TRAVELING AROUND THE WORLD: Our Tales of Delights and Disasters

by Shelley Row

  Saturday, March 12, 2011

  Rainbows and a Tsunami

  Hawaii. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s been almost thirty years since either Mike or I were here. Tall rugged mountains covered with lush, dense, tropical vegetation dropped precipitously to white sand beaches fringed by palm trees. There the beach met a tapestry of blue waters. Mike laughed at me as I turned first one way and then the other uttering, “Stunning. Simply stunning.” And it was. My friend, Barbara, has lived here for the last sixteen years. She was the perfect reason to stop over for a few days. And Mike and I were glad that we did, in spite of the tsunami. Yes – of course – we were there for the tsunami. This made the third and hopefully the last disaster.

  But first, more about Hawaii. I’m thrilled to say that we were on Oahu for five days and spent no time in Honolulu. Barb lives on the North Shore near Haleiwa in a charming cottage by the water. From her back porch, we could see the mouth of Waimea Bay with the sea crashing into rocks. Her neighbor was kind enough to let us sit on his porch for an unobstructed view of the sunset. What could be better?

  While some may be disappointed in us, we enjoyed doing absolutely nothing – no tours, no sightseeing, no Pearl Harbor, no luau. We explored the North Shore and came to love its casual charm, character and relaxed atmosphere. Kamehameha Highway runs along the coast next to the water. White sand beaches, including famous ones like Sunset and Pipeline, are strung along every half mile or so. Big waves crash to shore while surfers bob in the water waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  Each morning, I ran along the bike path between the road and the beach. From the path, I saw life on the North Shore unfold. There were young mothers walking their toddlers in the sand; young men biked to the beaches with their surf boards tucked under their arm; old Volkswagen buses held surf boards and fit, tan young men with sun-bleached hair; teenage girls walked casually to the beach in skimpy bikinis. Along the roadside, hand-painted vans that had seen better days sold shrimp, fresh fish, fruit, smoothies or shaved ice. It was all part of the live-and-let-live lifestyle.

  And it rained a little each day – sometimes a light sprinkle and other times a downpour. Neither lasted long. Mike and I learned to continue doing what we were doing rain or shine. With all the rain, rainbows are common and always a treat. One day we saw six rainbows! Another morning, while running (in the rain), I saw a startling rainbow that was completely visible over the ocean. Its colors were vibrant and lively. People pulled their cars over to photograph it or to simply stand and stare.

  With all the rain, there are also waterfalls. Barb lives a stone’s throw from Waimea Valley, so we walked over, through the lush gardens and to the falls. It’s odd how one’s perspective changes. We’ve seen so many waterfalls that the Waimea Falls – while lovely – looked quaint after the gushing cascades of New Zealand.

  We drove to Kaena Point and watched kite surfers pulled by parachutes over the waves – jumping, twisting and flying along the water. It looked like great fun. I know it’s sacrilegious, but we never got in the water. I know… We were tired from all the travel, and didn’t have the energy to deal with sand and surf. Plus, I could watch the water and waves all day and be happy. The waves are so peaceful. I honestly felt no need to be in the water. All I wanted was to watch the water. One morning, while I was watching the ocean, a whale blew a spout of water, and seemed to stand on its head flapping its tail in the surf. Fun.

  Mike and I went for a walk through the woods but the trail led onto the beach. Shoes filled with sand so there was nothing to do but give into it; take off the shoes and step into the warm sand. I sunk up to my ankles. The sand felt wonderful; both gritty and soft. Funny how it can be both at the same time. With a light breeze blowing, and the sound of the surf and waves, it was an ideal walk.

  Another day we set off for a 2.5 mile loop trail on the windward side of the island. We found the trail and started climbing up the hillside. After the rain and snow of the Routeburn Track, I thought this would be a piece of cake. Wrong. The recent rain turned the trail into slippery mud. Roots and moss-covered rocks made the walking slow and tricky. But it was beautiful. We walked through a forest of Norfolk pines with their fingers of needles tiered up the tall trunks. My dad was in Hawaii with the Air Force years ago. I remember him talking about the Norfolk pines. He loved them so much that he bought a small one that my mother tried desperately to keep alive in a pot in our den. I understand why he loved them and I also understand why that little tree wasn’t happy in Central Texas. Here, the wind blew through these trees. It was so different from the wind in the pines of Cotignac. This was a deeper, roaring sound as the heavy trees swayed. There was also ironwood or Australian Pines with droopy, eight-inch-long long needles. While we walked, Mike and I were caught in a heavy downpour that made the already slick trail even slicker. Between steps, we tried to appreciate the rain in the forest. Those eight-inch-long needles captured the rain so that a small drop hung on the tip of each needle and sparkled in the light. It was like a pine-tree chandelier. It was lovely until you walked into it and all those drops dumped on head, shoulders or back. He and I were drenched by the time we returned.

  Our last day, we drove around the island, past the volcanoes of Koko, Diamond Head and Punchbowl to our hotel by the airport. Due to our early morning flight to Los Angeles, we chose to stay nearby that night. It was a very good decision. Thankfully, Mike turned on the news after dinner to learn of the huge earthquake that had struck in the waters off the coast of Japan. The footage of the tsunami that hit Japan in the quake’s aftermath was unbelievable. And – the tsunami was making its way through the Pacific Ocean with Hawaii in its path. (Let me just pause to say – I am done with disasters – government overthrows, earthquakes and now a tsunami. Done.) So we sat, powerless, in the hotel room and watched the news for hours. A six-foot, sustained wave of water was predicted for all of the Hawaiian Islands. It was expected to hit at 3 am. In the meantime, the tsunami warning sirens sounded every hour starting at 10 pm until 2:40 am. People in low-lying areas designated as evacuation zones were evacuated immediately for higher ground. Unable to access the evacuation zone maps with the hotel’s slow Internet connection, Mike asked the hotel staff. Thankfully, we were not in an evacuation area, plus we were on the fourth floor. Nonetheless, we were a half-mile from the airport which is directly on the coast.

  All was probably fine, but, once again, it was unnerving. Just as I would fall asleep – with our clothes lying at the end of the bed – the siren would go off with a loud wail. The road in front of the hotel was closed, the Governor was on the TV from the emergency management center, and the spokesperson from the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center was giving updates every half-hour. Another sleepless night. At 3 am, we watched the camera for Waikiki Beach that was broadcast from the traffic management center. And, we saw… nothing. There was a bit of water rise but that’s all. There was still danger as the energy from the tsunami was not fully dissipated, but it wasn’t to be the big event as predicted. Thankfully. Barb’s house was in an evacuation area. We were not able to reach her; however, she told us about the previous tsunami-warning last year. She evacuated to high ground then, so we were confident she did the same this time. I talked to her later and she and her house were fine, although she had a stressful night.

  The next morning, we flew to Los Angeles for the weekend with Mike’s daughter, Linnea. We had a wonderful time with her, got much needed sleep, ate great food, and – there were no earthquakes!

  Wednesday, March 16, 2011

  Back in the USA

  We’re back. I can no long ignore that fact. Technically, we were in the U.S. once we landed in Hawaii. But Hawaii has that delightful otherworldly feel. And so it was that landing in Los Angeles brought our return to my attention with brut force. Tears filled my eyes when we touched down. I’m not quite ready to be back.

  Don’t get me wrong, seeing Linnea at the airport was a wonderful sight. Now we’re on our way to
Texas to see my mother, George and friends. That’s all good. Plus, I can’t wait to see our dear friends in Annapolis. I missed the people who fill our life but I’m starting to mourn the end of this experience.

  Mike and I both noticed little things, common before but now unusual. For example, we keep expecting to go through passport control. At the Los Angeles airport, it seemed odd to just walk off the plane into the city. Didn’t anyone want to check something – anything? Guess not. Linnea whisked us off to our hotel although “whisked” may be a slight overstatement as we traveled a ten-lane freeway for the first time in a year. All around were enormous cars and trucks. They seem gargantuan by the world’s standards. What is it that we have that others don’t have that we must carry around with us? Our car, which seemed large in Europe, now looks like a Mini Cooper, which, until now, seemed like a normal size.

  I stood in line at a fast-food restaurant for the first time in months and fumbled with my U.S. bills. How odd that these bills felt strange. Plus, they are the same color and size – not a well-thought-out system. After staring at my money, I handed it to the impatient, fast-food worker who reluctantly answered my questions. I was one of those pesky customers. It’s not like there wasn’t bad service in France, but, honestly, it happened rarely. As my French teacher explained, sometimes it’s less a difference between the U.S. and France but more a difference between city and country living. I think, in many cases, she’s right. In Cotignac, we knew the butcher, the café owner, the family who ran the Spar market and our favorite market vendors. Fast food literally didn’t exist. I’m still adjusting to the timing of meals. Mike keeps reminding me that we no longer need to allot one and half or two hours to eat out for lunch. Right.

  We stayed at a charming hotel in Santa Monica facing the ocean. It was beautiful. In the mornings, we looked out over the beach and ocean. I watched groups of twenty to thirty runners jogging on the path. In France, I was the lone runner. Here, I had company!

  Our hotel, The Georgian, reminded us of our hotel facing the Mediterranean in Nice where we stayed on our last night in France. However, as we went from one fabulous restaurant to another over the weekend, I noticed that I felt distracted by conversations at adjacent tables. Everyone was speaking the same language and I understood what they said! That, too, was new and different. Then there was the constant presence of Blackberries. Everyone was spinning that little ball, punching on teeny keyboards, or talking (sometimes far too loudly) into little microphones dangling from their ear. It’s not like we didn’t see cell phones in France but it didn’t seem so pervasive. And you would never interrupt something as sacred as a meal with a Blackberry.

  There are also more processed foods here. They were overseas as well but not as prevalent. I had to laugh at the “healthy” snack bar we were given on the plane. The wrapper, covered with photos of fruit, read, “Natural flavors with other natural flavors.” Mike finished reading the sports pages to discover that they were filled with basketball and baseball news. Soccer was relegated to a portion of the last page and rugby and cricket had been thoughtlessly omitted all together. Imagine!

  I’ll adjust and it’ll seem normal again, although I’m not sure that I want some of this to be “normal.” We have flown over the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the coast of Australia and New Zealand, and the Pacific Ocean. Now, from the plane, I look below as Arizona and New Mexico pass by and Texas looms ahead. I know I’m home. I know I’ll be glad. I know I’ll love being with friends again. It will just take a little time to adjust to this familiar but now foreign country. For now, I look forward to iced tea, TexMex and barbeque. I just hope our passports work in Texas.

  Monday, March 21, 2011

  Boogie Back to Texas

  We walked off the plane in Austin to feelings of surprise and familiarity. There, across from our arrival gate, was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign read, “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared, “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this slogan was part of a litter campaign slogan started by the Texas Department of Transportation decades ago). All this made my head spin. Downstairs, waiting for our luggage, I felt like a stranger in my homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place among the jeans and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.

  Our own gigantor pick-up truck claimed us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. We stowed the luggage in the bed of the truck and scrambled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.

  We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at the Guadalajara restaurant. As we sat, chips and salsa appeared before us. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. (He was lucky to be spared breakfast.) I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. Also, my mother hadn’t felt well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Dairy Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.

  With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3,500), and it’s laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets. I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make comforting sounds in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red-bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Bluebonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window at my mother’s house. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from her front porch. Its red bows and festive bird nest seemed a bit out of place in March. But when I reached to grab it, a tiny, brown bird moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will stay on the wall a little longer.

  One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and bumping into the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived, I saw Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and Lynn reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids. Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She still is like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the post office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.

  A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. It was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes,
broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. Then Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!

  It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’s soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to hear myself say, “How’r yu?” I can walk along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived there. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But at the same time, I’m that woman in the little black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? There’s never an answer. I’ll continue to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.