TRAVELS & INSIGHTS: The View (Far) From Tyre

Christmas in Lebanon and California

My husband David took these photos of a Christmas display in Beirut today at the ABC Achrafieh shopping mall. An angel (above) is suspended on a fishing line in one pastoral Christmas display. More of the same display in the next three photos.

These photos (below) were taken by me on a trip to Disneyland with my brother who works for the company. It was the start of Disney’s festive holiday season.

How to Spend It

I started a subscription to the Financial Times a couple weeks ago.  I had unusable-for-flights frequent flier miles that afforded me a slew of new newspaper and magazine subscriptions. I figured this was one good way to keep my brain from drying up in the California sun, and to navigate me through a macro understanding of this national and global financial crisis.

On the micro level I already get it. I’ve watched two big chain stores and at least one car dealership go out of business in my town. Neighbors in safe neighborhoods have had their homes broken into. Fast food joints have been held-up by gunmen. Personal letters have been opened before we take them out of the mailbox (someone hoping there’s cash in there?).

There are extended family members of mine who are looking for jobs, recently out of work, collecting unemployment, working on a career change, watching travel sales’ commissions drop, or working for a collapsed financial institution. I’ve applied to half a dozen jobs in the past few months and heard nothing back, but should note we are lucky as a family because we do have ONE income.

And so here I sit lately night after night, when I’m not applying for a job or catching up with the news via internet, with a hard copy of the Financial Times reading the analysis and wondering if and how President Obama and his cabinet picks and future plans for our economy is going to make a difference.

And then this glossy weekend FT magazine “How to Spend It Special Celebration Edition” falls out of the fold.

How to spend it? Here are some suggestions from the FT pages and ads… Cartier, caviar, De Beers, Ermengildo Zegna briefcases, classic Aston Martins, silk and satin party dresses, luxury mattresses, yellow Jimmy Choos, silver spoons, privileged accommodation at Lake Zurich, $30,000 digital speakers.

Ideas for those financial execs who still think they might get a Christmas bonus perhaps?

How about spending “it” on cancer drugs, surgical operations, liquid food for stomach tubes, wheelchairs, asthma inhalers, Epipens, heart monitors, ER visits and peanut challenges before you’ve met the impossibly large deductible that still costs you hundreds in self-pay insurance a month, pre-school, kindergarten fundraisers, vet visits, under $50 Christmas presents, children’s shoes, water company bills, security systems, pest control, food ?

I’ve been meaning to update my blog for the past month, but have felt uninspired. Uncertain about the future. Contemplating mortality..

Last month I sat on the floor going through boxes of old, partially used, expired, and expensive cancer pills, anti-nausea medicine and medical marijuana pills never taken because the patient couldn’t swallow anything anymore. All of this had been sitting for two years in the recesses of a bedroom. It had been too emotionally overwhelming to clean up the detritus for the person closest to the cancer patient who passed away.

First I tore the labels off each pill bottle to erase names and addresses. I couldn’t help reading the dosage information and warnings.

– Lorazepam: Take one tablet by mouth every 6 hours as needed for nausea & for anxiety. MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS. Alcohol may intensifythis effect. Use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery.

– Hydrocodone—Take 1-2 tables every 4 to 6 hours as needed for pain. (same warning as the Lorazepam)

Then amongst the prescription notes and papers in the box a Patient Plan caught my eye. It dealt with instructions for getting some labs done and this note from the doctor : “We’ll see you after your chemotherapy is finished. Bon apetite!”

There was also heap of pink medical equipment invoices—for things like med gauze, kit dressing change, wound dressings, blood glucose test strips, 9 volt battery, Baxter 6060 pump, lancets, sharps and heparin.

A life reduced to this, and the hospital bills and claims still being settled two years later.

I threw into the trash all the pills in sealed plastic containers. But, I also found a whole box of sealed syringes and getting rid of them turned out to be more problematic. After learning that the drug company who supplied the syringes wouldn’t take them back because by this time the company had changed hands, I dropped them by a local hospice thrift store. I thought that at least some other sick patients could use them.

But a week or two later I was donating some clothes to the same hospice charity, and the employees told me to take back the box of syringes. They were afraid of it. It was a Hazmat (hazardous materials) they said. I hadn’t noticed that the syringes already had drugs in them. Some were filled with saline and others contained the blood thinner Heparin.

What kind of drug company would put drugs in syringes and seal the packages long before the patient needed it?

For the next few days I was dealing with the bureaucracy of how to get rid of the syringes. Everyone I called in the city and county said they wouldn’t accept a syringe with medicine in it, but also didn’t want me disposing of the medicine in the ground, toilet, sink or trashcan. I finally got agreement to take them to a disposal site 10 miles outside of town, only after protesting vehemently and threatening letters to the editor in the local paper.

The whole experience was very sad and frustrating on many levels.

And it reminded me.. When I arrived at my parents’ house, two days after my 56-year-old father died of ALS, I saw my father’s abandoned wheelchair in the garage. The hospital bed was still in his room. It was eerie. Liquid food that my father took through a tube in his stomach was piled up. It was packed up and sent back to the company. The chair and bed were also eventually returned.

In both cases, the pain of loss and the nice memories remain.

How to spend it?

Love. Try to be healthy. Pray that you and yours don’t get too sick.  And don’t spend it on too many expensive things, because life and fortunes can be here one day and gone the next..

Steinbeck Country 2008

After becoming a property owner in California and living here in between foreign assignments for the past five years, I’ve kind of adopted the place as home. So this summer I was delighted to read a few books by one of its greatest authors—John Steinbeck. East of Eden took me to another world that was just beyond my backyard, not far from the route we’d taken several times to San Francisco.

So this September we stopped off for lunch in Salinas, where Steinbeck himself was born, and where much of the novel takes place. We breakfasted at First Awakenings, a restaurant specializing in breakfast and open until 2 pm (Mmmm!) that was housed in a building dating back to 1898. We didn’t get to the Steinbeck Center (will save for another trip! see 6th picture down), but we walked a bit around town and drove through beautiful agricultural areas. Then, as we listened to news of America’s economic crisis on the radio, we traveled the 101 Freeway that runs straight through the Salinas Valley. Working farms on either side of the road were interspersed with shopping centers and Starbucks clear to King City and beyond.

Here are some photos of modern-day Steinbeck country, starting with Downtown Salinas:

Steinbeck Center, Salinas

Tough Times

Salinas Area Farmhouse

101 Freeway Views of the Salinas Valley Between Salinas and King City

Soledad, California Farm

Entering King City

Paralleling the Central California Coast — Sunlit Suburbs and Beautiful By-Ways

A Far Piece from Steinbeck Country — Stopping to Observe the Wildlife at Pismo Beach on the way to Los Angeles…

Sarajevo Fall 2000: My Daily Routine

** more personal observations of life in Sarajevo written a few months before I joined the Institute for War and Peace Reporting

Every day I walk to work. At high speeds. I am a faster walker than most people in Sarajevo. Back in Washington, DC the doorman called me Speedy. Here the walking is more challenging. Narrow sidewalks on busy roads and crowded sidewalks. Sometimes I stop into a shop on the way to get a stale piece of pizza roll. Other times I scan the salad section at the Metropolis restaurant to see what is fresh.  Lately nothing looks appetizing and I’ve been skipping lunch.

I spent some time this morning at the SONY shop pricing microphones for my now outdated radio equipment. I think I am going to try to find a professional mike some other way, through someone at BiH radio.

I work at ONASA news agency, the independent alternative to government mouthpiece BH Press. I work at the English service proofreading translated interpretations of Bosnian news into English. I give them advice on word usage and they stare through me and nod their heads; blowing smoke in my face. They talk amongst themselves in Bosnian, laughing. The radio plays a mix of oldies and modern American, European and Balkan songs. Some of the translators, who are all students,  occasionally throw in a tape with provocative and annoying lyrics. Techno sung in English by a Croatian band. The translators don’t understand why I don’t smoke, and they think I don’t like “sexy music”.  The manager of the agency doesn’t mind if they smoke in the tiny office because he smokes. The assistant manager thinks a couple of the translators are on drugs. Who knows. The struggling agency is behind with our salaries.

Every day on the way home from work I pick up some things from the store. Usually a long French bread “Fransuski” from the bakery just past the Pekara Dan and Noc (the 24 hour bakery).  I also pick up juice at one of the many convenience stores  and/or cheese, soup packets, pasta, toilet paper, shampoo, and potato chips. Sometimes I buy an extension cord, or a light bulb or batteries. Lately I’m on a quest for a thick shower curtain so we don’t have to get our feet wet every time we use the bathroom. The water stays on the floor all day.

Today I went shopping as usual on the way home from work. Found a green plastic container for leftovers that came with forks and plates and cups as well – a present for David. I also bought some spinach pie which I’m eating now as I’m trying to put off actually writing anything very creative.

Fall 2000: A Look Back at Life in Sarajevo

** More impressions of life in Bosnia, circa Fall 2000

It’s misting outside and the temperature has dropped. It’s Autumn in Sarajevo, a Balkan city known for three things; the assassination of Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand in 1914, the 1984 winter Olympics, and the Sarajevo siege from 1992-1995. My husband and I have lived here since July, often taking off on weekends through the Bosnian countryside or to sunny coastal Croatia. We’ve just gotten back from our holiday in not- so- far -away Sicily.

Two things are going on this week that have no relation to one another, but have the world’s attention. There are presidential elections in Yugoslavia, to have or not to have Slobodan Milosevic. And way down in Australia the 2000 summer Olympics are happening.

The Olympics in Sydney are being televised over the world. It’s an amazing display of wealth and human energy; throngs of happy people combined with competitive sports. The spirit of internationalism prevails. The opening ceremony once again one-upped the previous Olympics before. The last times the Olympics were in Sydney contestants had to come in by boat. Now the world is connected by airplanes and the internet, and the athletes have their own websites. Big Australian cities of Sydney and Melbourne are becoming high tech centers.

So the world’s attention right now, at least on the radio and television and in newspapers is on Yugoslavia and Australia. I am watching both stories with interest from my new home in Sarajevo where war and controversy ended 5 years ago and the Olympics happened 16 years ago. Sarajevo is not in Yugoslavia anymore. And Bosnia is hardly on the radar. It’s not listed on the CNN weather ticker, and DHL doesn’t have a shipping price listed for this location on its computer, though they will ship here once they understand the cost and location is somewhere between Croatia and Yugoslavia.

Sarajevo is old news.

We spent the earlier part of the day at the 1984 Olympic complex at Zetra, in Sarajevo, newly rebuilt since the war destroyed much of it. We had a tour by an English speaking security desk matron who lamented that not everything is up and running like before, like the ice skating rink and the pool. The Olympic billboard is lit up, though. And the Olympic stadium is now used for concerts and soccer games. An Olympic tower with the characteristic rings on display looked newly repainted. We looked out almost as far as the eye can see at rows and rows of graves; many from the 92-95 siege.

The 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo was the pride of the city and the communist country of Yugoslavia. Now communism is gone and the wide street named for its leader, Marshal Tito, is covered with new shops, restaurants, flashy western billboards, and a single ATM machine. But it doesn’t necessarily mean Sarajevo has gone “western”. The only chain on the street is Benetton, and few if any Sarajevans can use the bank machine. The cafes are more crowded than the restaurants and most people are only drinking coffee. Unemployment is still very high, so there are many people just out just walking or drinking coffee. But then Sarajevo was always a place where folks enjoyed talking in cafés and walking the pedestrian boulevards and Marshal Tito street. Could Sarajeve be getting back to normal?

HEADING UP TO PALE (pronounced pall-ay)

A rusty sign reads “You have entered the Republika Srpska.” The town is called Serb Sarajevo. The roads are narrower and worse-off. The lights are dimmer. Actually there are no street lights at all. There is more livestock in evidence. Signs are largely in Cyrillic script, not the Latin script that’s in the Federation part of Bosnia. The economy appears more depressed here, save a couple new restaurants and gas stations. The rain makes it look even more grim. We drive up the slowly winding jagged road to Pale, Serb stronghold during the war and current stomping grounds of Bosnian Serb war criminal Radovan Karadic. Reportedly he keeps a house in the hills of this mountain above Pale. His wife has said he comes and goes.

Pale was also one of the sites of the 1984 Olympics. We are on our way up to an old Olympic hotel called Bistritsa to find the indoor swimming pool. Mountain hiking is trickier because of the threat of land mines, whose exact locations are still unknown. It is sleeting at the top of the mountain village and visibility during the 1 hour drive up there is poor.

How I Wish We Were Back in Stromboli

Tonight I also found my account of our trip to Stromboli for our 1 year wedding anniversary in September 2000.. buried in my computer archives…

TWO DAYS ON STROMBOLI

The Ingrid bar in the village of San Vincenzo on the island of Stromboli looks out high above the black sand harbor below. You can sit on the patio with a little pizza on focaccia, an orange and a glass of wine, and actually imagine Roberto or Ingrid there sneaking away for a quiet drink. In 1949 Roberto Rosselini and Ingrid Bergman fell in love on the island and conceived a child while making the film “Stromboli”, a Hollywood scandal. In the end the movie didn’t get rave reviews, but the island does.

‘Round about 4:30 pm on most given days, near the Ingrid Bar on San Vincenzo square, backpackers and energetic tourists emerge from the cobble stoned alleys and shaded shops to gather for the island’s most popular tour, a 6 hour hike up to and down from Stromboli’s still active volcano.

To celebrate our first anniversary, my husband and I decided to do a self-guided tour of Sicily, starting with Stromboli. We began our trip with a flight to Rome, followed by an overnight train and then a ferry to mainland Sicily, and then a hydrofoil to the magical island of Stromboli.

We stayed at the Hotel Villagio Stromboli, a white- washed Mediterranean bungalow style hotel we found on the internet. It definitely lived up to its pictures and promised charms.

On September 12 we were among those energetic tourists gathering on the square, the exact date of our one-year anniversary. My husband David had just run through town to the port to buy tickets for tomorrow’s hydrofoil back to the Sicilian mainland, while I ran into the outfitter store to rent a backpack. I evened out our supplies of mineral water, cheese, sausages and nuts bought at the nearby Greek grocer, into our packs. David’s pack had been on all of our trips together and many trips before we got married. It went on our bike trips down the Rock Creek Parkway in Washington,DC where we lived. It went to France to check out the castles, to Iceland’s blue lagoon, and to the Scottish highlands where we got engaged.

….I pull out the GPS that we registered for on Theknot.com last year, a gift that’s been a kind of navigator for our first year of marriage. It has the exact location of our parents’ homes. It also has the coordinates of the Outer Banks beach where we got married, and The Bistro Belgique Gourmand, a quiet country house style restaurant in Occoquan, Virginia where David had his bachelor party and we spent Valentines Day. It has the Lost Horse Mine, an abandoned gold mine deep in Joshua Tree National Park where we went last Christmas, and it pinpoints our new home in Sarajevo, Bosnia.

By the time 5p rolls around, we are ready with our tickets, our helmets, and flashlights. We are rounded up into groups according to the color of our helmets. The volcano guides grunt and we are off, past the Greek Grocer who is smiling and waving to us, past the red painted faded house with the discreet Ingrid Bergman/Roberto Rosselini were here plaque. (I posed there earlier when I was looking a bit more glamorous. )

We climb up yellow hills, over rocks, on a narrow path winding up to the summit of the volcano. We take very few breaks, prodded on by our guide who is screaming andiamo at us when we stop to take pictures. Too bad the guides are mandatory by Italian law. Most of Stromboli’s villagers are much nicer.

People come to Stromboli to see the island’s active volcano erupt. And it does erupt, every fifteen minutes or so, for at least the last 2000 years. You can see it from the top and/or you can see it from a small boat at sea looking up, on a night tour. That tour, called Sciara Del Fuoco (road of fire) promises a view of lava flowing from the volcano into the sea, but on most nights you are more likely to see the lava spurting like a juicy orange. There is a line of tour operators waiting to book you on one of the 10 pm boat rides as soon as you arrive on the island.

Halfway up the volcano, we see the village of Piscita below in miniature on one side and the sun setting on that steep slope of the volcano that drops to the sea where the Sciara del Fuoco flows on occasion. The villages of Stromboli are beautiful for their simplicity, for their quiet, for their narrow cobble stoned streets, for their small whitewashed houses, pink flowers, nice hotels, and black beach coastline dotted with red, blue, green and white boats.

It ‘s black at the top when we finally reach it, and cold. But not too dark, as the moon is full. The clouds caused by the ash make interesting formations beneath us over the sea, which is dazzling. You can see the lights from the small sightseeing boats. We are looking down on the volcano, at two of its vents. Everyone is pulling out their cameras, not sure who, if anyone is going to get a good shot. David also pulls out the GPS and zeroes in on our location. We have had occasion to use it as a navigational tool in the past, like when we thought we might be lost in the Republika Srpska part of Bosnia or on the long road from Sarajevo to the Croatian coast. And we brought it up to this volcano, so we can be sure we won’t get lost going down. But in all probability we won’t get lost, it is a guided trip. It’s mainly a fun way to mark where we are and how far we are from home.

We are hurried along down the black lava fields in a kind of strenuous skiing-without-skis- motion before we feel there’s been enough time to see all the eruptions. I am called to the front of the line to set the pace, as I’ve been at the back of the line all the way along, except the guide really sets the pace and my legs and feet are killing me. We lament to the seemingly agile Australians in our group, who are on a ten-week holiday from their jobs (yes this is possible in some areas of the world!), that we don’t get enough exercise in Sarajevo, where we’ve been all summer. The mountains in Bosnia don’t permit much hiking due to randomly placed landmines.

On the trip down we barely have time to pause and reflect on the beautiful moonlit ocean below us. Our guide allows us a quick break whereupon we try to sneak another look at the GPS and munch on some cheese, but he orders us onwards before we have time to pack everything away. Later, on the hydrofoil tomorrow, we will discover that the GPS is gone and we might have to navigate the next year of our marriage without one.

Towards the end of our “skiing” down the black lava fields, we find ourselves plowing through tall hay like grass growing from the black earth (called a Strombolanian cane- thicket).

As we arrive back to the square I am lamenting this is our last night on Stromboli. The sunrise viewed from the deck at the hotel is spectacular. Our first night there we had a romantic, candle-lit dinner at the Blue Latino restaurant at the hotel, seafood risotto, antipasto, white wine, and late summer breezes. …

And I think back to earlier in the day when I bought a nice linen dress from a suave Stromboli storekeeper who had the mannerisms of Mister Rourke. Truly a “Fantasy Island”. We had a nice buffet lunch at The Sirinetta Park Hotel and afterwards grabbed our snorkeling gear and fins and dived into the clear inky blue water to look at the fish and volcanic rock. We tried not to spend too much time swimming around since we knew we’d be hiking all night. Now it’s just the place I want to be, to cool off.

Even though we had a limit on what we could bring to Sarajevo, a mountain town in deep in central Bosnia, I am glad that I, perhaps sentimentally, threw in our blue and yellow fins and snorkeling gear. The last place they were used before this trip was in the waters of a murky indoor swimming pool at an old hotel built for the 1984 Winter Olympics, on Jahorina Mountain just above Sarajevo. That night in Stromboli, though, we were far far away.