. Eventually, AOL got sold or otherwise lost the prominence of those early Internet days. Their blogging service disappeared as did my entries, despite what people say about once online, always online.

I must be an ancient relic, one of the first bloggers on perhaps the first blogging service. AOL, folks! That's the modern equivalent to the Dinosaur Age.

And now there's Substack, popular and successful, earning some folks quite a nice living. Anything where talented and thoughtful writers can earn a living from their craft has my vote.

Have any of you explored Substack, or set up an account? Probably even more unusual, did any of you start a blog on AOL? I think it might have been called AOL Journal.

It's been 9 months

2025-12-08T14:41:00.000-08:00

Nine months, as long as it takes to grow a baby, I've been missing from the blog world. I don't like that and I resolve to do better. Because it's so nice to come back here and see so many friends still blogging. I want to be that person. So try, try again for better consistency!

Several of you have asked me about my son. He had very good results from chemotherapy that has also taken nine months, from February through October. The tumor surgically removed from the colon has behaved itself and not returned in any form. The small tumors showing up in his liver were successfully shrunk to nothing by all the chemo, and so far it doesn't appear that the cancer has spread to any other parts of his body. Although he has had a persistent headache and so they're going to do an MRI there to rule out cancer.

It's been a rough year for their little family, but it seems the worst is over, and let's hope it stays that way. He said to me the other day, "Who ever says I'm working on losing this cancer weight" but that's what happened. He gained 30 lbs from chemo! Apparently they include something in the treatment that stimulates appetite since so many lose their appetite and get too thin. Instead, Don had an increase in appetite leading to late night binges and weight he did not need to gain. His other main side effect was neuropathy in his fingers and toes, which is gradually improving.

Now, post-treatment, he goes in for regular CT scans to make sure no tumors return. Then begins the countdown of how many months then years of being cancer-free. I've heard that one is not officially cancer-free until it's been twenty-five years. What a beast is cancer.

I Never Thought I'd See the Day

2025-03-11T14:41:00.000-07:00

You can tell my age from this title, one of those old expressions I remember hearing from my mother, grandmothers and aunties. I love these old-fashioned expressions, but as interesting as I find that as a blog post topic, it's not for today.

The day I never thought I'd see was my son starting a blog. Not only starting, but seriously crafting his posts and asking me to review them and offer edits. This is a son who hated homework with a passion. And as much as he, like all my kids, loves to read, writing was always just another form of hated homework.

But then a cancer diagnosis does strange things to a person. It's been a little over three months since he learned that his recurring and worsening stomach pains and digestive issues were due to a colon tumor. This photo was taken in June, when as Don says, "There was this huge thing growing in my colon, and I had no idea."

After his operation and further scans showed it spread to his liver, Don was still processing how life had suddenly changed for him and his family. Talking about it helped, but how much to share and with whom? Some folks aren't comfortable with the topic, while others want to know everything. So Don decided to start his blog.

It's been a great way for him to process events and to inform friends and family who want to know more. I think he's done a fabulous job with it. In these three months, I've learned way more about cancer and its treatment than I ever knew.

Because of what my son is experiencing, I'm very interested in this now and would love to find other blogs that deal with cancer. If you know of any, please share links in the comments.

If you're curious about Don's blog, it is Don has cancer! (exclamation point is his, not mine)

The Glad Game

2025-02-22T14:44:00.000-08:00

I love reading old classics. What I'm reading now is Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Parker. First time reading it although I've seen the movie many times. It's one of those that still hold up, decades later, surprisingly enough given it's sweet innocence. But Disney did it so well, and Hayley Mills played Pollyanna with such verve and personality, that it never came across too too sweet.

Today's world is the opposite of 1960--before the feminist revolution, the drugs and hippies, before Vietnam, before the Kennedy assassination, before the other Kennedy assassination, then Martin Luther King. All these things that turned post war America upside down. And still, this film and this book stay relevant.

Maybe it's because gratitude in the midst of sorrow or disappointment will never go out of style. Playing Pollyanna's Glad Game is always a great idea for anyone at any time.

Today I am glad that this dreary winter is nearly over and spring is in the air. Yesterday in Salt Lake City I woke up to snow and ice. Yet going outdoors early, stepping carefully to not slip on the icy sidewalk, I smelled spring! It's not quite March yet, but I smelled spring. That made me very happy.

I am glad about a whole lot of things that I didn't know I was glad about until I started writing this post. A new grandbaby, a darling little pink beauty named Rose. A few trips planned for the coming months. My good health and a loving family. Just to name a few.

What are you glad about today?

Dengue Fever

2024-09-14T13:35:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, Sept. 3 was my last day in Mexico. My daughter and son had come to help me with the move. My son left on Sunday, and my daughter and I flew out together on Tuesday.

But an interesting development occurred at around noon on Tuesday. All three of us developed symptoms of Dengue Fever, the body aches, fatigue and fever. Apparently we had all been bit by the same mosquito 4 or 5 days previous. This photo was taken about an hour before our symptoms hit.

Dengue lasts about 7 to 10 days. By day 10, I felt pretty well back to normal, with the leftover rash and brain fog being the final symptoms. My son, however, was still suffering with body aches. I felt so bad since my kids had come to Mexico to help me and they both ended up with worse cases than what I had. Fortunately, they are both better now.

This is the second time for me. I had Dengue ten years ago in Guatemala. It is like a really serious, long-lasting case of the flu. Your head and eyes hurt, your entire body aches-- bones, muscles, everything. Even the skin hurts. Fever comes and goes. The danger is high fever and internal bleeding. When that happens, it can be life-threatening and you better rush to the hospital. Fortunately, none of us had these symptoms.

Then when you think you're getting better, a rash shows up, that can create burning, prickly skin in random locations. My daughter's hands turned red and swollen and felt like they were on fire. She submerged them in ice to get relief.

There is really no medicine for Dengue, antibiotics or such are ineffective. You basically take aspirin or other pain meds to reduce swelling and give some relief. That's about your only option.

The year 2023 had one of the highest levels of Dengue Fever ever reported in Mexico, and 2024 was even higher. I guess it's no surprise that I got it as my goodbye present from Veracruz.

My History with Social Media

2024-08-14T12:33:00.000-07:00

I began this blog sometime back in 2010, either before or after my second book came out, as a way to market and to connect with other writers. It wasn't my first go round. Does anyone remember AOL? It had a basic blog format where I wrote personal entries to share with my family. Then one day AOL disappeared along with my posts.

When Google developed Blogger, easy to use and very popular, I signed up. Those of us who have been at it for awhile will remember how fun it was in those early days when followers and comments showed up in droves. It seemed like everyone was starting a blog, especially writers.

Facebook was growing as well. Soon Twitter was a thing and I signed up there too. All over social media, blogging friends found and followed each other.

I had a nice, long fling with Facebook, who I'm currently mad at and ready to break up with. It won't let me share these posts on my page, saying they are offensive and against their standards. What? I write about simple, everyday things, never anything controversial.

As far as other social media, I'm on Instagram and Pinterest but never go there. I signed up for TikTok a year ago when one of my sons had a viral post. It was fun to see it get all those views for awhile. When that ended, so did my relationship with TikTok. I hate it there. Feels so frenetic and disjointed, definitely not my thing.

Interesting how my history with social media began with blogging and is ending the same way, back to the very same blog I started in 2010. It's nice that Blogger is still here, still easy to use, void of Facebook's foolish, discriminatory rules.

There are even a few of the same blogging buddies from the early days, although they don't post or comment nearly as often. None of us do--it's amazing that we're still active here at all.

I found some wonderful new blogs through the A to Z Challenge. I love spending a quiet hour in the afternoons scrolling through my Reading List and seeing the updates of new posts to read and comment on. Only there's not enough of you. I enjoy following blogs on all kinds of topics and I only wish I could find more.

What to do when you don't want to do anything

2024-08-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

We all have those days. Lately I've had too many of them. What does one do when productivity seems to flee and you don't feel like chasing it down?

My recent time-waster has been watching reality cooking shows. I was really into Guy's Grocery Games with Guy Fieri, who I think is so cute and charming, a bigger than life personality. He often brings his family into his shows, which I admire. He and his wife have been married over 20 years and they have two sons who Guy is obviously quite proud of. The oldest, Hunter, has gone to college and joined his dad in his media/food business.

I was watching episodes of Guy's Grocery Games every evening on HBO Max until they found out I was in Mexico using a VPN. What the heck? That's the point of a VPN. It hides your location so you can watch shows broadcast to the US when you're in Mexico. Well, it didn't work anymore and HBO Max diverted me from the US service to the Mexico Max service. No more Guy's Grocery Games.

Fine then. On Mexico HBO Max I got into Chopped, another reality cooking show similar to Guy's, where chef contestants have to compete against each other while cooking weird things according to the game rules. Chopped is a long-running show of many seasons and episodes, except that only a few seasons are streamed to Mexico Max.

When I ran out of Chopped episodes, I found a few interesting cooking contests hosted by Gordon Ramsey, who is also cute and charming, as long as his swearing is bleeped out. So lately it's been Master Chef with Gordon Ramsey. Unfortunately, it also streams only a few episodes to Mexico.

I'm not sure what my obsession is with reality cooking shows but they sure help to pass the time. In only a few weeks, I move back to America where I won't need a VPN and I can watch whatever the heck I want. But then I won't need to fill the empty hours because I will be near my family where there's always something going on of greater interest than TV.

I came to Mexico in 2020 on what was meant to be a three- month retreat in a tropical climate near the beach. For reasons too numerous to explain, it turned into my home for four years. And now I am leaving, more than ready to go, and simply filling the time until these few weeks pass when I get on that plane to Salt Lake.

I like to cook and eat while watching the cooking shows. This is my stacked salad topped with spicy beans and honey mustard dressing.

Colca Canyon Tour

2024-07-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

Arequipa, Peru is high in tourism and tour-related industry. For our final week in the city, I hoped that Forrest and I might take an excursion together. I collected pamphlets around the square and comparing them, we liked the Colca Canyon tour. It offered either a day's trip to Colca Canyon or a three-day hike into the canyon. They provided meals, a tour guide, and overnight lodgings with a local family.

“That’s too planned for me,” said Forrest. “If I hike the canyon, I’ll go on my own or with friends. And we’ll camp.”

I suggested the day trip. “That way you can see if it’s worth an overnight trip later.”

Forrest agreed, set everything up with the tour company, and informed the front desk of our early pickup time.

Since the main door was not open at four a.m. a hotel employee had to arrive and unlock a side door for us. The early hour was to get us to the viewing area when the condors are most likely to be there. Seeing these impressive birds in flight over the canyon was meant to be a highlight of the excursion.

It was very cold that early. I dressed in layers and wore my long sweater coat over a sweatshirt.

The van had space for fifteen or twenty. I chose seats halfway back, sitting next to the window and leaving the aisle seat for Forrest. This allowed him to talk to other passengers if he felt like it, which he usually did.

Our fellow passengers were from all over. We heard German, Russian, Italian, and French as well as Spanish and English. Arequipa is a magnet for global tourists. It is a beautiful, historic city and makes a convenient stop for those going to Cusco and Macchu Picchu. The Colca Canyon, even deeper than the Grand Canyon, is a major attraction.

After four hours of driving, we stopped in the mountains for breakfast, provided as part of the tour. On each plate was bread and a pat of butter. Coffee or tea was available at a side table. Once everyone had entered and seated, a server came around with a modest serving of scrambled eggs for each person.

After breakfast, people dispersed and wandered through the small grounds outside the restaurant. Near one of the buildings, two kids in traditional dress performed a dance. They were both dressed in skirts, although one was much prettier and danced more gracefully than the other one.

Back in the van, the tour guide explained that the dance was one of courtship performed by a girl and a boy dressed as a girl. The dance celebrated past Incan history, when protective parents did not want young men coming to the house to see their daughters. To get around this obstacle, the young man would disguise himself as a girl to visit his sweetheart. The parents, thinking the visitor was a girl, welcomed him into the home. It was only after several visits, once the parents got to know him and like him, that he would reveal his true gender. By that time, they were fine with it and allowed the young couple to continue their courtship.

Our tour guide shared other interesting information as we traveled through the mountains. An earthquake some years ago had damaged many of these hill communities and caused such economic hardship it took years to recover. He pointed out where landslides had destroyed valuable grazing and crop land.

He explained about sheep, llamas, and alpacas, all of which are raised here, and the differences between them and the yarn woven from their wool. He told us about coca leaves, how everyone chews them for energy, health and to better adapt to the high altitude.

I had seen the loose leaves in bowls served with hot beverages. When I took herb tea, I always added several to the hot water in my cup. The guide passed a small bag for us to try, especially since we were headed to higher altitudes. They are dry like bay leaves, and I had no desire to chew on them.

When we reached the viewpoint of Colca Canyon, we did indeed see a few condors flying over the canyon. There was a short hike to a better viewing area if we chose to go.

Hiking up to the viewing area

Forrest had paired up with an attractive Dutch girl from our van. I walked up on my own since Forrest tended to disassociate himself with me in public. Why would he want a girl knowing that he was traveling with his mom? Understandable and it didn’t hurt my feelings.

After the condor viewing, we drove further to where the herds of llamas were kept at 14,000 feet elevation, well beyond Arequipa at 7000 feet. Llamas thrive at these higher elevations, the guide explained.

Upon arrival at the llama pasture, our guide invited us to walk onto the field for a closer look. The animals were peaceful and calm, he said. We wouldn’t bother them or they us. This explained why the people loved their llamas and treated them like pets, carrying the babies around in their arms, and leading full-grown ones on a leash. Once in Arequipa, I walked past a couple maneuvering a llama into the back of a taxi with the rest of their family.

Llama faces all have that adorable little smile. No wonder everyone loves them.

Llama herd at 17,000 feet altitude

At this elevation, I became dizzy and nauseous and couldn’t walk down to the herd. I wasn't the only one affected. People were bent over vomiting and a few lay on the ground.

I sat on a rock until I felt well enough to head back to the van. Our guide handed us cotton balls dipped in rubbing alcohol as therapy against altitude sickness. He told me to sniff it, and then he rubbed it on my forehead. Instantly, I felt normal again.

When Forrest arrived, he said he felt fine, maybe a bit dizzy. I rubbed the cotton ball on his forehead just the same. It surprised me that he had not been affected since he came from nearly sea-level Portland, and I was living in Utah at 7000 feet. But then there were those vomiting and collapsing, so I suppose it affected people differently.

On the drive back, we stopped at a scenic area near a river, where people could swim in the hot springs or walk along the riverbank. You could go on a twenty-minute horse ride for a small fee. I waited in line and enjoyed a brief ride with a silent, cowboy-ish guide. We clomped along a quiet paved road with a beautiful view of the river below. I could see Forrest and the Dutch girl sitting on a couple of boulders next to the river, talking and throwing stones into the water.

Finally, it was time to return to the van and continue on down these mountains. As we reached lower elevations and drove through hilly, green fields, it felt like traveling through farm country back home. The well-tended fields of crops, cows, horses and sheep grazing in pastures, with the occasional house with its fences and gardens looked like paradise. I imagined those living in such an environment must be the happiest people on earth. Farm country in Peru was not that different from farm country in the U.S. It had that same well-ordered, peaceful aura.

Our final stop was in a small town where a buffet dinner was offered at a hotel. Forrest and I wandered in, looked at the price and decided against it. Instead, we walked to the center of town and chose a restaurant near the park. I wasn’t hungry and just ordered a soda. Forrest bought a sandwich and fries.

After that, it was straight down to Arequipa.

So, we had done the Colca Canyon tour. Forrest said, "As much as everyone raves about it, I wasn't that impressed."

I think what most impressed him was the lovely blond Dutch girl. After we disembarked in Arequipa, I noticed the two of them exchanging phone numbers. I smiled at that and thought of the Incan courtship dance. Ah, the circle of life.

Guilty or Not Guilty?

2024-07-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

I have a lovely sister who is my best friend, close in age but as different in personality as two people can be.

Karen and Jeri (on the right)

She feels guilty for all kinds of things, but I hardly ever do. Unless I do something rude or stupid or mean, then I feel bad and will apologize. But my sister Jeri feels guilty about the strangest things, like reading a book instead of cleaning out a closet. Or skipping a party or event when she is tired.

Jeri has a blog where she posts her poems, and recently she added this one about guilt. Her blog is here if anyone wants to check it out. It is called The Rhythm of Life.

I'm curious where people stand on the topic of guilt. Are you one who suffers under feelings of guilt even when you've done nothing wrong, like my sister in her poem?

And what do you think causes this anyway? Why does one person second guess every decision and feel bad when she makes one choice over another? And another (me, for example) goes her own way guiltlessly content with how she chooses to spend her time and resources?

It is something my sister and I have always puzzled over.

Guilt poem by Jeri Franz

Guilt for sin only, my husband will say.

I laugh and reply, you don’t understand my way!

I feel guilt when I leave grandkids or a place too soon

And guilt when I take too long looking at the moon!

I feel guilty for spending too much time at one child’s place

Thinking I should be with that other one, like it’s some kind of race.

And to take a day and do just what I would like to do?

With no kind of chatter or shoulds blocking my happy view?

Oh my, I can’t imagine but I think that sounds divine!

So one day a week I’ll accept no guilt and I'll feel just fine!

When I’m shopping at Goodwill or wandering in a store

Instead of chiding myself I will smile and browse a little more.

If I take too long reading or stay a while more on the couch

I’ll smile and accept myself for I am happy instead of a grouch!

For in this world, the days we are here seem to quickly flee

And I don’t want to waste any more days pitching guilt at me!!

So at least one day a week and who knows maybe more??

I’ll enjoy each place my feet are, for feeling guilt is such a chore!!

Bad News and Comfort Food

2024-07-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. As before when I posted daily for the A to Z Challenge, my intent is to make each one complete in itself. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

Forrest and I had made ourselves cozily at home at Estancia 107. We were sorry to leave it. Our spacious room held a couch, three big closets, two queen-sized beds, a makeshift kitchen counter, and the satisfactory routine that comes with staying three weeks in one place.

The Hotel Royale wasn't as nice. Not as quiet a street, not as solid a building. Noise carried. Our cramped room was up a couple flights of narrow stairs.

The window looked out on the scenic volcano Misti. Because it also opened to the balcony where other residents passed to and from their rooms, we kept the curtains shut on the lovely Misti. Still, the place was clean and affordable with a professional staff. Tolerable until we left Arequipa next week for Cusco and Machu Picchu.

The view of Misti outside our room

The hotel offered a free breakfast that we tried the first morning. It was below the ground floor near a small kitchen and so chilly I drank cup after cup of hot manzanilla tea. They provided toast, milk, and a small serving of scrambled eggs for each person.

After breakfast, I showered and went out to drop off the laundry and pick up a few things at the store. When I returned to the room, Forrest sat cross-legged on his bed with a stricken look, staring at his cell phone. He looked up at me and said, “My friend’s dad just died.”

“Which friend?” I emptied a sack of bananas and a few sodas from my backpack.

“James,” said Forrest. He shook his head at my offer of a banana.

“James who?” There was James Dickson, but certainly it couldn't be his dad. Casey Dickson was barely fifty. I had worked with him back in South Jordan when he was bishop of our ward and I was Relief Society president.

“James Dickson is my only friend named James. His dad just died.”

“What? Casey Dickson died?”

“Yeah. From a heart attack. Our friend Brandon just texted me. Bishop Dickson was in Idaho when it happened, and Brandon lives there now. I guess someone called him to the hospital to give a Priesthood blessing, but Bishop Dickson died right before he arrived."

Casey Dickson was too young, this was too sudden. Bishop Dickson had been such a good friend to our family. I cried for his wife Cathy and their kids, several of them still young and in school.

Forrest and I sat frozen on our beds barely able to comprehend it. We couldn't help but think of our own family a year ago. I was in Salt Lake City then, worrying over my husband, watching for every little sign of recovery or improvement.

“At least Dad didn’t die suddenly,” Forrest said.

Bruce had suffered an aortic rupture, normally fatal, but he had made it into surgery. We waited through those long hours and rejoiced when he survived the operation. Not yet awake, but alive. It was impossible to sleep, not knowing if he would last the night.

My daughter Allie, a nurse, said, “Mom, no matter how long or short of a time Dad has, we can be glad it was not a sudden death. Because sudden death is the worst.”

Bruce fought to survive and improve, although never able to leave hospital care. He died four months later surrounded by his family.

I couldn’t imagine how awful it must have been for Cathy back home in South Jordan, learning that her husband had succumbed to a fatal heart attack in another state. I felt terrible for her. It was sad and tragic.

“Are you going to the funeral, Forrest?” Mentally, I was at the hospital with Bruce, where of course I couldn't attend a funeral. My husband was on the verge of life and death. But perhaps Forrest could go and represent our family.

Forrest stared at me. “Mom, I am here with you in Peru.”

How strange to have reality shift like that. “Oh, right. For a minute there I forgot where we were.”

That evening, Forrest and I wanted comfort food. We checked first for chorizo burgers, but our favorite street vendor wasn't there.

We decided to get salchipapas instead, a favorite of kids and teens in Arequipa. The best place for salchipapas was a little place over by Estancia 104. They nearly always had a line out the door and down the street. Most people ordered to go, although they did have a few tables inside. The line wasn’t too long, thankfully, and we took our plates to sit at one of their tables.

The cook was man in his fifties or sixties, helped by a plump woman of the same age, probably his wife. She bustled about passing out the orders and bringing her husband whatever he needed so he wouldn’t have to leave his grill. They seemed so happy, like they were living their dream.

The menu was salchipapas, fried chicken, and rice or noodles. Salchipapas are French fries topped with cut-up hot dogs, topped with watered-down catsup, mayonnaise and hot sauce. They don’t sound like much but they're delicious and comforting.

So the night our friend died, we went for salchipapas and fried chicken.

A Reader Review Event is Not a Book Blog Tour

2024-06-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I did not realize this event had posted 3 weeks ago: https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/2024/06/we-burned-our-boats-review-event.html.

So it's a bit late, but I thought I'd share it along with my analysis of the experience.

Women on Writing, or WOW, calls this a Reader Review Event. I signed up for it as part of my marketing for We Burned Our Boats. I've done blog tours before with Women on Writing, and I've recommended them to my authors. Blog tours are great for marketing and generally worth the money, especially when the participants do a review instead of an interview or guest post.

A good review is the gift that keeps on giving. The publisher can take snippets of it and post with the name of the blog on the Editorial Review section of the book's Amazon page. When they're chosen carefully, these snippets will help to sell a book. Reviews from random readers are nice if they post on Goodreads and Amazon, but a good editorial review on your Amazon page is way better.

I chose WOW's reader review option rather than their book blog tour option, not realizing fully the difference. It didn't help that the person I dealt with seemed distracted and not forthcoming with information. Although I sent her my updated photo and bio, she used an outdated one from a blog tour I did with her ten years ago for Afraid of Everything.

I missed the event because she didn't notify me when it posted. I only happened to come across it online. And were there links to blogs where I could see the full reviews? I guess not. The participants apparently aren't book bloggers. They're individuals who agree to do a review in exchange for a book. WOW facilitates the process, which is what you're paying them for. Fair enough, but for a little bit more money, I could have gotten the traditional book tour with links to the participating blogs. Perhaps with the upgrade, I might also have gotten better communication from my facilitator.

I do think most of my book's reviewers did an excellent job. I'm overall pleased with their reviews, just not sure the value of this service was worth the expense. If I were to do it again, which I won't, or advise anyone else, I'd suggest they pay a little more and get the real book blog tour instead of the cheaper reader review option.

Malfunctioning Blog List

2024-06-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

I should never have deleted my Blog List. I could have edited and updated it without deleting and starting over, I'm sure, and that's what I wish I had done. Because although everything on the gadget looks like it should work, it's not working. The list doesn't update itself according to new posts. It doesn't show the titles and snippets of the most recent post. It's only a list of blogs I follow with a quick link to their blog.

I've taken it off and added it back numerous times to see if that helps, but it never comes back like it used to, with the functionality working as it's meant to work. Where you can see the blogs you follow automatically updated according to their latest post. I've tweaked it every way I can think of, but still get nothing but the links. No snippets, no automatic updates.

This is a small and simple thing that's causing me way more frustration than it should. If anyone knows a way to fix that gadget I'd love to hear your ideas. And if anyone is tempted to remove yours and reinstall to update it, DON'T.

The Shabby Corner Hotel

2024-06-21T10:42:00.000-07:00

Working on my South America manuscript, I found myself editing it in sections for blog posts like I did for the A to Z Challenge. Well, why not go with it? So, this continues my South America stories where they ended on April 30.

They'll show up now and then rather than daily like in April. As before, my intent is to make each one complete in itself whether read from the beginning post or coming to it for the first time. This manuscript has yet to have a title or an ending. But you'll find a story woven through these experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. I hope you enjoy it.

A couple days before we left Estancia 107, I finally satisfied my curiosity about a nearby building on the corner. It looked like a large three-story house, gated with a small front garden. When I asked the hotel clerk at Estancia about it, she said it’s called Runcu. They allowed long-term guests for about 700 soles a month, the clerk said. That was only $200 a month!

Walking past a few days later, I saw a lady outside doing a bit of gardening. I greeted her and asked if she owned the building. A nicely dressed middle-aged woman who cares about the property and decides to pull a few random weeds. In other words, the owner.

When she responded in the affirmative, I asked if I could see a room. “I’m staying at Estancia 107 now, but I’d like to return to Arequipa next year for a few months,” I explained.

I found her friendly and easy to talk to and we hit it off right away. She said, “We mostly rent to professional people who need to stay in the city for awhile.”

“That’s perfect for me,” I replied, “because I want to enroll at the Spanish school and study.”

She took me around to see the available rooms. They looked shabby but comfortable, what one might call “shabby chic.” Except that shabby was no longer chic, especially not in a hotel. Still, it was clean and quiet, obviously well-cared for by this pleasant lady and, at $200 a month, the price was right.

“We are putting in a kitchen with laundry for guests as part of our remodel,” she said. “It should be ready next year when you want to come back.”

I thanked her for the tour and asked how to contact her; she wrote down the hotel Facebook page and said to private message her. When I returned to Arequipa, I wanted to stay at this charming but shabby big house. I knew from our conversation that any guests had to first meet with her approval. “Mostly professionals,” said it all. This was no hostel for backpacking millennials.

It was August, 2019. I decided right then to come back in 2020 and study Spanish in Arequipa, lodging at the Runcu. I saw myself curled up in one of those big comfy armchairs in the bedrooms—I would want a room on the second or third floor—working on a book, like Hemingway during his expat days in Paris.

Such were my dreams for 2020, a magical number that would surely bring magical events. I had big plans for 2020.

No Such Place as Perfect

2024-06-13T10:56:00.000-07:00

I've been missing in action since April ended due to traveling and then guests. I arrived in Kansas City just in time to rush from the airport to the school and see these two on their last day. Kindergarten "graduation"-- missed the "ceremony" but got to surprise the graduate afterward. I don't think he expected to see me. Then we picked up his brother in first grade for a photo opportunity. Nonny who lives in Mexico hasn't been around much, unfortunately.

After two weeks in the States, I returned home to Veracruz and prepared for one of my sons and his family to visit. Here we are visiting Mandinga, a small fishing village north of Veracruz. This is one of the best pictures but unfortunately, my daughter in law isn't in it since she took the picture. Probably why it turned out so well. She's great with a camera.

I love the tropical climate and relaxed lifestyle where I live. It's only a few minutes from the beach and in an area with lots to see and do. Quite a few family members have come and stayed in my large house with me. When I leased it, it was with my family in mind. I'm so happy when they come and sad when they go. Travis's family was here last summer and loved visiting the taco stand across the street from my house.

I've been here nearly five years and even with flying back a couple times a year, I miss so much. I will miss Mexico when I move back to the States, no question about that. The ideal would be for all my family to move to Veracruz so I wouldn't have to leave. But that won't happen because jobs, money, mortgages, kids, schools, college, responsibilities.

Me, I'm retired and can come and go as I please. I tend to chase the ideal so who knows where I'll land. But I always remind myself there's no such place as perfect. Only those oh so fleeting perfect moments, captured now and then with a camera.

Reflections Post

2024-05-03T13:01:00.000-07:00

This is how I won: I posted daily according to the alphabet, mainly by creating titles for the posts where the first word started with the specified letter of the day. Since there are so many words in the English language, that wasn't too big of a stretch although I admit to the usual "cheating" for X and Z days.

My theme was Stories from A to Z, composed of stories about traveling to South America with my son the summer of 2019. Although they were connected according to our travels, I tried to compose each entry to stand alone. Figuring it wasn't likely too many visitors would come for each day and read each story, I wanted them to enjoy the experience without having to read what came before or after.

I had visits and comments which made me happy, feeling like people connected with my stories. I visited quite a few blogs on the Challenge and commented on many posts during the month. Isn't that the point? There were bloggers who kindly returned the favor and others who did not. I don't understand that, because again, isn't that the point?

Overall it was a positive experience, and I'm very glad I signed up this year. I wasn't sure if I could handle it since I've been away from blogging for so long. I missed the community and social interaction I always enjoyed from this "slow" social media. It suits me and I'm glad I jumped right in with this intense, month-long Challenge.

Well done to everyone who participated and especially to the organizers and facilitators. I'm amazed that it's still active after all these years. I think my first Challenge was in 2011!

Zee last story of this Challenge: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

Near the central park, I noticed several tour booths that offered horseback excursions. Forrest wasn’t interested and besides, he still had a week of Spanish school left. I found the prices quite cheap for what it would cost in the States for a comparable experience.

Everywhere I checked, they said, “Hoy?”

No, hoy no.

“Manana?”

I scheduled my ride for manana from one to four, a three-hour ride through the countryside on the outskirts of Arequipa. A driver would pick me up at my hotel at 12:30.

Not sure how to dress or what to take, I ended up with a water bottle and a light jacket in my backpack. At the office when I signed up, they told me to bring a hat. I decided against my hat, since it didn’t work with my hair in a ponytail, and I was concerned about it flying off during the ride. I wore leggings, my Doc Marten boots, and a long-sleeved t shirt with a flannel over it. This had become my standard comfort outfit for Chile and Peru, ready for either a cool day or a hot one or often both in the same day.

The car that picked me up drove to a farm outside of town. I thought it was a taxi, but no, the driver was from the farm. His brother would be my guide, he told me. Apparently, it was a family farm and they all lived there. I assumed this ride was paid by my fees, so I had not brought any money for anything, although I felt cheap not tipping the driver.

The guide when I met him was a friendly, talkative fellow. While getting the horses ready, he asked me about myself and said he had recently returned from living in Germany for several years.

There were several horses in the corral; healthy, nice-looking, medium-sized horses. I noticed the differences in the saddles. Our Western saddles are large with lots of leather, a substantial saddle horn and plenty of room in the stirrups. These on the other hand were half the size all around. I wondered if I would feel supported by it.

The guide helped me mount. The stirrups were awful for me, so narrow and small. I couldn’t get my boots in them comfortably and as a result, did not feel like my legs were positioned correctly. I was afraid if I didn’t get my feet and legs situated, I'd fall off this tiny saddle. Finally, I managed to find some level of workability and say, “Okay, I’m ready.”

The guide looked so relaxed and at ease on his horse, I wondered where I had gone wrong. I hoped with time I could settle into it better. Unfortunately, I was disappointed in that hope.

I wasn’t sure if it was the saddle or the stirrups causing me problems. I expected it was the stirrups that needed adjusting for my legs. The guide did none of that. He had helped me up and then mounted his own horse while keeping a running monologue about his time in Germany. I’d have appreciated more attention to make sure I fit comfortably in this saddle instead of a travelogue.

We headed out the gates of the farm and faced the next stressful encounter of the day-- crossing a busy street with cars rushing by at sixty miles an hour. On our horses. A horse I did not know and hoped I could control.

Holy crap. What had I gotten myself into?

At a break in the traffic, the guide headed across and I quickly urged my horse right after. Thankfully, my horse followed right behind his friend. Then we were on a dusty country road. When a car approached, which it rarely did on this road, we moved to the edge as it passed.

The guide explained things along the way, such as what crops grew in the fields. He said he had changed our route due to protests. They were over water rights of the farmers versus the corporate mine owners, he explained. That explained the protests and signs I had seen going on around the central park. Peaceful marchers carried banners printed with Farmers yes, Miners no.

Packs of dogs often came out of nowhere and chased after our horses. The guide yelled at them, Fuera! All dogs understand the word fuera, he said. If you yell “fuera” to any dog, it goes away. I wondered if it would work for American dogs.

About two hours into our ride, he asked if I was ready to go back. Yes, I replied. I felt quite sore. My legs, still in that awkward position, were the worst. This was the only time in my life where I felt a horseback ride was too long. Normally, it’s the opposite, where they always turn back before you’re ready.

He seemed confused over direction. A few times he stopped and asked someone along the road about our location.

We apparently were headed the right way, because eventually he said, “It won’t be long now. Do you want to go fast?”

Sure, anything to get this over with. Then we galloped for awhile to make better time.

Another two hours went by. NOTE - we're now on HOUR FOUR of what is supposed to be a three-hour ride, and still out somewhere in the country.

At long last, we faced the highway again. Good, because that meant we were nearly to the farm. Bad, because it was five pm and traffic was worse.

We waited and waited, until finally at a slight break he said, “Let’s go!” And galloped across the road.

I had no choice but to follow, thinking I’m going to die. I’m going to get this horse and myself hit by a car and killed. But I made it, although I think my brain blacked out for a second racing across the street.

Back at the farm, I could not wait to get off this horse. I had never ridden four straight hours in my life. And this while fitting awkwardly in the stirrups and the saddle.

The guide helped me off. My legs were wobbly and too weak to hold me up. Besides that, I felt a wave of nausea and dizziness where I nearly passed out. He said it was the altitude and led me over to the hay bales. "Rest here. And don’t worry," he said, "I’ll take care of your horse."

The horse was the least of my worries. After all this, did he mean to say I was responsible for removing the saddle and patting down the horse and leading it back to the corral? If so then I’m glad I almost fell over, because no way could I have managed that.

I felt suddenly chilled and pulled the jacket out of my backpack. I emptied my water bottle, wishing I had more. I curled up on top of the hay bale and closed my eyes and lost track of time.

It seemed like the guide was gone with the horses for a very long time. It was getting dark. I longed to return to the hotel and go to bed. I hoped Forrest was there. Getting locked out would not be a happy ending. There was only one set of room keys that we shared, and I had left them for him.

Finally, the guide returned. He asked if I’d like to come inside and stay for dinner and wait until I felt better.

"No, thank you. I'm ready to get back. I'm fine now."

His brother was not there and so he was the one who drove me back. He drove slowly and talked about Germany and what he did there until finally we reached the welcome destination of Estancia 107.

I thanked him for everything and wobbled into the hotel and on to our room. Forrest was there looking relaxed, comfortable, and peaceful. The opposite of me.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Not that great. Peruvian saddles are a lot smaller than Western ones, and the stirrups are weird. And the guide was strange but oh well, I’m glad I went and I’m glad it’s over.”

I went to shower and put on pajamas. Blood was on my clothes and running down my thighs. Must be from saddle sores, I thought. I had never before gotten saddle sores.

It felt so good to lay down in our peaceful, familiar room at Estancia 107, with my lanky son stretched out on his bed reading an e-book.

In a few days, we had to check out and move to another hotel for our final week in Arequipa. After that, we were off to a month in Cusco. Forrest and I had so enjoyed ourselves here, beginning with our first night carrying on for hours about the Sixty Days and the initial lack of WiFi. Was that only three weeks ago?

This hotel with the odd name that looked like a house had truly become home to us. I would miss it.

Your brief tour of our daily life in Arequipa Peru: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

After church on Sunday, we walked past a park with an event happening. Since the entrance fee was minimal and we had a whole day to fill, we decided to go in.

We saw a large pond where a long boat took people around in circles. At the end of the pond, a giant slide was set up for kids to climb and swoop down into the water.

There were stalls for face painting and selling trinkets. Food sales is what we were after. There must have been a dog contest too, since we saw people dressed up in costumes to match their dogs.

As Forrest and I sauntered through the park, we bought some cookies, fruit and sandwiches. When we found an empty bench, we ate and watched the crowd.

“This has been an entertaining couple of hours,” I said. “I’m glad we came.”

“Yeah, me too,” Forrest agreed.

“If it were me alone, I wouldn’t have come in.”

“Why not?”

“Crowds of people. I tend to avoid large crowds. It’s automatic. But you’re like how Dad was in his early years. You just take charge and say let’s go here or there or do this thing. At first, I might not want to, but then I go along and end up really enjoying it.”

“You don’t think you’d do any of this stuff if you were on your own? Like if you decided to move to Arequipa and live here permanently, you wouldn’t go out and do things like this?”

“Probably not.”

“That could be a problem, Mom. Once you’re on your own, I’m afraid you will isolate too much and end up getting bored and lonely.”

“But I like my alone time.”

“If I lived alone in a foreign country, I would find someplace to volunteer. You could volunteer, Mom.”

“I’m not the volunteering type. Other than taking a calling at church when they ask me.”

My handsome son

After that first weekend, our days took on a comfortable regularity. I had the room to myself all morning while Forrest went to Spanish school. I wrote and worked until I felt ready to go out.

We both returned to the room around one and ate lunch together. Most often bread, butter, cheese and fruit, which we kept in a small cabinet, "our kitchen." We’d gather what we wanted and take it to the dining room.

We might go out for lunch if Forrest didn’t have a meal scheduled with a couch surfing or Spanish school friend. Either way was fine with me. I enjoyed time alone and I enjoyed time with him, adapting as needed to either situation.

Forrest didn’t seem bored with this simple, easy routine of taking a great deal of time to do very little. I figured he would grow restless with it. But he had pushed himself to finish undergraduate and graduate school in five years without a break, and this was his break. “I’m fine doing nothing,” he said.

Although like me, he didn’t actually “do nothing.” He went to the Spanish school from 8 to 12:30 and did homework outside of class. He read books on my Kindle. He connected with people and engaged in conversation with native Spanish speakers.

My language study was watching Netflix telenovelas in Spanish with Spanish subtitles. Socializing was spending time with my son. I wrote and kept up with my publishing business.

I loved walking everywhere in the historic area near our hotel, appreciating the grand architecture as I observed life happening all around.

Street near the central park

Historic Church built by early Spaniards

Typical architectural detail in Arequipa buildings from Spanish era

There are always pigeons to feed

This man sits in the park with his typewriter and will type up things for a small fee

If Forrest felt hungry in the evenings, we went out for street food or to get popcorn from his favorite popcorn guy. When he liked a vendor, he returned again and again. Whether it was popcorn or jugo or the chorizo burgers, he headed straight to his favorite person. If they weren’t there, he would do without rather than go to someone else at the next corner.

One lady made chorizo burgers at her stand with sauteed onions and a soft fried egg on top. The first time we tried them, he said it was the best food he had ever eaten in his life. She set up her cart most evenings but not always. He would do without his chorizo burger rather than go to another lady selling the same thing a block away. Once Forrest found his person, he stayed loyal.

The mercado had a full aisle devoted to selling mixed juice drinks, or jugo. Of course, Forrest had his jugo lady. Whenever we went to the mercado, he ordered one from her and sat there drinking it happily in her presence. If she wasn't busy, he would engage her in conversation to practice Spanish.

Jugo ladies lined up at the mercado

One time, Forrest wanted ceviche. The ceviche stands were closing since it was after three and past time for people at the mercado to eat. He found a lady who still had some left and ordered a plate of it. Ugh, no bite for me. No way would I eat raw fish ceviche four hours after they had opened.

I could have eaten tamales every day at one mercado stand. I tried each of the varieties, and they were all so good. People waited in line for these tamales. You had to get there early before they sold out. For some reason, Forrest didn’t stay loyal to this tamale place.

For him, his loyalty was based on a combination of friendliness, willingness to speak Spanish with him, how big were their servings, and price.

Shopping from a friendly street vendor

Xtra funny or Xtra Confusing: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

The free breakfast was quite nice. They set the table and put out a basket of rolls on our table for two. On the sideboard was fruit, yogurt, milk and cereal. I noticed a small dish of what looked like bay leaves next to the manzanilla (chamomile) tea. Forrest and I each added a couple of leaves to our teacups.

Later, we learned they were coca leaves, very common in Peru, used for energy and to help with altitude adjustment. Peruvians will chew on them throughout the day.

The Internet had come on during the night. Forrest sat on the couch in our room with his iPad, catching up on his couch surfing buddies, I supposed. Or maybe his brothers and random friends. I left him to go explore the neighborhood.

It turned out to be a lovely area. I had chosen the hotel specifically for its location near the historic central park. While out, I noticed a Spanish school just up the street from us. How convenient for Forrest to take classes if he wanted to do that.

Besides the wonderful park, I saw tiendas, lavanderias, street food, and sidewalk cafes on neighboring streets, with people out everywhere enjoying themselves. I was glad we planned to stay in Arequipa this month before going on to Cusco. Our hotel, however, was available only for the three-week reservation. Our final week, I had booked a different one.

Arequipa's lovely central park

Estancia 107 (the strange name of our hotel) was clean, quiet and ideally located. I checked to see if they had any availability in September, when we came back this way after Cusco. No, they didn’t. "July is our quiet month," the receptionist explained. After that, they are busy with retreats for business meetings.

View of the courtyard at Estancia 107

By dinnertime, neither Forrest nor I were that hungry. I had eaten breakfast and later bought some street food, and Forrest had gone out to lunch with a couch surfing group.

I said, “Let’s go out for dinner anyway. We can save most of it for tomorrow and won't have to buy food on the Sabbath.”

We chose one of the little sidewalk cafes on a side street. It had a board out front stating their basic menu and prices-- a small inexpensive place with local food.

I ordered a fried chicken filet that came with rice, a cucumber salad, and the ever-present soup with potatoes and vegetables. Tomorrow after church, I'd cut the chicken in pieces and mix with the rice and salad like a cold chicken salad. Delicious!

I tasted a few bites of the chicken, which was so good it was hard not to finish. But the soup was amazing too and wouldn’t make me too full. I ate the soup and left the main meal to take home and put in the kitchen fridge at our hotel.

We sat there for quite a while ignoring our food. Like me, Forrest ate his soup and left the rest, a pork chop he declared was incredible.

The girl who had brought our meals cleaned up while two little kids, perhaps her siblings or children, played around on the tables, making a great deal of noise as they chattered and clattered near us.

I complained about it to Forrest, who laughed and said, “Mom, you had ten kids. I can’t believe you’re so sensitive.”

“Maybe it’s my age, I don’t know, but they’re sure annoying.” I called the girl over to our table, said we were finished and would like to take this with us. “Para llevar, por favor,” I said.

She hesitated and said, “Recojo?”

“Si, para llevar.”

“Recojo?” she repeated, looking puzzled.

"Una caja para llevar," I said. A box to go.

She took our plates to the back and was gone quite a long time. Soon she returned to continue her sweeping. At least the annoying little kids had disappeared. It looked like they were preparing to close, although it was barely six.

“They don’t eat late in Arequipa,” Forrest said. “The main meal, their dinners, are eaten around three because of the altitude.”

“What’s altitude got to do with it?”

“Apparently an altitude this high interferes with digestion, and if you go to bed on a full stomach, you don’t sleep well.” Forrest was always picking up interesting information from his couch surfing groups. Like what he had told me about eclipse chasers and eclipse celebrities.

We kept waiting for the girl to bring us our takeout, seeing how it looked like closing time. “What the heck is going on, Forrest? Why isn’t she bringing our food so we can leave?”

Forrest wondered if I had expressed myself correctly. “You said para llevar but she said recojo, with a question mark. ‘Recojo?’”

He looked up recoger. “It means ‘to take care of,’ "to pick up,' or ‘to take.’ She must have thought you wanted her to get rid of the food rather than box it up for us.”

“Based on that definition, ‘take care of it’ could mean dispose of it or box it up for us.”

“It could, but I have a feeling it means take it away or throw it away,” said Forrest.

“Don’t tell me she tossed out our barely eaten dinners!”

“I think so, Mom. Probably those little kids playing around here earlier are in the kitchen right now enjoying our food.”

We looked at each other, accepting the truth. “We tried,” Forrest said with a smile.

“Who the heck doesn’t know the meaning of para llevar? I used it all the time in Guatemala and Mexico. Everyone knows it means take away, as in the CUSTOMER is taking it away not the SERVER.”

Forrest laughed. It was a big joke to him, like the sixty days had been to me. For days afterward, he’d say “recojo?” and start in laughing while I fumed about not getting our take-out.

“I could barely hear myself think with those kids yelling and clattering, plus the TV blaring. She probably didn’t hear me.” I was so annoyed. “Let’s get out of here.”

At least the meal was cheap, coming to only three dollars each. “The soup itself was worth three dollars,” I said as we left.

So much for our plans to not buy food on Sunday. As Forrest said, “We tried.”

Our $3 bowls of soup

WHY DID I SAY SIXTY DAYS: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-26T08:30:00.000-07:00

Forrest had selected seats near the front for a better view. The bus was okay; nothing as nice as the ones in Chile but they were also less expensive. First off, we opened our phone calendars and counted the days until this tourist visa expired.

Looking rather loopy on the bus to Arequipa

Sure enough, we had cut ourselves short by two weeks. “WHY did I say sixty days,” Forrest moaned. “That’s only two months!”

“I wondered about that.”

“I hope we don’t have any trouble getting back.”

“Oh, I doubt it. They’ll just charge us for whatever days we go over. That’s what they do in Guatemala and Mexico. It’s really not a big deal.”

“I could just as easily have said ninety days. Noventa dias. NOVENTA. I know my numbers.”

“Yeah, because tourist visas in Peru can go as long as one hundred eighty days. Six months, like Mexico. I don’t know why the guy had to put down the exact number of days stated. Why not just put one hundred eighty? That’s what they do in Mexico, and in Guatemala they automatically write it for ninety days.”

I thumbed through my passport to find a record of those times his dad and I had crossed back and forth between Mexico and Guatemala. “I can’t tell from all the ink in this passport.” I gave up the search. “Anyway, we will be fine."

“Sixty days!” he muttered before finally settling down to enjoy the bus ride and watch the great expanse of desert and dunes fly by. When we finally got past desert scenery and into the mountainous terrain of Peru, it was such a welcome change.

Passengers got off and on at stops along the road or at depots in towns. Once closer to Arequipa, the bus was crowded with passengers. Traffic had increased considerably, slowing us down until we were at a standstill in certain sections along the mountain road.

Approaching the city, it was stop and go, stop and go, crawling along with lines and lines of vehicles on the narrow street coming through the hill into the city. I wondered if perhaps an accident up ahead blocked the way.

Later, we learned that Friday is the worst day to travel from Arica to Arequipa. Since prices are so much cheaper in Peru, every Friday Chileans cross the border and drive to Arequipa for weekend shopping, dinner and entertainment.

Other towns along the way, such as Tacna and Moquegua, are closer to the border but not as large and diverse as Arequipa. This was no accident or anything unusual, simply a typical Friday where a six-hour trip turns into eight hours.

Forrest bought a snack from one of the vendors who came through the aisle during one of the depot stops. It was a quarter ear of corn on the cob with a piece of salty, white cheese lying on the top. I didn’t want anything, since the solid breakfast had kept me satisfied for hours. By seven, however, I was hungry.

We finally arrived at the bus depot at nine-thirty. Seven had been my stated arrival time on our hotel booking. The bus pulled into the back area of the depot as they do. With relief, we disembarked then waited while our luggage was unloaded. At last, we passed through to the front of the depot where taxis generally wait.

Sure enough, we easily got a cab, and I gave him the address. He wasn’t familiar with this hotel, named Estancia 107. He thought it was foolish to stay three weeks in a hotel we didn't know, and after my Iquique experience, I concurred.

"It might not be a good place," he said. “You should stay only one or two nights, and if you don’t like it find another hotel.” Once in the neighborhood, it still took him awhile to find it, since it was located on an alleyway running between two regular streets.

When he finally found the address and pulled up to Estancia 107, I thought it looked too much like a house. Could this possibly be right? But the girl at the front desk rushed right to the door, ushered us in, and seemed relieved to see us. The cab driver brought in my luggage—Forrest always took care of his own—and we were set.

The girl took us to our room, a big room with two double beds and a sofa, along with two large cabinets for clothes and storage. The bathroom was separate, down the hall a short way, but she assured us it was private, only for this room.

Breakfast is free your first day, she explained, so in the morning be sure to get breakfast from 7 to 9. Other days, she said, it is seven soles per person.

The dining area was roomy and centrally located. We had walked through it to get to our room. I planned most definitely to get up early for breakfast, as I hadn't eaten anything since Arica. That felt like a lifetime ago.

After showing us the room and bathroom, telling us about breakfast, and giving us room keys and WiFi password, she wished us a good night and left us to fret over our sixty days.

Forrest zipped up in his sleeping bag like a mummy. This was how he slept in the Iquique hotel. In Estancia 107, he used the sheets as it was a clean hotel where they changed bedding daily.

“I was such an idiot to say sixty days,” Forrest once again lamented. We were in our beds and trying to connect to the Internet, which wasn’t happening. “This better not be another Coquimbo situation with no WiFi in the building!” he yelled in frustration.

“Yeah, because look at this nice couch where I can sit and work, and we are here for three weeks.”

Just mentioning time got Forrest going again. “I can’t believe I said sixty days!”

I started laughing and couldn’t stop. All I had to do was say “sixty days” and he responded with groans and carrying on about how dumb he was. And that would get me laughing even harder.

It was like a game the older kids used to play with toddler Sean. Someone would say “fish bucket” and someone else would say “hahaha,” until they programmed this two-year-old to say hahaha whenever anyone said fish bucket. Everyone laughed which further cemented the programming; through the years, Sean at any age said hahaha in response to “fish bucket.” Then a similar game between Forrest and me when he was a kid, where one of us would say “lamp” and the other “haircut” over and over, while I laughed hilariously, driving everyone else crazy because it made no sense whatsoever.

We couldn’t seem to settle down between continuing to try the Internet to no avail and playing the sixty days game. His agony and carrying on about it, “what a bother, I can’t believe I did that!” was so unlike normally stoic adult Forrest that I had a hard time letting it go.

Finally, giving up on the Internet, our conversation died down as we tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t help piping up with “Sixty days” now and then to get him going again.

We laughed about the sixty days. We laughed about the Internet. And finally, looking forward to breakfast in the morning, we fell asleep around midnight.

Very nice encounter with Peruvian Dad: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

The free breakfast at the Arica hotel was the best one yet. They had scrambled eggs, delicious bread with real butter, orange juice, bananas, yogurt and a variety of cold cereals. We ate our fill with plenty of time to enjoy breakfast, shower, pack up our stuff and then catch a cab to the bus depot for the border crossing.

We weren’t sure how it worked, except that I knew Arica was on the Chile side and Tacna on the Peru side. Turned out there was no need for concern since a complete, orderly system was already in place.

We only needed our passports ready and to say we wanted La Frontera, and workers moved us from place to place with the right paperwork in hand. They guided us to a taxi with several other people also going to immigration.

It was a ten-minute drive to the immigration station out in the middle of desert nowhere, between the towns of Arica and Tacna.

Our cab driver parked and led us to the building where people were lined up two or three deep. Our fellow passengers went one direction, while the driver told Forrest and me to wait. We watched as he walked toward the mass of people lined up.

Forrest said, “Is he actually going to wait in the line for us?” The other passengers had taken their bags and gotten in one of the lines.

Feeling confused, we moved up closer to the lines without getting in one or the other. The driver had disappeared inside the building, and we felt deserted and confused. After about twenty minutes of this, I saw the driver again. “I’m going to check in with him,” I said to Forrest.

The driver confirmed that yes, we needed to wait there.

Finally, our man appeared again and gestured to come and follow him. He led us past the lines into the building to a short wait inside for “internacional.” That was us. We had to put our luggage through customs where they confiscated the oranges Forrest had brought to eat on the bus to Arequipa.

Like most men when they make a mistake, he felt embarrassed. “Oh, man, I should’ve known I couldn’t bring fruit through customs!”

The clerk who checked our passports asked how long were we staying in Peru. Forrest spoke up with his new Spanish skills and said sixty days. The clerk marked us both down for exactly sixty days.

This was Forrest's second mistake, although we didn’t realize it until later. Today was July 9, and our flight from Santiago was not until the end of September, several weeks longer than sixty days.

After customs, we were directed back outside the building, where we saw our driver over by the taxi. The others were also gathering at the cab. Forrest and I made our way back with great relief having completed this stage of the process.

After reloading everyone’s luggage and seeing us all back in the cab, the driver took us through a gate, where he showed the appropriate paperwork along with all the passports. Then he drove us on to Tacna, another twenty minutes away.

Finally, we were in Peru! I had gone to Chile and stayed in a bunch of places and now I was in Peru!

Tacna seemed like a large town, or medium-sized city, as we drove through it toward the bus depot. Along the way, the cab driver dropped passengers wherever they asked.

As we gathered our luggage and paid our driver, an older man came right up, grabbed our things and beckoned for us to follow. This man was about the size and age of Bruce, even looking rather like him only without the gray hair. He had a slight difficulty in walking similar to Bruce. His knees or his back probably hurt him.

Forrest and I looked at each other and grinned. “It’s Dad meeting us in Peru!” said Forrest.

The man led us to a window, asked us where we were going then told the clerk “Arequipa” before we could catch a breath. "Espere," I said. I need an ATM before buying the ticket.

He took me over to the ATM while Forrest arranged for the tickets, then I came back and paid cash for them. The bus was leaving soon, so Peruvian Dad guided us toward the waiting area, but first he pointed to the restrooms. How did he know that was just what I needed? He and Forrest waited with our luggage until I returned.

Now that we were set up, Peruvian Dad asked for money. Forrest gave him the amount he asked for plus a tip. He had taken excellent care of us, and this was money well spent and freely given.

Good ol’ Peruvian Dad. We thanked him and said goodbye as he limped off quickly to go help someone else.

Untitled story about Forrest's side trip to the Atacama Desert: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-24T09:30:00.000-07:00

Forrest had arrived in the Atacama on a Friday, dropped off in the center of the little town, San Pedro de Atacama. He saw people playing soccer in a football field and watched them for awhile before going on to the hostel.

He knocked on the door, but nobody answered for at least fifteen minutes. “Finally, a Brazilian dude who ran the place answered it," he said.

The hostel had two rooms, each with six beds. There were two bathrooms, which along with the rooms were split between male and female residents. In the main gathering room, they had a blackboard with Chilean slang written on it. Forrest took a picture of the board with the words and their translations.

"I met a guy from the Netherlands at the hostel," he said. "We explored together a little, hung out for a day or so. There were two girls, one from England and one from Ireland, traveling together, and we talked to them quite a bit. I went to a bakery with the girls, and we got some good chocolate cake."

I liked hearing about Forrest's trip as we traveled together to Arica, the border town on the Chile side. Our bus ride seemed short. It really had made no sense for me to stop in Iquique. I should have gone on to Arica and waited for Forrest there, saving him that extra trip back to Iquique.

Still, I was glad I got to experience both Antofagasta and Iquique, to see the contrast between them and to feel like I knew the country a little better. That was the whole point of traveling after all.

Forrest and I arrived in Arica before dark, which was nice having some daylight to walk around the area. We dropped off our stuff in the room and then went out to find a place to eat.

I suggested we sit down for a hot meal rather than just get snacks or a sandwich, or an empanada-- way more common in Chile than a sandwich.

We saw a small café around the corner from our hotel. I ordered seafood soup, which was incredible. But the best part of dinner was sitting down with my son to enjoy a meal together. I had missed him.

He talked more about his time in the Atacama Desert. He had gone biking, gone to church in the little branch on Sunday, then hung out with some members on Monday.

"I enjoyed the time with them more than anything. They were an older couple who lived outside of town, but they drove in to pick me up and then back to their house for the afternoon. We ate bread with jam and butter. They told me about their daughter who they said was abogado. I thought they said avocado but how could she be an avocado? After we got it straight, we all had a good laugh."

Despite the enjoyable side trip to Atacama, Forrest was more than ready to cross the border to Peru in the morning.

“I’m done with Chile,” he said. "Me too," I agreed.

Cachai -- You know?

Bacan -- Cool

Weon-- Dude, Mate

Wea-- Stuff

Cuatico-- Amazing

Chela-- Beer

Carrete--Party

Tuesday through Thursday in Iquique: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-23T09:30:00.000-07:00

The next morning, Tuesday, I followed the same routine, finding it easy now to walk directly to the sandy beach and boardwalk. The sky was overcast, not sunny and blue as in Coquimbo, making it too chilly to sit for long. The waves were good for surfing, and I saw young men and boys out there with their surfboards. I spent a couple hours sightseeing around the park and beach area then returned to the hotel to work through the afternoon.

When I got hungry, I ate bananas, peanut butter and mixed nuts which makes a filling meal. In the evening, I watched Netflix until I was tired enough to sleep.

Wednesday Forrest texted me that he wouldn’t arrive until that night, so could I go buy our bus tickets for Thursday morning to Arica. We would spend the night in Arica and on Friday, cross the border to Peru.

Before heading to the beach that day, I walked to the bus depot and bought our tickets. That done, and with the prospect of Forrest arriving tonight, I decided to celebrate somehow.

As I walked the now familiar route to the beach area, I wondered about stopping at one of the many restaurants along the promenade. They all seemed too social with crowds of people gathering to enjoy dining with friends. That would make me feel lonely and sad, sitting alone and friendless. I looked for something smaller and less social.

Fast pass on the Hell Cafe

I ended up going into an ice cream shop across from the ocean, where I could sit at a table by the window and watch the surfers. It was delicious ice cream and so inexpensive compared to what this quality would have cost in the US.

Today marked our second full week in Chile, having flown into Santiago two weeks ago. It felt like much longer since we had seen so much of the country. My stay in Iquique felt the longest of all.

The ice cream did not satisfy as a mid-day meal, and I didn’t want more bananas and peanut butter. I noticed a place near the boardwalk that had tables outside and not many customers. I sat at a table and ordered a mixto fajita and a cheese empanada. Turns out in Chile mixto means hot dogs apparently. My “fajita” was cut up hot dogs in a slightly grilled tortilla. It was barely edible and the empanada not much better. No wonder there were no customers.

I had crossed a barrier and gone out to eat by myself. I didn’t enjoy anything about it.

Forrest arrived that night around nine, came into the room and said, “This hotel stinks! How did you stand it for so long?”

“It’s not just the hotel. The whole town smells like this. I have no idea why."

“It smells like a cheap, dirty apartment.”

“I know. It’s not an ocean or fishing smell, and it’s the whole town! At least this section of it. Sleep in your bag, Forrest, not on the sheets. The guy said they were clean but I don’t believe him. And there's been no housekeeping in my room despite being out hours every day. I never let the bedding touch my body. I even pull my hood up so I’m not touching the pillow.”

“Why didn’t you change hotels like you thought of doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I had already paid and didn’t want to bother.”

Forrest laid his sleeping bag on top of his bed and crawled inside. “How’s the WiFi?”

“Not bad.” I gave him the three passwords for the three different floors. “Sign into all of them. If one doesn’t work, another one usually will.”

I went right to sleep, feeling happy to have my son again and knowing tomorrow we were leaving Iquique.

In the morning, Forrest left to wander around town. I had my usual morning routine of writing to get my head on straight for the day. I took a long shower since this was one of the best ones we had so far, with water hot enough even for me. I packed my things and worked on my computer until it was time to go.

Forrest came back and said, “The bus depot is close enough we can walk.”

I wasn’t interested. “I’ve walked enough in this town. Let’s just get an Uber. It won’t cost much since it’s only a few blocks.” I couldn’t wait to get on the bus and drive away from Iquique.

“It could just be this neighborhood,” Forrest said. “I’ve been propositioned twice already. Once last night and this morning in broad daylight.”

“You’re not the only one! Some aging prostitute approached me the other evening around six on my way back to the hotel. You can see why I want out and to just get an Uber.”

“Fair enough.” He picked up his cell phone and put in the order.

Once on the bus and out of town, I felt such a sense of relief. “That city bothered me, Forrest. It didn’t have a good feeling about it. I’m glad to leave.”

“In retrospect, you should have just gone to Arica the next day when you realized how sketchy the place was. We could have met there. It really didn’t make sense for me to backtrack and meet you in Iquique.”

“I wish we’d have thought of that, except I already paid in cash and I don't think he would have refunded me anything."

"Yeah, there's that."

"Forrest, you want to hear something weird? Up and down the promenade near the beach area, I kept seeing middle-aged men with adolescent boys that didn’t look like father-son relationships. One or two I wouldn’t have remarked on, thinking oh it’s his dad who he never sees who came to town to take him out shopping, buying him these new shoes he's so excited about or taking him out to lunch. At first, that’s what I thought. But I saw this whenever I went out. There couldn’t be that many rich, divorced dads coming to town to spend time with the fourteen-year-old son he never sees and buying him stuff.”

Promenade and park, Iquique

“That is weird,” Forrest agreed.

“I wonder if Iquique is a center for sex trafficking, or at least that part of it. Anyway, I don’t want to think anymore about it. Tell me about your time in the Atacama Desert.”

“I was able to get into a nice hostel full of Europeans. How the heck do they know so many languages? Most of them are fluent in four or five. Their native language, English of course, then usually Spanish, French and or Italian. It’s sickening. They’re required to take English classes in school from like first grade up, then they learn these other languages as they go.”

“I would love to be multi-lingual like that. I took so much French in college and really took to it, but what good does it do if you’re not traveling to the country? I’ve forgotten most of it. I can barely even speak Spanish anymore. Since Dad died, it's like my brain stopped working.”

“You could travel all over the world, Mom, and learn other languages. It would come back to you.”

“I’d like to! I want to go to Egypt while my editor still lives there. Want to go to Egypt with me, Forrest?”

“That would be cool, but once I graduate, I have to get an internship then find a job. This trip is my time off from being responsible.”

Smelling funky here: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

I didn’t shower first thing, because I wasn’t ready to make myself that much at home in this room. I pulled on my Doc Martens and went outside to see how the neighborhood looked in daylight.

It wasn’t too bad, a typical neighborhood of a Latin city, similar to Antofagasta. I walked a few blocks, looking for a tienda to buy my morning diet Coke.

Returning to the room, I drank my soda, wrote in my journal, checked work email and then felt comfortable enough to shower and change into clean clothes. The shower turned out to be a pleasant surprise, with good pressure and plenty of hot water. Feeling better, I decided to go exploring and find the beach.

I headed west, weaving through city blocks, keeping my turns to a minimum as to not get lost on the way back. I finally reached a section of ocean lined with piles of boulders and pelicans, my favorite birds. They exude peace and contentment, how they float along whether in the air or on the water. They know how to get the job done without overly exerting themselves. I took pictures of them landing gracefully on the boulders.

In the distance, I saw a length of sandy beach and headed in that direction. As I crossed a parking lot behind an apartment complex, I observed an older man going from car to car placing small fliers under car windshields. We greeted one another and he handed me a flier, explaining that he was a chef and would deliver ready-made meals to my home.

“Oh, thanks but I’m in a hotel and only staying a few days.”

He switched to English and asked me where I was from and told me where he had lived in the US when he worked as a cook. “Where are you going?” he asked, looking around at the parking lot as though this was an odd place for a tourist staying in a hotel to be.

“To the beach,” I replied, gesturing in the general direction. “I wasn’t sure how to get there from my hotel.”

After chatting awhile, he offered to take me in his car as I was way off track. Since I felt no warning signals from him, I agreed. His car was right there in the parking lot. I'm not sure why I did this, since getting into a car with a stranger is way beyond my comfort zone.

As he drove, he talked to me in English and pointed out several landmarks for me to use next time I wanted to walk to the beach. When we got close to where I could see the boardwalk, a park, and the sandy beach, I said this was fine, he could let me off here. He pulled over to the side and waved at a passerby who he seemed to know.

“My number is on the flier if you need anything or want a meal brought to your hotel. All fresh ingredients and ready to enjoy.” I thanked him and let myself out, then walked for awhile on the boardwalk.

Iquique Beach Park

When I was ready to return to the hotel, I followed the landmarks he had pointed out and found my way back without having to go behind apartment buildings and across parking lots.

On the way, I bought several bananas to eat with peanut butter for my main meal along with my store of mixed nuts. I didn’t want to buy food in this town, despite passing several restaurants, because it smelled and felt dirty. It wasn’t just the hotel. The whole place had this strange, unpleasant smell.

But the chef had been nice enough. Friendly, helpful and not at all creepy.

Regretting Iquique: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

On Monday at noon, I checked out of the Antofagasta hotel and got a cab to the bus depot. This would be my first time doing a bus trip alone, without either Bruce or Forrest. I felt anxious and nervous until I got settled on the nice, luxurious bus. It was five hours to Iquique.

My anxious face

Passing through a small town along the way

So much of that route is desert

Halfway through the trip, the porter brought a box dinner for each passenger. It was grilled chicken breast, tender and well-seasoned, on rice with a roll and a little cup of jello.

When we arrived at the Iquique bus depot, cabs waited outside. I approached one and showed him the address of my hotel. It was only a few blocks away.

When the driver pulled up, he said, “This isn’t a very good neighborhood. Be careful.” That set me right off worrying.

In the narrow, cluttered lobby, I felt even more uncomfortable. The place gave off sleazy vibes, and the desk attendant questioned my reservation. I showed him the email on my phone, and he turned away to climb the stairs behind the front desk.

He was gone awhile. Shortly after he left, a thirty-something man came downstairs followed by a woman. They looked irritated as they passed by on their way out the front door. Later, I realized they were probably in the double room I had reserved, and the hotel attendant had made them leave.

When the attendant returned, he asked how many nights I wanted. Although I had booked it for four nights, I hesitated, thinking maybe I should only book tonight. But I was here and didn’t want to go searching tomorrow for another place, I didn’t know the city and felt alone and lacking in courage, deserted by my typical spirit of adventure and confidence. I had already stood there waiting for thirty minutes on my feet and was sick of the whole business.

“Four,” I said and paid with cash, since I didn’t want to hand over a credit card. The guy beckoned for me to follow as he carried my luggage upstairs.

My room had that same feeling of discomfort and uncleanliness, and I wasn’t convinced the bedding had been changed. I asked him for two clean towels and if the sheets were clean. He said yes, but I didn’t believe him. The bed was made poorly, and the sheets and blankets were thin and worn.

That first night, I slept on top of the bedding fully dressed in my leggings and sweatshirt, using my long, hooded sweater as a blanket. I barely slept, feeling vulnerable and hating this place with its foul smell. I thought about checking out tomorrow but had already paid. This was the first night, Forrest was arriving tomorrow, then only two more after that.

I saw a text from Forrest on WhatsApp. He was at the Atacama Desert but had been unable to see the Planetarium since he didn’t have an appointment and they were already booked up. He also had not been able to find a couch-surfing situation but had gotten into a nice hostel.

I was happy and relieved to hear from my son and exchange a few texts. The night sky alone was worth the trip, he texted. He was getting so much Spanish practice. A lot of Europeans were at the hostel. He's jealous of how they all speak so many languages. He wasn't coming tomorrow after all but the next day.

After that, although disappointed that I wouldn't see Forrest as soon as expected, I didn't feel as alone at this sketchy hotel. When he left Atacama, he was coming to Iquique, and we'd head for the border.

Everything would be better once Forrest arrived.

Quiet Cry Day: Stories from A to Z

2024-04-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

The next day, Friday, Forrest left early for the Atacama Desert, where he would spend five days. I was staying another two nights in Antofagasta and then would take the bus to Iquique, where we would meet up before our final leg of the journey to the border.

If I could avoid spending money at restaurants and instead eat bananas, peanut butter, nuts and fruit, I’d be happy. Our hotel offered a free breakfast, which would help.

On Saturday, I went for their complimentary breakfast then walked around the neighborhood to get my bearings. I looked for a nearby church to attend in the morning. While I was out, I bought a two-liter of Diet Coke and a large bag of Lay’s potato chips for a Sunday treat. Peanut butter on bananas would be food for Sunday as well. I also had mixed nuts if I needed them, but the bananas had to get eaten first.

The bus station was only about five blocks from our hotel. I bought my ticket leaving Monday at one for Iquique.

Our hotel room had great Wi-Fi so I spent Saturday afternoon working and making up for lost time without Internet. I never worked on Sundays, but I had a few books on my Kindle that looked good and could keep me occupied. And I could take longer walks, getting to know the city.

When Sunday came, it turned into a day of isolation and junk food where I didn't leave my room. I had not found a church in the neighborhood and didn’t feel like searching afar for one. I didn’t even go to the free breakfast. Instead, I journaled for hours and feasted on potato chips and diet Coke.

In the afternoon, I opened a free Kindle book downloaded years ago but never read. It was about a woman who came to Ireland after losing the beloved aunt who had raised her.

The woman had rented a cottage outside of town on a country road. Upon arrival, grief for her aunt overwhelmed her. She started crying and went on for days, not eating or leaving the house, just crying and sleeping. Occasionally, she wandered around the cottage then returned to bed and cried.

A housekeeper quietly let herself in and left food for her. The woman finally noticed the food in the fridge and kitchen. In between crying and sleeping, she ate these delicious home-cooked meals.

I was so envious. I wanted a secluded cottage in the Irish countryside to cloister myself and cry my eyes out. I wanted a quiet housekeeper who left delicious, ready-to-eat food in my kitchen, cleaned up, and then disappeared. Like this woman in the book, I had not fully grieved. I had such heartache, but always pushed it away because it hurt too much.

Along the beach in Coquimbo, I had opened myself up to grief because of the solitude, the wide ocean, the busy seagulls, and the companionable pelicans.

Don't these pelicans look like great listeners? The bartenders of the bird world.

As I read this book, I cried along with the woman and thought about renting a cottage in Ireland. I finished it that day. A satisfying read, as the cottage owner turned out to be a handsome Irishman who also happened to be single. It was a nice little romance with a theme and a setting that appealed to a grieving widow.

Tomorrow I would get on the bus and return to my traveling self. Today was a quiet, cry day, the kind you need every now and then but thankfully not too often.