bad hair month

Note to well-meaning girl at the Aveda Institute who cut my hair yesterday:

This is a Halle Berry haircut.











This is a pixie haircut.











Please note how irrevocable the pixie choice is when your customer asked for a Halle Berry.
Now the money I saved by going to a student needs to be spent on a cute hat.

rockstar on the bus

I usually buy coats that are cheap and warm. Really warm. And really cheap. Thrift-shop fuzzy things. The only people who see me in my coat are my fellow passengers on the bus and I don't think they care. But, you know, it being a long-ass winter here, I guess I see my damn coat a lot. So I finally laid out a little extra for a seriously awesome coat. It was consignment and on sale, so it was still pretty cheap.

I was a vegetarian for 15 years, so leather, like bacon, was always a secretly filthy little fantasy of mine. A fantasy I've never indulged. And based on some of my thrift-shop purchases, I've learned that evolution makes warmer coats than anything humans can invent. Fur. It's warm and it feels good ... good in a way that you just know is sinful.

So I got me a funky brown leather coat with a racoon-fur collar. The way I see it, who's going to miss one racoon? And it was consignment, so I didn't directly fund the people who skinned the cow. And anyway, I eat meat now.

I can't wait to ride the bus tomorrow.

barks and grunts

Our dog is mostly a quiet dog. Pensive, philosophical, we like to think. He only barks for three reasons.

1. Please love me - A very polite little grunt to indicate he'd like to come back inside with us.
2. Please play with me - Big happy yelps to demand that another dog or friendly-looking human come on over and play with him.
3. Hey, what are you? - Territorial growls and ranting barks filled with bravado to ward off humans with skateboards, bicycles, large hoods, children on their shoulders, big coats or any other extensions that make them just not look the right shape to his limited dog eyes.

Seems like the reasons most of us make noise too.

wild turkey

Driving back from Chicago after bloatfest day, Alan and Eben were both asleep, something caught my eye. Perched atop a boulder, hiding behind a billboard, a wild turkey. Just sitting there the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Giving thanks himself I suppose.

Cold enough to call it winter now, and enough changes in our midst to settle down my autumn restlessness. For the two or three of you that read regularly, here's what's new:

I directed a show, which got great reviews from all the major publications in town.
Alan and I are consulting for these guys, doing marketing and PR.
And I'm working for these guys - they're calling me "interim producing director."
And we're starting a small business ... more on that later (we'll have awesome job titles for sure).
Next, I'm directing this, and then this, and then next year, one of Alan's plays (yay!)

My friend Rodney seems to be living a very charmed life what with a great marriage and job offers that involve moving part-time to a chateau in France. Foster has stunned us all by quitting smoking - seriously I'm thinking of shooting him because he must be an impostor. My very dear old friend Michael is recently and blissfully married. Alan's friend Kate too. Our dog is the cutest and happiest creature alive. All is going pretty darn well.

Humbly thankful. Sitting here on this little rock for the moment.

Hope is a waking dream

A couple days after surviving a consulting project with only one lesson learned - that I never want to do anything like that again - I took a super long bath. Submerged myself up to my nostrils and layed there for a very long time. I noticed I could hear sounds all over the house from neighbors and pets. They sound completely different reverberating through the frame of the house, the ceramic of the tub, the warm water to my ears. It was a nice surprise to hear everyday boring sounds completely transformed into bonks and other-worldly clanks.

As I've mentioned, Fall makes me restless. I wish I could take everything about my daily world and make it reverberate into something different. Because everything seems repetitive and monotonous. Luckily I'm old enough now to know there's hardly a damn thing that's monotonous about this world. It just the Autumn wind whispering, teasing me with the notion that there's something more interesting somewhere, not here, somewhere where that wind is going.

My mind tries to entertain itself with Surrealist dreams. I was a cartoon two nights ago with giant, animated hammers bopping me in the head (which made a xylophone sound) and squishing me through tunnels into other worlds where there were lobsters, giant fish, dogs I could ride like horses, seahorses I could walk on leashes, purple pillows that I could fall into the inside of, and all kinds of crazy furry things that my conscious mind can't recover from my greedy subconscious memory now.

But last night my restless, bratty self sat back and found even the most vivid and fanciful dreams monotonous. All the dreams had a layer of deja vu as my narrative brain sat back and declared it all a recurring dream I've seen before. None of the dreams were actually recurring; they just felt that way while I was dreaming them. Yeah, I was in a jaded dream state. How lame is that?

As morning came closer, I banished a dream where my spine was hopelessly, painfully locked and turned it into an ocean dream - phew, happy I learned that trick. Swimming, bending, arching, swirling my fabulously healthy and flexible spine, I broke through the water's surface to find myself out at sea, floating alongside a boogie board just past the wave line, looking at a gloriously sinking sun. I hopped into a straddle over the board and stared right into that gloopy, droopy sunset gushing all over the ripply horizon. Just sat there blinding myself and enjoying that sexy tickle of the sun baking the salt water into crystals on my skin.

I knew I was dreaming and I reflected from within the dream that a boogie board is totally my Rosebud ... you know, that Orson Welles movie with the sled? Me floating on a boogie board out at sea is me young and healthy and completely unjaded, shiny, hopeful, filled with faith in endless possibility.

And then I opened my eyes and I was just laying in the bathtub again listening to the same old fucking sounds of annoying neighbors doing the same old damn things.

And then I woke up because laying in the bathtub is a really boring dream. Hmm, how do I wake up from this dream?

October

Much better than September. The air tastes like apples. And I'm in rehearsals ... ah, the luxury of being creative feels so good.

September

Fucking September. Hot and humid one day, cold and blustery the next. Confused, spring bulbs still shoot off young blooms while old wise trees burst red before dead leaves fall silently and sad. Kids going back to school, some so excited about what's next because everything is so deeply new it must be wonderful, while others are punched in the gut to find out that there's no time anymore for lying in the grass and deciding what animal the clouds look like.

September spins my head every year. I realize, not for the first time, (wow, there's the present tense, so rarely used in our American linguistics I am reminded by friend Foster) that every time I've ever ended anything big in my life, I've ended it - wrecklesssly, for the sake of ending, for the sake of beginnning - in September.

Isn't that stupid and tragic and irrational? And beautiful? Here comes Fall. Whoa, hold on! I'm falling.

small arts

Has anyone seen this yet? Or tried applying yet?

naked mole rats

Production meeting for Chicago Avenue Project (where kids do the playwrighting) today. Discussions about how to make oversized, foam-core naked mole rats pop out of holes in foam-core "dirt", whether the elephants will need hands, how to do costume and make up for a character named "Fatso" who is half-human, half-donkey and looks like Gene Simmons, and whether they still have the costume for the character "Stupid Head" who is back in a sequel this year.

I wonder if something is missing from adult theater because this is way funner.

day five, where do you want to go today?

If I actually succeed in quitting smoking, I might just have to credit Apple for making such a fabulous machine.

It's been, I don't know, 15 years since I used a Mac on a regular basis. (It was an Apple IIvx if that helps anyone date it.) And then I became a software engineer, which required moving to PCs and the occasional Unix machine. And I've been stuck in Windows ever since.

When the friendly guy at Geek Squad told me the cost of repairing my PC, something just snapped and I asked him how much more it would cost me to throw this Windows machine in a dumpster and buy a Mac. He laughed and then spent 15 minutes trying to talk me into doing just that. This was at Best Buy, where they don't even sell Macs, so I trusted and enjoyed his advice a bit more than I normally would.

I told him how much I missed the Apple world but that I still occasionally needed to do some database stuff, and with the exception of a cute, but horribly limited little database program called FileMaker, all other database software needs Windows. Then he told me about how easy it is to emulate a Windows environment on a Mac these days.

We happily tore up the repair ticket together. Off to the Apple store. The Windows emulation is everything the Geek Squad guy said it would be, except actually faster than a real Windows machine. So now I can occasionally slide over into a parallel dimension of Windows where people are oppressed by Microsoft and terrified of viruses, but I can always come virtually home to my hippie, happy, stable, pretty Apple world. And seriously, it's much more relaxing here. Which helps when one is trying to break free of a seriously intense addiction.

So I'm still smoke free. Awesome.

totally unfair

Day two. My computer crashed. Spent the whole day trying to recover it.

Day three. Defeated in my own attempts, Geek Squad says the hard drive is done. Cost of repair is more than computer is worth.

How unfair is that, to lose my computer in the middle of trying to support several busy projects, ON DAY TWO of quitting smoking?

Still not smoking. Chewed a lot of gum. And bought a Mac.

day one

Alan has the car a lot these days and my bicycle is in the shop getting pampered like it's never been pampered its entire life so I'm walking everywhere lately. Which was perfect today. Walking, walking, walking, faster, faster, breathing deep, clenching the jaw, tightening then loosening the fists, rolling the head to loosen the neck, flaring the nostrils, humming, blinking extra frequent and extra hard, chewing, chewing air, chewing nuts, chewing gum. That's what I did today instead of killing anyone or smoking a cigarette.

I've made it since midnight last night so far. Pant, sigh. This is good. I will begin to smell wonderful things soon. The tiny, perky, supportive booklet that came with the Nicorette gum says I will taste new things soon too. I highly doubt that since Nicorette gum floods my mouth, throat and belly with a completely overpowering and fairly disgusting taste, and I'm popping them every two hours.

I've rented a whole stack of old movies in preparation for the insomnia I expect tonight. The last time I quit smoking, not only was it hard to fall asleep, but once I did fall asleep I'd wake up throughout the night alternatively because I was craving a cigarette, or in alarm because I dreamed that I smoked a cigarette.

In my calmer moments, when I can do that thing where I separate myself from my desire and observe myself from a distance, it's completely fascinating to watch the addicted body and mind freak out.

Friends who smoke please be patient while I hide from you for a while. For that matter, all friends should probably hide from me for a while because I am frequently going to be a raging psychotic bitch. Wish me luck. See you on the other side I hope.

phew, fringed out!

Sorry I fell behind on my Fringe posting. I got wrapped up in seeing shows and working and then I left town for a couple days toward the end of the festival - I know, mind-blowing, how could I? Well, there's this precocious nine-year-old playwright named Jaiden who is writing a play for Pillsbury House Theatre's Chicago Avenue Project, and I get to be her dramaturg and director. So I went on a retreat to the Baker Wilderness Area with the other CAP folks to work on plays, swim in lakes, and eat s'mores. Yeah, it was more fun than the average theater project. If you've never seen Chicago Avenue Project, you are SO missing out. Come see this one. I promise it will make you remember why we do theater. Seriously. Performances on Monday and Tuesday, August 27 and 28 at 7:00 p.m. at Pillsbury House Theatre.

I saw lots more Fringe shows, most of which I loved, a couple which I could have missed, one which was one of those beautifully mesmerizing train wrecks, and one which was that great Fringe experience: something totally original, wonderful, young and by people I've never heard of before. That last was my final show of the festival, the encore of Forks!

[Note to Buckets and Tap Shoes, sorry, I'm a loser, I missed your show, not for lack of love for the glory you guys make, will see the next one.]

Closing night party was worth catching just to see theater nerds take over First Avenue, though I had to cut the evening short because two vodka-tonics did not agree with me forgetting to eat and sleep and wooziness took all the fun out of it. Maybe I got woozy from the closure, I don't know.

But it was fantastic to see everyone again, to see the festival happen without me, to see Robin up there giving statistics and kudos to staff, volunteers, artists. I first discovered the Fringe as a binging fan and it was so nice to return to that perspective. I kept thinking, "Wow, there are nearly a thousand artists here and I don't know what any of their problems are."

Hopefully, with the festival over, people are done asking me how I *feel* about seeing the Fringe now that I'm not running it. Looking forward to moving on and directing lots of great shows. This fall, Anton in Show Business by Jane Martin at Starting Gate, and next spring Everywhere Signs Fall by the fabulous Alan M. Berks for Gremlin Theater. Plus I've got an application in to the Chekhov Festival at BLB for A Rain of Seagulls by Meron Langsner (a parody of The Seagull) to be produced by Ministry of Cultural Warfare along with a companion parody of Uncle Vanya to be penned by Matthew Foster. Plus, talking to History Theatre about a script by Jeffrey Hatcher for Raw Stages.

So good to be an artist again.

And a few more ...

The Most Mysterious Day of the Year (from the wonderful people who brought Wonders of the Word: Recite last year)
Killer Smile
The Cody Rivers Show: Flammable People

And I can't wait to see Tom Thumb, or the Tragedy of Tragedies by the fabulous and brilliant Charlie Bethel, but I had to wait for Alan to get back to come see that one with me. After all, Charlie married us, so we have to share him now.

And yes, oh yes, oh happiness, Alan is back. Taking a night off of Fringing tonight to have him all to myself. But will be back out there to do more theater binging soon. Sunday night I came home from the Fringe so binged on art that I played my keyboard for hours ... I guess that was my version of purging. Artistic bulimia, awesome!

Yay for theater

I've seen ten shows at the Fringe so far, and nine of them were just fantastic. One was, uhm, incoherent, but it was only 30 minutes so not much skin off my theatrical nose. It's been such a long time since I got to binge on theater without feeling responsible for any of it.

Nice to play reunion with Fringe artists, local and visiting, whom I haven't seen in a while. But I'm trying to be low-key at the Nightcaps because I'm getting really bored listening to myself answer the question, "Is it weird for you, do you miss it, what are you doing now?" Wish I had a costume that would disguise me as just another Fringe-goer.

Spent Saturday evening on the West Bank, Fringing by bicycle. Trying to get from there to the Varsity for the Disco Ball was a sad trial-and-error experience finding a bridge that was open. The closed ones were all being guarded by police eating pizza. Traffic on all the alternate routes is a reminder of our infrastructure collapse, but completely closed highways and bridges with ambulances stationed at every end are a much more visceral encounter with the unreality of the crisis.

More Fringing today, looking forward to more of the inspiration I've gobbled up so far. In case anyone's reading and curious, my list of nine fantastic shows so far:

Pigeon Man Apocalypse
Same Difference
Around the World in Eight Days in Under Sixty Minutes
Bards
The Most Mysterious Day of the Year
Spotless
the limitation of sight
The Tyranny of God's Love
Macbeth's Awesome Scottish Castle Party

Fringe on!

So this is what the Fringe looks like

Saw two shows tonight. Very relaxing. Gee, I nearly forgot how fun this could be.

Unrelated to Fringe, I wish I could jump in the river and save people. Feeling rather helpless about the bridge ... just awful. Really no other words for that. Just awful.

Busy all over again

How did that happen? My last post said I had little to say, but who would have thought I could go two months without saying anything. OK, anyone who's had wine with me lately knows the babble-button never got turned off. But I completely forgot about this blog. Presumably, everyone else did too. So I'm writing only to some Cyber Fairy of Blogland now.

I clicked by my blog because, for me, it's a handy index to many friends' blogs. I've been remiss at visiting there too. And that's when I noticed how lame my own blog looks with a date in May on it. Sorry, I got busy again.

Apparently leaving the continent is the only way I know how to avoid that. Not as busy as I have been for the last five July's, but still busier than I meant to be. The consulting business is lively and mostly fun. Happily, we've gone from juggling nine small clients to three large ones.

But Alan is off being an academic dean, managing teachers and administrators and counselors and concerned parents of special children. He's been in NY for the last six weeks doing his annual summer teaching gig. So the business has been mostly in my hands, and Future the Wonder Dog has been my only home company.

For the first few weeks, solitude was kinda lovely. But now, starting at week five and increasing ever since, I miss him so much it's a palpable achy spot. He's still my favorite company. And the bed's too big. And cuddling with the dog just isn't the same.

Just came home from drinks with Robin, the most brilliant Fringe ED ever. So fun to hear about it from a distance, and hear about it from someone handling it all so well. The best hire I was ever involved in. So rare you get to hand something off so smoothly and watch it grow so beautifully without you. I'm getting excited about Fringe shows. And oh my God, dear Lord, Jesus Happy Face on a Bicycle, do I love sitting quietly sipping wine on my porch seeing what a July evening looks like while reading the Fringe program and being surprised about what's in it instead of agonizing about mistakes in it.

This weekend, I'll be Fringing. If there's anyone out there reading this ... OK, you, Cyber Fairy, if you're still reading this, go Fringing! I'll see you there.

not much to say

So yeah, I haven't posted in a while. Several people have pointed this out to me. Which is nice, you know, that people are even reading ... or waiting or something. When we were traveling there were more stories to tell than time to write. Now that we're home, well, I have to admit I'm less inspired. A lot less inspired. The few things I might write about here at home are a little too close to home in a home that is a very small town.

I've thought about writing a weekly update, "Here's what's new with me!" But geez, isn't that what you do when you have a drink with someone or call a long-distance friend? Yeah, if there are any long-distance friends reading this, I know, I know, I know, I never call. I mean to, really! I will, I will.

Anyway, weekly updates feel self-involved when there aren't any exotic locales to include. I could tell stories about other people, but that feels a little like gossip. I could talk about politics, but wow is there enough of that already out there. I could emote, but well, that's not my style either.

So, for the moment, nothing to say that really suits the blog format. Will post again someday if I can think of what fits here. Thanks everyone who read along the way. It felt like lots of friends were with us on the trip.

see, this is why the suburbs scare me

Made it through three months of Central America without getting my purse stolen only to be robbed at Ikea in Bloomington, MN.

We both have old people backs, so we thought we'd better lie on every mattress/pad/ever-so-clever-swedish slatted base combination at least three times each to decide what bed we'd be saving up towards. Had to put down the coats and purse to do this. Back turned. Purse gone.

Here is the list of things I no longer own, but will still irrationally waste brain cells remembering:

* pink iPod (actually I wanted red, I thought it was red, it looked red on the box)
* old cell phone (the replacement has a camera, yay)
* very old PDA (seriously, an antique - dr. foster just sold me a ferrari in comparison)
* checkbook (had the old address anyway)
* wallet (ok, this was the cutest little red wallet ever)
* $31
* credit cards, driver's license, ATM card (lots of holding on 800 numbers - "we are experience unusually high traffic on our customer service lines", yeah right, unusual my butt
* allergy medication (hopefully i never see that rare fruit again)
* my favorite three barrettes (very handy for dealing with hair that hasn't been cut in five months)
* a nearly new burt's bees lip balm, dang it (i hope they don't use it because that's kinda, you know, intimate)
* my prescription sunglasses (god, i spent so much on those because they were so cool, won't be replacing those soon)
* here it is, the part that steams me, my travel journal (which also had all my notes from all meetings in the last two weeks, lots of crazy but important lists, my calendar, contacts, you know all the important stuff, but most of all, the daily summary of what we did for three months - now i have no idea how i spent those three months)

anyway, that was a few days ago and i was really angry, then felt dumb, then very depressed, then a little moody, then i had a really great full-on rage dream where i told everyone everywhere to kiss my ass, then i did some unpacking and nesting type stuff in our new place, then i felt better. all better.

but still, those fucking suburbs, i'm never going there again.

Homeless no more

By the time we move this weekend, we will have been officially homeless since October 26th - about five months. Wow.

Two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a front porch, and a yard for Future. Such luxury ... we're very excited.

officially home

Ironic it seemed when, after 13,000 miles, the car died 80 miles outside of Minneapolis. Saturday night, St. Patrick's Day, in Kellogg, MN - a very small town. Dark, cold, not a lot of people at the Kwik Trip gas station. But a very nice woman named June put us on the phone with a very nice man named Brennick who drove on over and looked at the car. Turns out he's a very good mechanic and his shop's just down the road. We walked over to the Town & Country Cafe and had some really nice pie while he fixed our car. An hour later we were back on the road and felt like we'd had the perfect Minnesota welcome home.

The next day we visited Bill, the most perfect uncle a dog could ever want, and picked up Future. We rode around looking for apartments with him in the back seat all day. What a happy reunion. He missed us, we could tell.

Actually, I think we've spent three days in a row now, riding around looking at apartments with Future in the back seat. If nothing falls apart, I think we're signing a lease on a perfect little place tomorrow. By the way, to all the fabulous friends out there who hosted us along the way, we'll have a guest room. Speaking of hosts, Annie, one of the nicest people on the whole planet, is hosting us again until we move.

Can I just say that the best part of traveling, and the best part of coming home, is being reminded just how many really damn nice people there are in this world?

Minneapolis, here we come

Tomorrow, Saturday, we hit the road for the very last leg of this journey. Minneapolis, I hope you are warmer than Chicago was today. But I'll take any temperature to be back home. Looking forward to seeing Future. Our dog, Future. And the future that is not a proper noun too. Was fun to step back and see a bigger world; a vague glimpse of the big picture and my little place in it. I feel humble, grateful, happy, hungry. Ready to leap forward with some slightly specific ideas about where to land next.

One of the first revelations of going on an adventure like this was that there's no reason to call this the last leg of the adventure. During this entire trip we clung comfortably to the motto, "We're still lost." As I said, humble. No reason to let go of that motto. And no reason to stop looking for the next detour, unexpected left turn, or enticing dirt road.

So no, it's not really the last leg, just the next one, and the first one pointed towards home in a while. As I said in a past blog, there are many places called home, but currently Minneapolis is a particular kind of home, and I'm clapping my hands and jumping up and down like a small girl at the thought of getting back to it.

Life is what you make of it. Family is the people you keep. Home is where you hang your hat. In this modern world we have the luxury of choosing it all. But once you make some choices - good, bad or otherwise - there you are. As stuck as if you'd been born there that way. The ruts start to stick, the grooves get ground. That can be paralyzing. It can also be tremendously comforting. Which, I suppose, is why you finally pick some eventually.

So Minneapolis, despite your freaking five freaking months of freaking winter and your people who don't really get sarcasm and your tedious inferiority complex and your small-town politics and your passive-aggressive sociopathic pride and all your blondes, I love you. Because you have the Bryant-Lake Bowl; and lots of lakes; and brilliant, talented, successful people who are perfectly comfortable at cocktail parties talking about heirloom tomatoes; and a mayor who has shaken every single resident's hand, twice; and Norwegian/Swedish/German values, whatever that means; and a premier modern arts institution with a gigantic, fantastically silly sculpture of a spoon with a cherry right out in front; and friendly, normal millionaires; and good schools; and mostly clean water; and Nigerians riding the bus with Mexicans riding the bus with African-Americans riding the bus with white suburbanites, and all of them being crabby in a really polite way; and those so-gay and so-beautiful Target lights over downtown; and people who cry every single time you mention Paul Wellstone; and bike trails right down the middle of Hennepin Avenue; and a thousand other things I occasionally roll my eyes over but most just love with all my heart.

Seriously, it's a big wide world with endless possibilities, but there's nothing better than seeing a bit of the big world to remind you that home is home. The other day, as we were driving Alan's niece, The Adorable Aliza, to the aquarium, she was reciting the entire script and score of "A Wizard of Oz" to us. Somewhere around the eighth repetition of "there's no place like home," I started clicking my heels.

Adorable Aliza and me in Chicago at the home of Alan's brother, Paul and sister in law, Amy. Chilling out after many adventures at the aquarium.

Many places called Home

Arrived in Chicago late last night to discover just a teeny bit of dirty, ice-crunchy snow on the ground in the shady corners of the north sides of things. I'm not sure which is wierder, that crunchy bits of snow make me feel at home or that Chicago itself, vicariously, through Alan, feels homey.

Hangin' around various sides of Chicago for a few days catching up with all of Alan's peeps. Then, finally, the very last leg of this trip back to Minneapolis. If I could have my perfect wish for coming home (as though I'm entitled to wish for anything after missing this year's blizzard-plastered Minnesota winter), it would be 50 degrees in Minneapolis, but it would snow big fluffy snowflakes one more time after we got there.

Standing on top of a pyramid. Phew, quite a climb.

The pyramids of Tikal towering over the jungle,

Carlos Castejon at his coffee and cardamom plantation in Copan Ruinas, Honduras.

One of the prettiest beaches in Honduras in a tiny Garifuna village called Triunfo de la Cruz.

Puerto Escondido. Surf competition in the background. Kids playing soccer in the middle. Hot surfer in the foreground.

OK, it doesn't look like much, but this place perched on a cliff over a completely empty stretch of the Pacific Mexican coast served the yummiest fish.

Me in a KFC in Mexico. Just couldn't take any more Mexican food.

Sorry, lame picture. The view from my friends'backyard in San Diego.

My Aunt Betty and Uncle Rod in Pahrump, NV. Two of the coolest people on the planet.

Long drive ahead. Time to update the photos. Grand Canyon is truly grand.

no place like home

I've been living in Minnesota for almost nine years now, and even after spending a few months trying to think of somewhere else we'd rather live, we plan to continue to call Minnesota home. And every time I go back to California, I get more convinced that everyone who lives here is a bit touched.

And yet, there is something singularly wonderful and comforting about my birthplace. It's none of the concrete, obvious things like the ocean which I can visit in lots of places, or the sunshine which there's really just a bit too much of, and it's certainly not the smog, the traffic, the sprawl, or the nearly psychotically car-centric urban design.

Lying in the most comfortable bed ever in the guest room at Rodney & Jon's place in San Diego one morning before I was completely awake, I realized it was the particular color of the morning sunlight and the particular smell of the air. I told Alan this and he says he feels the same way about the sunlight and air in Chicago. And you know there's probably nothing that Chicago's and SoCal's sunlight and air have in common. So I guess it's just something about it being the place you first saw how sunlight fills the room in the morning and smelled Spring drifting in a window. Like the smell of your Mom's soap. You know?

Anyway, we've made our way gradually north and inland, first to Glendora to enjoy a very nice afternoon with my Dad, and last night with Alan's aunt & uncle Enid & Marv. Having suuuch a nice time. You know, a person could just make a whole lovely life out of visiting wonderful people in interesting places. If only it came with a salary and 401K. Well it has other perks.

Today we visit Alan's old friend Stan, then tomorrow we head for Parump, Nevada to see my aunt and uncle Betty & Rod. From there, to the Grand Canyon. I've, embarrassingly, never seen it. Alan tells me it's really - no, really - grand. And everyone along the way has told me about the fabulous colors the sun makes as it rises over the canyon. I bet it's miraculous, but right now I'm still clinging a bit to the Southern Californian sunlight in my mind's eye.

yay for friends

Just spent four days lounging about in Tucson with Alan's playwright friend Toni Press-Coffman and her husband Glen Coffman. Soooo nice to drink clean water and eat fabulous food (Glen's a chef) and tell stories and speak English. Also got to catch up with Barbara Kingsley and Stephen D'Ambrose who are rehearsing "Molly's Delicous" there in Tucson. Strange enough to be speaking English, even more strange and fabulous to be talking to good Minnesota friends while still out on the road.

Last night we arrived in predictably gorgeous San Diego. My best friend, Rodney and his partner Jon live here. Lots of catching up to do since we see each other only every couple years. Last night we went to dinner at a new restaurant owned and run by a dear friend Jason, who has just gone from restaurant manager to restaurant owner this last December. So exciting! So grown up. Seems like just yesterday I was chasing Jason out of a gay bar yelling, "Jason, you forgot your sweater again!"

Today, a long walk around Balboa Park is on the agenda. Mmmm. Southern California. So nice. The sun is gentle here and the wine is so tasty, but nothing beats the warmth and flavor of conversation with old friends.

P.S. a bunch of photos coming soon, now that we're back in the states, the cell phone can send photos again.

Spring training, Tucson. Blue sky, green grass, warm sun, cold beer. Yeah, it's that good.

There's no place like home

Crossed the border ever so easily yesterday. Got pulled aside to participate in a little training exercise for a sniffing dog (training for the dog, not us). We miss our dog so much this was actually fun. Spent the night last night with Tony, a good friend of Alan's, and her husband Glen, and their dog Grace and their cat Grendal. So so wonderful to see friends. To have a long conversation in English with people besides ourselves! To drink tap water. To be able to read the road signs. To drive really fast without worrying about falling into a pothole. Soft toilet paper! Warm water! Food that wasn't wrapped in a tortilla. Petting a dog who isn't completely coated in years of ground-in dust. Good coffee. Ah! I love this country!

Only had the radio on for about twenty minutes, though, when the sound of Bush speaking like a moron reminded us it's not all good. Still, we're so happy to be home. It's a good reminder that while it's great to roam, I know where home is.

A couple weeks of visiting friends and family scattered around the country ... then back to Minneapolis. Hopefully the current onslaught of snow will be done by then. But even if it's not, it will be good to get home. Oh geez, speaking of that, I guess we have to find a place to live. Hmm, time to start thinking about real life again.

Espanol no mas

One last little town before the final stretch to the border. We've loved so much of the trip and the places and the people and the culture and the language, but yeah, I'm really done trying to understand Spanish. Last night we went a little out of our way to find a hotel with a TV with cable so we could watch the Oscars. Most years, I watch 'em if they're on, but I certainly don't go out of my way. But at this point, just about anything familiar is especially nice.

Both channels broadcasting the Oscars were doing simultaneous translation in Spanish. Our Spanish is almost good enough we could probably have understood it if it wasn't playing concurrently with the English. But the Spanish was just loud enough we couldn't really hear the English. So we have no idea what anyone said, except maybe the first three words of each speech before the translaters kicked in. So we know everyone's acceptance speech started with "I'd like to thank ..."

Even the movie clips were either translated, or the translaters just offered color commentary about the actors over the clip. It was a little like being at an Oscar party with really annoying party guests who talk loudly over everything saying things you really couldn't give a shit about. Ah well, if I remember past award shows, we probably didn't miss much great wisdom. And we got to see the pretty dresses. Anyway, three hours of this was enough to put us completely over the top on our quota of Spanish.

Jalapeno wasabi

Guadelajara was all kinds of fun. Lots of Orozco murals, long walks around monuments, cathedrals, and the city. Also, we caught a theater performance, "Fuenteovejuna" by Lope De Vega, Spain´s Shakespeare. Luckily, the program had a synopsis, and we got there 20 minutes early so we had enough time to do a very rough guess of a translation and figure out what happens in the play. Not sure if it´s the style of theater here, the playwright´s broad strokes, or the particular company we saw, but it was a lot of scene chewing and big, melodramatic emotions. Probably just our understanding of the language is so bad we miss all the subtleties.

Anyway, it was fun. In sad and funny ways, it was just like theater in the U.S. Lots of kids there who liked they didn´t want to be there and spent the show whispering, wiggling, and giggling. A desperate message three times before the show begging everyone to turn off their cell phones, followed by three different cell phones ringing during the first 15 minutes of the show. Finally, a plug from the lead actor listing their remaining dates and begging the audience to tell their friends.

Today we did a full day of driving, on past Mazatlan, which would be a natural stop if we still thought of ourselves as on vacation. But we´re really just heading for the border, so we pushed past. The Lonely Planet guide isn´t expecting people to drive, or to stay somewhere on this highway besides Mazatlan, so we were on our own for finding a place to sleep. Ended up in Culiacan, a town surrounded by gigantic farms and farm-related industry. Didn´t see any agri-business names we recognized, but maybe they just have different names here. Felt a little like we found Monsanto´s secret hideout.

Anyway, found a little hotel and, having skipped eating all day in favor of driving in daylight, we chased food as fast as possible. Add to our hunger a deep exhaustion with Mexican food. Alan ate at Burger King. And I just couldn´t resist a sushi restaurant. We saw three of them on our way in, and haven´t seen a single one in any other town we´ve visited, regardless of the city´s size or amount of tourism.

Some - scratch that, most - of my more adventurous meal choices have not turned out well here. So, I was scared. When the condiment bowls came, containing pulverized jalapeno, soy-soaked whole jalapenos, and chopped green onions, I knew I was in for a surprise. To be on the safe side, I had ordered udon soup with only vegetables and California rolls. Happy surprise, everything was super tasty. Not the slightest bit Japanese, but really tasty.

The sushi rice was the same rice you´d get alongsize your enchilada. Apparently, the pulverized jalapeno was to be used the way you use wasabi. And the soup was kind of like a chicken broth seasoned with a little soy and a lot of lime. Funky, but good. If only I had some adventure still in me, I would have tried one of the dozens of strange items on the menu that mixed the idea of sushi with the food of Mexico.

Even more interesting was the teen-aged server and her friends who were hanging around outside the front door. They all were from California, but living here, and spoke with that accent unique to kids who grow up in L.A . but are children of Spanish speakers. She was new at the restaurant, and didn´t actually speak much Spanish, so she was very excited when she figured out we spoke English. I couldn´t help but wonder how damn hard it was for her to fit in at school here. She looks Mexican, she sounds Mexican, but she doesn´t really speak much Spanish. Ah well, in L.A. she probably learned how to kick people´s asses in any language.

Tomorrow, another full day of driving will hopefully take us to Hermosillo, deep in cactus-filled desert. Then a few more hours the next day should get us across the border. Wahoo. U.S., here we come. Never thought I´d be so excited about cactus, Arizona, or highway signs in English.

La vida de la playa

Well, those ominous noises caught up with us at last. We had just passed through Puerto Escondido, a big surf town on the southern coast of Mexico (where the Pacific side curves around), heading for a little village out on a peninsula, up a long, sand road that might or might not even be passable depending on recent rainfall, where we were hoping to visit a crocodile breeding center. As we begun this trip, Alan announced he wanted to see a toucan, and I announced I wanted to see a crocodile. We've seen lots of toucans - in fact, I think Alan is a little tired of various locals excitedly stopping the car or stopping him to point out a toucan. But I haven't seen a crocodile yet. We hiked all the way around a buggy, muggy lagoon because someone told us they saw a huge crocodile in it, but he must have been hiding from the heat under the water.

Anyway, just outside of Puerto Escondido, crossing a gigantic bridge over a wide river, the car started making clicking noises that sounded completely fatal, like an axle might just pop off. Our friends and parents will be happy to know we finally did the practical thing and turned around. In Puerto Escondido, we were very lucky and found a hotel to drop our bags in, as well as a very generous woman who spoke English, led us all the way to her mechanic, and translated our entire littany of ominous sounds the car had made at various thousands of miles.

Even luckier, the couple days we had to wait for the car to be fixed kept us in Puerto Escondido for Half-Pipe Mexico, a big surf competition. We spent an evening in a bar called Casa Babylon where they made divine mojitos and listened to a cover band do simply fabulous renditions of Beatles tunes, Pink Floyd tunes, "I Shot the Sheriff", "I Will Survive" in Spanish, and coincidentally, a song we'd heard Joe Ely sing in Austin Texas called Illegal Alien (not the Phil Collins song, much better). In Spanish, it was called "Clandestino" and was such a sweet song.

Despite having stayed out way too late drinking way too many mojitos, we set the alarm and got up early for the surf competition. Front row seats on the sand were great for watching all the women compete (a fantastic surfer from U.S. named Holly something won) plus quite a few rounds of the men. Big tough waves made for great rides as well as great wipeouts.

On a side note, I must make a confession. The day before, I confidently rented a boogie board and strode right out into the water where I got beaten to a pulp without a single ride. Breathless and completely humbled to discover I've forgotten how, I threw the boogie board back on the sand and laid down with a Corona to nurse my wiped out pride. "Very rough waves," I told myself, "it's got nothing to do with my age." Made me feel slightly better when a guy threw his rented boogie board down in disgust next to me, plopped exhaustedly onto his lounge and complained to his wife about how rough the waves were. Ha, so there! But then again, he looked old and out of shape too.

Puerto Escondido was great though. A really nice surf town to hang out and do the beach thing in. I even got to have two girl crushes - that amazing American surfer and this chatty cathy from Montreal named Christina who was living on the road, out of a black VW bus with her boyfriend and their dog, making and selling gorgeous and unique jewelry.

Anyway, one very inexpensive car repair later, we hit the road noise free and care free. Haven't been online in a while because the Pacific coast that runs along the Mexican states of Chiapas, Guerrero, and Michoacan, is actually quite underpopulated. The only exceptions are the big resorts of Acapulco, Zihuatanejo, and Ixtapa - all of which looked like completely overengineered resort nightmares as we drove through them as quick as we could (which is at a crawl through Acapulco - extra big nightmare). Anyway, between these gigantic resorts are spectacular beaches with tiny villages along them. So sad our tent was stolen - it was this stretch of the drive we wanted the tent for most. Would have been so pleasant and peaceful to sleep on the sand in a tent.

One place we slept rented us a tent, but it wasn't until we crawled in for the night that we noticed none of the zippers worked. So we couldn't really seal out the mosquitos from the front door, or let in the breeze through the windows. So it was hot, stuffy, and buggy all at once. Next morning discovered the lovely bathrooms we'd seen the night before had no running water. So the sweat, dust, stand and salt stayed on our grimey selves for another day. No complaints though, the beach was gorgeous, and missing the crocodiles the other day was made up for by watching a completely adorable family of pigs wandering around us and the beach while we ate dinner.

Also funny animal story: in the middle of the night I heard steps walking all around the tent. With everything permanently zipped shut, I couldn't see who it was and got quite nervous. Finally I peeked out the one window that was open, and there, standing in the patio of the beachside restaurant who rented us the tent, among the tables and chairs and beer, looking somberly at me, was a donkey. Have to say it's marvelously weird to see pigs on the beach and a donkey in a restaurant.

We did find cabanas to sleep in at the other beaches. Last night's even had a great mosquito net. Yay. Today we made the long, fast drive to Guadelajara. Strange to arrive in such a big, cosmopolitan city with so much sand ground into my feet. Also strange to have a smoothly paved highway with a passing lane - such luxury! The highway along the Michoacan coast is spectacular but a full participation sport for the driver. Seriously, it's like a long serious of connected u-turns - forget hairpin, try complete donut turns. Also, just because lists are fun, here is a list of what you need to watch for if you are driving in Central America:

big, slow trucks carrying all kinds of shit
tiny, slow cars, with all kinds of gigantic shit strapped to the top
entire families on a motorcycle, moped or bicycle
children
chickens
turkeys
dogs
goats
herds of cows
horses grazing on the grass alongside the highway
donkeys standing in the middle of the highway looking like they will not move no matter what
pigs (whole families are just the cutest thing ever)
soccer players
big lizards
ice cream vendors with little carts
people selling coconuts, nuts, fruit, etc., etc.
coconuts
pineapples
the biggest speedbumps you've ever seen, often with little or no warning whatsoever
the biggest potholes you've ever seen
massive construction projects involving tearing up the entire street and rebuilding it with two guys, a small wheelbarrow full of dirt, and one shovel where you wait to go through until they are done

Anyway, Guadalajara is the second biggest city in Mexico and looks like all kinds of fun. Will probably be here for a few days to check out some music and theater before finally hitting the road for the last 22 hours of driving to the border.

Gracias Senor San Simon

Laid low in Xela a bit longer than expected while I tried to kill a parasite in my belly. OK, that´s just one illness too many. We´re heading for the U.S., clean water, conversations where we can use verbs, and no exotic fruits. The car is getting tired too ... all kinds of ominous noises. On the way out of Guatemala, we stopped in a little mountain village that has an effigy everyone prays to called "San Simon". He gets passed around from house to house so as to share the attention.

We asked around and found our way to the house where he lives now. You pay 5 Quetzal (about 50 cents) and, if you like, you can buy something to pay tribute with - herbs, flowers, candles, cigarettes, rum. He´s a plastic head that looks like a handsome young Latino. He´s wearing nice pants, shirt, poncho, really nice boots, gloves, a bracelet, a super cool hat, and slick sunglasses. He looks like a guy you´d like to drink with.

He sits on a big high-backed chair in the middle of a dark bedroom. People come in, light a candle, say a prayer, ask him for things. We sat for a while and watched a few people who came to do some serious praying and asking. These folks opened a small bottle of rum which they sprinkled through herbs over their companion. Then a guy - clearly a caretaker for San Simon - tips the chair back so that they can pour the entire small bottle of rum into San Simon´s mouth, which is conveniently O-shaped. I have no idea where all the rum goes. Another guy lit a cigarette, put it into a long, thin pipe, and put that in San Simon´s mouth.

This is a God I can relate to. Alan bought a candle and lit it at San Simon´s feet. Seemed like a respectful thing to do. I quietly asked for my belly to get better and for safe passage across the border to Mexico. Both prayers worked, so laugh all you like at the silly customs in the highlands of Guatemala, he´s a cool God as far as I´m concerned. And the people who visited him seemed at least as full of faith as anyone I´ve seen in a Catholic church.

We´re making our way up the Pacific coast of Mexico now. Getting anxious to return to the states, so we decided to skip the currently somewhat dangerous city of Oaxaca, and just do beaches. Maybe one stop in Guadalajara - if we time it right, we might get to see a bullfight there. The Pacific coast is gorgeous, lined with beached and surfers. Some of you have probably heard how much I enjoy watching surfers.

Currently taking a brief pitstop in Puerto Escondido, about 200 km south of Acapulco. Expecting to pop out in Arizona much tanner. Several visits with old friends along the way, and we´ll be home for Spring in Minnesota.

dragging our feet backwards through Guatemala

Just to conclude the exciting find-a-Subaru-window-in-Guatemala story, next day, turned out the people from the shop in little mechanic-central Chimaltenango drove all the way to Guatemala City to find out they didn´t have the correct window. For less money, and fairly quickly, they constructed a window for us made from acrylic. It took a little longer than they expected, the explained with big proud grins, after it was done, because they actually installed it so the window would still go up and down. So cool. Snowball has a fight scar now to give him street cred.

From there, we did the windy, mountainous, gorgeous drive to Panajachel, one of many towns on the sparkling Lago de Atitlan. This huge lake rests in the collapsed cone of a dormant volcano and is surrounded on all sides by dramatic mountains and volcanoes.

The town is Guatemalan craft central. I´ve never seen so much color in one place. Guatemalan crafts - blankets, clothes, scarves, bags, hats, etc. are the most astonishingly pretty and colorful I´ve ever seen. Walking slowly up and down the cobblestone streets, it´s hard to decide where to look - at the beautiful smiling people dressed from head to toe in color, the open stalls packed with crafts for sale, the stunning lake, or the ground so I don´t trip and fall over a dog or a loose stone. We alternated between staring at the lake over drinks and shopping until we could drop. Stayed just two days; any longer and we would have spent the entire remainder of our money.

From there another stunning drive up into the clouds and back down into Queltzaltenango (also known by its abbreviated Mayan name, Xela), a big city surrounded by beautiful hills. We met a woman from Minnesota last night working in bar/restaurant and she called this city the San Francisco of Guatemala - referring to both the steep angle of the streets and, apparently, the liberal-mindedness of the people.

Fun place so far, it looks like the absolutely perfect place to have started and learnt Spanish. Lots of schools, a city with lots to do, and cheap long-term places to stay. I guess we did this backwards. Ah well, backwards or forwards, we´re loving Guatemala - the people, the weather, the sights, the variety of topography. This is a great town, but probably our last in Guatemala, so we´ll probably linger a bit.

Next major stop, Oaxaca ... because we haven´t gotten into enough trouble yet.

lemonade from lemons

In my new, long quest to gradually reintroduce all my favorite foods, today with an spare day in Antigua to kill, I reintroduced the lemon. Mojito Cubano! Salud!

Spanish lessons

Getting our share of Spanish lessons by necessity. Today we learned how to describe in Spanish a mechanic who replaces car windows. Car was broken into last night. We don´t leave much in the car, so nothing valuable to take - just our tent and cooking gear. But replacing a window on a Subaru - a car nobody here ever sees - is tricky.

Luck of all possible luck, about 15 km from here is Chimaltenango, which looks like the mechanic capital of Guatemala. We just drove from shop to shop until we found the one that does car windows. We have to wait overnight while they get a window from Guatemala City, but we´re quite relieved that we don´t have to go to Guatemala City ourselves. All reports say it´s an ugly town that´s quite dangerous.

So here we are for another day and night in Antigua. Beautiful place. Still a few museums we haven´t seen yet. It´s a beautiful day, sunny, bright blue sky, puffy white clouds, about 78 degrees F, mountains and volcanoes on all sides. And we´ve learned more Spanish without a single class.

gringos and saints

Antigua is where everyone starts in Guatemala, to learn Spanish. We´re feeling like we´re heading slowly back, so Spanish classes seem like closing the barn door after the horse already survived the hospital without learning Spanish. So we´re thinking just a couple days here. It´s a very beautiful city. A completely perfect introductory city to Guatemala - beautiful, easy, totally tourist-ready. Colonial, cobblestones, pretty colored adobe, lots of churches and museums, lots of art. LOTS of gringos ... at least compared to everywhere else we´ve been. Everyone seems very prosperous here - tourism is a lucrative business. Pretty sure every local in this town is prepared to help you with your Spanish. We´ve been having a blast asking, "¿Como se dice ...?"

I´m totally rash and symptom free, and gradually reintroducing the long list of allergy-candidate foods back into my life. Successfully tackled milk, eggs, butter, and lemon so far. Can´t decide between pineapple and banana next. Saving cheese, tomato, chocolate and nuts for when back in the U.S. since those are the most likely candidates (after that damn exotic mangosteen). Anyway, point is, feeling pretty damn healthy and relaxed.

So, among all the other tourists, we actually acted like tourists today. Wandered around, bought souvenirs, referenced the Lonely Planet book a lot, visited museums and churches, ordered drinks with ice in them (everywhere here, the ice is made with purified water!), even gave up and spoke English now and then. Totally freakin´ decadent it was. Haven´t gotten around to taking a single picture - we´re completely rotten tourists in that regard - but we pointed at things and asked silly questions. It was great. We visited a museum devoted to the burial place of a saint. Saw lots of his stuff, even his underwear. Yeah. Sure, laugh, but have you ever seen the underwear of a saint?

britney spears should try driving here

No spectacle whatsoever here to see an entire family of four, including small infant, riding together on a freaking motorcycle, high-speed, dodging traffic on crowded city streets. Or on a small scooter. Or a bicycle.

Snowball, king of the road

The "Check Engine" light comes on any time the humidity or temperature changes much. And the wierd squeal that was coming out of the right front wheel seems to have moved to the left rear wheel, and it´s got a fat ass, and it´s covered in mud, and its overdrive is more of a groan than a gear. But that old Subaru station wagon has taken us about 6,000 miles through some really really shitty roads frequently and arbritrarily dotted with cow-sized potholes. Its nickname, Snowball, is funnier to us the further south we get. We love, love, love Snowball, especially if, despite nearing the 200,000 mile mark on his old odometer, that fat, white beast from the north can please please carry us all the way home.

I love Guatemala

Well the little island off of Honduras had beautiful snorkeling but, believe it or not, the heat, the not-so-clean water (even the bottled water), and the isolation of being on a tiny island kinda got to us. Didn´t help that between the bad water, the side effects of the allergy medication I´m still on, and my incredibly limited diet, I was a malnourished wreck. So we hopped a ferry back to the mainland in time for Superbowl, and yeah, that was a little depressing. Have to keep reminding ourselves that at least the Bears made it there.

Day after superbowl, we headed back for Guatemala thinking maybe it was just time to admit Honduras was not going well for us. We didn´t quite make it to the border, but stopped in a town recommended to us a while back. I generally avoid antihistamines at all costs except life-threatening situations because I have huge, awful side effects to them. Well, I guess now that the allergy is done with me, the antihistamines had nothing else to do but side effects. By the time we hit the adorable little town of Santa Rosa de Copan, it was like I´d had a fifth of vodka and a handful of vicodin. Dídn´t really even know my name, much less what town, even what country we were in. Alan found us a splurge of a hotel where I slept quite comfortably for about 20 hours. He even got chicken soup via room service.

I´ve thrown the doctor´s instructions out the window, stopped taking those damn drugs and started eating normal food again. Crossed the border back into Guatemala today - a fairly smooth experience now that we have some vague idea how it´s supposed to work, and a few more words of Spanish in our vocabulary. Honestly, I don´t know if it´s because I threw out the doctor´s orders, I just finally got well, the higher altitude of Guatemala´s mountains, or Guatemala itself, but wow, I feel almost normal for the first time in a week and a half.

I love Guatemala! Seriously, there is a noticable difference. There´s a certain amount of poverty where everyone works very very hard just to live. There´s a lot of that in Guatemala. But then there´s a kind of poverty where people just don´t have enough to eat, where you just can´t be healthy, where corruption undermines people´s spirits. And that seemed like Honduras. We met a lot of wealthy (by Honduran standards) expatriates and foreign investors, plus a few peace-corp or missionary or NGO types. All kinds of private investment in real estate going on - lots of houses with security systems and guard dogs, but the water still isn´t clean and a lot of people have AIDS and education is only available through 6th grade at best.

We don´t know enough Spanish to understand a teeny fraction of what´s going on around us, but there is just a different feel to a place where there is corruption and a huge disparity between a wealthy minority and a very poor majority. Like I don´t know anything about the economics of Atlantic City, but I only spent a couple hours there to find it disgusting. I´m not being very coherent here; it´s a very intangible thing I´m talking about, and really I´m too ignorant to find any insight in it.

Anyway, very happy to be back in Guatemala. Maybe it´s the mountains. I love the beach, but in Central America, the highlands just feel healthier. Less standing water I guess.

We´re in a little town just this side of the border called Esquipulas. There´s a huge basilica here, and apparently people have been making pilgrimmage here for 500 years to worship the Black Christ at the basilica. We´re going to check it out tomorrow. No disrespect for Jesus fans out there, but I´m a little tempted to go crazy buying up souvenirs ... the Jesus paraphernalia here is just so very very kitsch.

And there´s a crisp breeze here ... like in the 60s. Yeah, when I said brisk breeze, I really didn´t mean a windchill anywhere near, much less below, zero. We´re planning to come back up the Pacific side of Mexico and pass through Southern California to visit friends and family. If winter hasn´t eased up in Minnesota by then, we´ll just have to hide out in San Diego for a while. Because my blood has thinned back out now, and all you Minnesotans sure don´t want to hear me whine when I get back.

satellite connection

We're hanging out on the tiny island of Utila, off the northern coast of Honduras. It's one of three islands called the Bay Islands; they are a mecca for scuba diving. Alan and I both have dived before and have bad ears that don't adjust to depth so we're just snorkelers. I've dived and snorkeled enough to know we're seeing the best stuff without the hassle and danger, but all the visiting gringos here and dive shops that make up more than half of what this little place is all about shed just a bit of scorn for our refusal to man-up to the real thing. Whatever.

Anyway, it's a lovely little island where everyone speaks English (or the language of their home country - hearing lots of French and German) or a strange and musical creole similar to other creoles I've heard, but also uniquely theirs. The snorkeling is divine. Two days ago I watched a jellyfish swimming majestically by, magical and scary both. A school of hundreds of shiny fish moving in perfect unison. Tiny flying fish on the water's surface, pelicans watching nonchalantly from tree trunks plunked out in the middle of the bay. Yesterday Alan and I found surely the best snorkeling on the island and saw a couple different kinds of stingrays, big, graceful, peaceful, soaring by at about 20 feet deep, the sun's rays gleaming through the deep blue and casting light on their big ocean wings. An unbelievable variety of coral, sponges, urchins, fish, crabs, starfish, and things I don't know how to name.

Between swims and dives, we watch the salt dry on our tanning limbs while sipping cold local beer and listening to exotic birds sing all around us from the tropical trees. Lively music always playing somewhere echoing across the bay. Pretty much paradise. So exotic. So warm. So beautiful. So far from familiar. So far from home.

Today we are taking a break from the sun. We were going to endeavor a brave kayak ride through a mangrove canal across the island, but my stomache has been hit by some impure water or something, and what with my cruelly limited diet, I'm living on not much food and feeling like I should stick close to my medication and the one clinic on the island. Also the heat and too many days without a desk is getting to Alan. So we're sitting in a coffee shop with wireless and tons of different accents all around us talking about whatever party they were at last night or dive they did last.

Everyone is talking about how the Internet is down all over the island. This place has a satellite connection, but the weather is cloudy so it comes and goes. Long loadtimes and people are here in paradise whining a bit. Over a week ago, Alan and I hung out in a place on the mainland called the Expatriate's Bar and Grill. Met a bunch of old business men with various investments in the country. One of them, Danny, owns a company called TTI, who apparently enjoyed a private monopoly on internet service on this island and elsewhere. He was drinking and swearing while the others were awkwardly trying to cheer him up because the government had apparently gotten tired of Danny's monopoly and shut him down. Destroyed all of his equipment and locked up his office. Nobody here on the island can understand why the net is down, but ironically we do. Strange story.

Anyway, while the satellite briefly connects us to home and I pathetically nibble on dry bread, I'm ever so happy to be in Caribbean paradise, but feeling just a bit homesick. Missing good food, pure water, brisk winter air, and all of you Minnesotans (and friends elsewhere) who never whine.

clean bill of health

We have worn our very own trail between our hotel and the hospital, visiting a couple times a day, every day since Saturday. Drugs, doctors, tests. We´re now well acquainted with the Honduran medical system, which I have to say, is quite good.

As of this morning, the rash that had taken up a nomadic trail all over my body for days on end, has finally left. And my face looks like me again. Nothing left but puffy ankles (and who doesn´t have that sometimes) and a big bag of drugs.

A nice variety of tests show everything in my system to be pretty much normal. So no infection. Which means, according to the very helpful dermatologist who finally shepherded my case along, that it was probably a food allergy. Now I´ve got a full page listing all my favorite foods that I´m not allowed to eat for two weeks. Then I guess I reintroduce them, if I dare, one at a time to see what it was.

I still suspect the experimental mango-lemon hybrid fruit which I´ll surely never see again. Wouldn´t it be great if it was that? Please don´t let it be chocolate or cheese or eggs or tomatoes or pineapple. I hope I´m not destined to be one of those people on an airplane demanding to know if any peanuts have ever been allowed on board.

La Ceiba is a nice place, but after spending so much time here, mostly at the hospital, we´re going to skip the Spanish classes and move on. One more day and night just to make sure there aren´t any more surprise emergency room visits, then we´re heading for barrier reef snorkeling off one of the Bay Islands, called Utila. Lyle, the fabulous guy who helps run the hotel where we´re staying, used to live there and assures me the doctor on the island is one of the best.

As per Amy´s request, hopefully news on this blog will now return to things that make everyone jealous again.

Wow, is it good to be healthy. No matter how pretty the beach, nothing looks right through sick eyes. And everything, seriously, everything looks better now.

Leah´s top three tips for jungle travel

Still hanging out in La Ceiba on the Honduran coast. We´ve settled in a bit at a nice place and have signed up for Spanish classes in town. After that, we´ll go visit the Bay Islands for snorkeling. Meanwhile before our five-day Spanish course begins, we decided to see a famous botanical garden where the big fruit conglomerates who used to control this part of the country collected rare plants and experimented with new hybridizations.

On arrival, I visited the bathroom while Alan checked in at information. When I came out I felt something in my shoe, like a dirt clod or something, but ignored it because I wanted to go find Alan. Found him and a guy who seemed intent on giving us a guided tour despite our saying we were fine and him not speaking any English.

So we set off as he prattled on excitedly about the various hard wood trees, rare poisonous plants, strange fruit hybrids, pretty birds, etc. Entirely in rapid Spanish. I tried to follow, guessed a few things right, which made the guide very excited. At one point, standing on a bridge over a swampy area, I realized the DEET on my exposed area was doing nothing to stop all the mosquitoes biting me right through my clothes. After one particularly painful bite, I just started walking forward hoping to keep the tour moving through the standing-water areas.

Our guide let us smell some flowers and taste some strange fruits, one particularly odd one that was a mix of mango and lemon. Yum. Got it all over my hands and face, but very tasty.

The bamboo collection was amazing, so much so that I hardly noticed how much my palms were itching. When the tour was done, it was my turn to drive the one hour ride back to where we were staying. I settled in for a long adventure of passing big trucks around blind turns, and Alan laid back and closed his eyes.

Warm in the car, I noticed the mosquito bites must have been in more places than I realized as I started to itch all over. Most of all, strangely, the bottom of my feet were itching like crazy. Like freaking crazy. Was wearing hot shoes on a hot day, figured just need to get them off. Dodging trucks, chickens, children, horses, cows and potholes, I removed my shoes and socks. Still itching like crazy.

I usually try not to scratch the bites, but soon I just couldn´t stop. My back, my legs, my neck, my hands, my arms, my ASS! Scratching, scratching, scratching. Police checkpoint. Shit, my international drivers license is in the hotel. Alan wakes up. He´s got the vehicle permit. I give the police the permit and Alan´s license. They never seem to look too closely at the paperwork. Then they try to sell us a Bingo ticket for police charity. Yeah. We buy the ticket. When a Honduran policeman holding a big gun tries to sell you a Bingo ticket and you don´t have your license, you buy.

At this point I realize I´m itching so badly my sanity and ability to drive is out the window. Alan takes over and I start rending garments and tearing skin, scratching my entire body, even my scalp.

Back at the hotel, I tear off my clothes and take a cold shower. It´s then I see a bright red rash spreading over my entire body. Hmmm. Alan runs over to the bar for a doctor recommendation. We´re off to some clinic with the usual complicated and vague directions as it´s getting dark.

Amazingly we find it. The doctor is a nice guy who speaks no English. Luckily his wife does. He looks me over and says he has to give me a quick injection of antihistamine. I try to explain I can´t take antihistamines. He explains that a person can´t be allergic to the thing you take for an allergic reaction. I try to explain my strange hypersensitivity and past experience with freaky side effects. Finally, we agree he´ll give me a small dose of a mild one. I find the Spanish phrase in our book for "please use a new syringe." He does. Phew.

He gives us a prescription for more antihistamine and cream. We go to the mall. Yeah, they have a gigantic mall here. Totally American experience. Another story. We get the drugs, go back to bed. Phew.

Then my lips go numb. Then my tongue. Can´t help but think it´s the throat next. I´ve never had an allergic reaction to anything, but I´ve heard these allergy horror stories that involve throats closing. We start to panic. Call the doctor, he´s not home. The wife will call him and we´ll call back. We do. She says call his cell phone. We do. The language barrier is a problem. How do you say "numb" in Spanish? I still don´t know.

He says just drink a lot of water and go to sleep. As the numbness starts heading for the back of my mouth, we decide to head off to the very nice hospital and emergency room we saw back in town. At the emergency room, well you know emergency rooms. Terrifying in themselves. They put a big-ass needle in my arm, inject a shitload of antihistamine and cortisone steroid into me. They leave a cute little plug in my arm in case they need to give me more.

The air conditioning is arctic. I´m laying on a bed. Alan is sitting on a table. My throat starts to loosen up. The rash is still all over. In fact, all the red streaks and bumps have begun to join together into one, big Leah-sized red swolleness. I look a little like a Vienna beef hot dog. They shoot me up with more antihistamine and steroid. I´m over worrying about a reaction to the antihistamine. I just want to stop itching and keep breathing. The first doctor told me to drink lots of water, which I´ve done by the liter. So I become well acquainted with the other patients laying around as I pass each of them repeatedly for bathroom visits every 20 minutes.

A couple hours go by. The doctor comes back and looks concerned, says something that translates to "hmm, that´s bad." He says they need to admit me to the hospital, keep me overnight, put me on an I.V. drip with continuous drugs, give me another big dose in four hours. Wow.

A nice man rolls me in a wheelchair as Alan follows along, beginning to look a little worse for the wear himself. The room has a little cot for Alan to sleep on. That´s nice. There´s a TV, but it´s too high to change the channels and the remote control doesn´t work. We don´t care. I just want to live.

More drugs. More drugs. Constantly dripping drugs. The next morning, a way-too-chipper woman wakes us up at 6:00 and puts me in the shower as though I have no choice in the matter. I get back in bed and wait two hours for breakfast thinking, I could have slept more. Don´t sick people need to sleep? More drugs. Some breakfast. Finally, at 9:00, an internal medicine specialist comes to see me because it´s looking less like a basic allergic reaction, more like some insect-delivered toxin.

He tells us in rapid Spanish, I think, that he´s going to give us some more drugs to take home, another big shot of steroid before we go, and if the rash returns, we should come back. OK. We´re out of here. A nurse comes and shoots a bunch more stuff in my arm. Seriously, at this point I´ve got enough steroid in me to beat the entire Chinese olympic swim team, and enough antihistamine to hibernate the entire rest of winter.

But nobody comes to unhook my I.V. The bag is empty. My arm has sucked up the entire bag. Waiting, waiting. We just want to go. Alan asks what´s up. The nurse says the Jefe (Chief) has to sign off on something, and he´s over in the other office. Seriously ... if you read about our border fiasco in Puerto Cortes, you understand why I´m about to tear the I.V. out of my arm and start running now.

Finally, the Jefe figures out how much we owe and Alan goes to pay. Still, I´m tied to the I.V. We have to wait for another Jefe to approve my prescriptions. Always, when they make you wait in Central America, it´s "uno momento," but that means anything from one hour to two days. Also, lunchtime, during which all business involving paper stops, runs from 11:00 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. It´s now 10 minutes before 11:00. At 11:00 they bring my a handful of medicine and unhook my I.V. Phew. We nearly ran out.

Back to the hotel, to the bar. I can´t drink any alcohol with all this medication, but Alan throws back two bloody marys in rapid succession. Emergency room visits will do that to anyone, but throw in a language barrier in a third-world country, and well, you can imagine. I have no idea how many times we said please use a new syringe. And we refused to sign the form authorizing blood transfusion.

An awesome excuse to lay around and do nothing. I stare at cable TV all day and snooze. In the middle of the night the rash comes back. Keep sleeping. Then my lips go numb again. Crap, we´re just about to run off to the emergency room again when Alan suggests I take my next round of medication early. I do. My lips stay swollen but feeling returns. We pack up a bag in case we have to return to the hospital quickly. And I doze off again. That was last night. This morning I wake up, the rash is not as bad, but ankles, wrists, eyelids and lips are huge.

I´ve got Angelina Jolie´s lips and Rodney Dangerfield´s eyes. It´s not a flattering combination. Back to the hospital. Armed with even more drugs, we have now cancelled our Spanish class scheduled for this afternoon, and are hanging out at the internet cafe waiting for our afternoon appointment with a dermatology specialist.

Still don´t know what did this to me. But having thought back to the day this all started, I have a new list of tips for third-world travel in the jungle:

1. If you feel something moving around in your shoe, take it out.
2. Wear DEET everywhere, a lot of it, all the time.
3. Don´t eat the fruit at the experimental garden.

Anyway, nothing to worry about, just not fun. We´re anxious to start our Spanish class - the language barrier makes all of this more stressful than it needs to be. But I can recommend that hospitals and border crossings are excellent motivators to learning a foreign language quickly.

ah, the beach, eek the mosquitos

After one night in Tela, we went in search of a bit more quiet and a lot fewer tourists. At the finca, Carlos told us about a man named Profesor Margaritos Colon who had some nice cabanas on the beach in a little fishing village outside of town.

It wasn't really on any map very clearly, so we just kept driving along and asking people for directions. They were all very helpful except that their directions were always too complex for our pathetic understanding of Spanish. All we could grasp was which direction to start in. After asking about half a dozen people, we managed to triangulate in on a little dirt road which took us to a fairly large (5,000 people it turned out) Garifuna village. The Garifuna are an interesting cultural mix. They are descended from people who came from Africa as slaves, put up a huge revolt on the island of St. Thomas, and about 3,000 of them ended up on the east coasts of Mexico, Belize and Honduras - mostly Honduras. Super nice people and they speak both Spanish and a very interesting Creole language.

Anyway, the beach did turn out to be simply perfect. Soft white sand; palm trees for shade; warm, clear, blue water; waves just lively enough to play in but never dangerous; and a bar and restaurant right there for beer and snacks. The palms are loaded down with huge coconuts. I hadn't been laying on the beach for 10 minutes when Profesor Colon's brother, Andrew, chopped open one and presented it to me with a big straw in it, yum.

We met a nice couple - she was from Germany and he was from Peru - who said they'd been up and down the coast in search of beaches and this was the very best one.

Also, by sheer luck we happened to be there the night a professional touring company of Garifuna dancers, from Triunfo, were in town putting on a show for a busload of tourists. We snuck in and watched the show sitting among a bunch of the kids we'd already met on the beach. Fabulous dancing and very theatrical.

We stayed two nights and two days, just being lazy on the beach. My favorite part, besides a perfect beach, were the local kids. I think we frustrated the hell out of them because they couldn't seem to grasp that we didn't speak much Spanish. I think they just thought we were stupid as hell. Nonetheless they were fun to talk to. Many of them were pretty crafty. One kid made a fully functioning kite out of a plastic bag and some twigs. Another kid had made a sand buggy out of a milk carton with oranges for big knobby tires. And this other kid we met was clearly the entrepeneur in town, succeeding in selling us several pieces of art he made out of wood, shells, coconuts, turtle shell, etc. He also tried to talk us into coming over to his house where he'd cook dinner for us.

My least favorite part - just as they did in Hawaii, it turns out mosquitoes still love me better than any other meat. Alan had half a dozen bites while we slept in the cabana. I've got about 100. Seriously. I stayed awake all night killing or hiding from them, trying to imagine my statistical odds of being bitten by the one who had malaria or dengue fever.

Our best attempts to stay lazy failed and we got antsy for new sights. And I needed a break from the mosquito picnic. We moved on to La Ceiba, a town known most for being the ferry port for getting to the Bay Islands, where you can snorkel the second biggest barrier reef in the world.

We stayed a night in a really cheap place, and I spent another night being chased by mosquitoes. The next morning, I hit my complete limit for dirt, smell, bugs, and 3rd world stuff in general. Stomped all over town looking for a better place to stay, muttering things that sounded very British under my breath. My only excuse besides 6 weeks of, well, living a lot dirtier than I'm used to, is that four nights in a row of being eaten alive, interspersed with four days of itching all over all the time can make a person more insane than you might think. Seriously, I nearly hit a certain "Heart of Darkness" state of mind.

Through a variety of strange coincidences we ended up just outside of town in a fabulous place called Coco Pando Resort. A little more money (by Honduran standards, but about equal to what we'd been spending in Guatemala), but wow, sheer luxury. Hot water. Clean bathroom. TV with cable. Firm mattress. Fridge in the room. Soft, fluffy towels. And a COFFEE MAKER!! Not to whine (because after a night here I'm feeling much better), but it's pretty challenging to find a cup of coffee in the morning. And the coffee we eventually find, long after we had to wake up for many other things, is well, not great.

We still have half a pound of Starbuck's coffee we'd picked up in Austin for camping. Oh the pleasure. Oh. Seriously. We were so excited, we had a cup yesterday afternoon as soon as we put our bags in the room.

Regretted that later as I was wide awake at 3:00 in the morning being feasted on by fewer, but more determined and hungry mosquitos last night.

Today, we checked into Spanish classes in town and visited the most fabulous butterfly and insect museum ever.

OK, Alan is waiting to use this one computer next, and we've got to get our laundry into the one shared machine. So I'd better run.

Lots more stories to share ... the interesting ex-pat characters and stories around here, and the guy who created the butterfly museum, and more. OK, Alan just asked again if I was done. Gotta go!

more about the finca, and then the beach, the beach, the beach!

Finally made it to Tela, a pristine Caribbean beach town on the north coast of Honduras. We were within 100 km of here when we had our littl hostage crisis in Puerto Cortes, but then had to drove way west back through Guatemala to a different border, south, then way east again. It was a long drive - just one lane with many large, slow trucks and buses to carefully pass on windy turns to get up any speed at all.

We had been completely spoiled by the peace, quiet, good food and happy company at the finca, so the long drive seemed tougher than the others. My last entry about the finca was a bit short. To fill in some details:

The finca is currently about 3,000 acres but used to be bigger. Started by Carlos´s grandfather in the 1920s, it is still family-run, through defining the family is a bit tough. It seems Carlos´s grandfather refused to marry any woman because he didn´t want to be controlled by one. This didn´t stop him from fathering a great many children. The ones he chose to recognize with his last name were educated, raised on the finca, and remain in the family.

Several of Carlos´s siblings live elsewhere and do other things, but he remains on the finca. He went to school in the U.S. and studied agronomy, but since his father, at 69, still manages the finca, Carlos seems to devote most of his time to providing tours of the finca to tourists in very small groups. (Alan and I were the whole group when we went.)

We started by driving yet another steep, slippery, narrow, muddy road to the guest house where we´d be spending the night. Then Carlos drove us up the finca on a road we would never have dared taking the Subaru. Speaking of the Subaru, nobody here seems to have ever seen one. They pronounce the name with the emphasis on the second syllable, which sounds super cool. Many are a little astonished to hear it has 4-wheel drive. Carlos looked skeptical when we told him. But that little car has pushed right on up some super intense hills, leaving pickups and SUVs stuck in the mud behind. That car has become our hero on this trip. There are some new squeaks in the alignment, and that check engine light comes on sometimes, but at 194,000 miles, the SubARu is doing well.

Anyway, after some tasty coffee at the finca, we climbed aboard beautiful, extremely well-trained horses and took a long tour of the various pastures, rivers, hills, lagoons, cattle pens, stables, and milking stations of the finca. Met many of the cows and learned a bit about the various kinds that do best there in the heat.

Carlos´s very devoted black lab, Isa, trotted alongside. We stopped in one little valley filled with beautiful young horses, small lagoons, and coconut palm trees. Arnulfo, who works on the finca training the horses, and joined us on the ride, knocked free a few coconuts. A few swipes with a machete later, we were drinking fresh coconut milk. Yum.

A couple hours and bruised butts later, we left the horses back at the stables and had lunch. Fresh, delicious finca food. Side note about chickens: I´ve never been a big fan of chicken, particularly right on the bone, but all over Central America, we have had the yummiest chicken I´ve ever had. We see the chickens running around everywhere and for sale at the markets; it looks like it´s all free-rang and fresh.

Over lunch we admired black and white photos hanging over the table showing Carlos´s grandfather and a few other men showing off a jaguar they had killed. After lunch, a nap in a hammock on the porch. I spotted a few deer in the field below before nodding off to sleep.

After the nap, we followed Carlos around to the various operations at the farm: coffee fields (shade-grown? we´ve always grown shade-grown. why would we cut down the trees - they´re nice and we use the wood from them); cardamom fields (taste soooo strong straight off the plant); coffee washing, drying, shelling, more drying, bagging, roasting; cardamom drying; etc. It seems there is more competition for coffee producers these days, so cardamom is a better crop, so they´re focusing on that. It´s a gradual transition.

All over the finca, the people who manage various parts of the operation live with their families. When we went to meet the guy who oversees harvesting of the cardamom, Carlos pointed out an old guy who used to be the manager. Apparently as he got older he went a bit loco. Now he thinks he´s the general manager of everything. He doesn´t do any harm, just walks around looking things over like a supervisor. Nobody seems to tell him otherwise.

Alan asked Carlos why all the kids aren´t in school. Apparently they are on break from October through February. Also, all of the kids have access to school, but it isn´t mandatory. They only go if they want and if they´re parents want. Many don´t. Most can´t read. Carlos told us the guy who oversees the harvesting only went through 3rd grade, but he can read and write a little. He showed us the logs of the daily harvest, comparing last year at this time to this year. The logs are kept in Barbie school notebooks.

Last adventure was a drive over to Agua Caliente, a place where hot water feeds into a cold river. By building up rocks to form a little dam between the river and the area the hot springs feed into you can regulate the temperature. The hot springs are really really hot, enough to burn the skin, but mixed with the right amount of river water, it´s perfect. We had to wade across the fast-moving, very cold river in the dark, which was a little scary, but once settled it was so worth it. Isa, Carlos´s dog, who we were completely in love with by this point, got a nice warm bath.

It was a cloudy night with no moon, so it was pitch dark. We had a whole conversation with a woman from Argentina, and a young local boy whose English was amazing, and we never saw their faces. At one point, I felt Alan lean against me and kiss my cheek. It wasn´t until the kiss became a lick across my whole cheek that I realized it was Isa, not Alan.

Another delicious finca meal, filled with vegetables and herbs grown there at the farm, and we slept so soundly in the guesthouse with only candles for light. In the morning, yet another delicious meal, including fresh passion fruit on our pancakes, and of course, very fresh coffee with very fresh cream.

The best tour I could possibly have imagined with fascinating sights, great stories, Carlos´s incredibly warm company, delicious food, and such beauty.

The next day the long drive to Tela meant a fairly late arrival on a Saturday night. Hotels were either full or overpriced, so we decided to splurge on a bit more expensive but highly recommended place from the guidebook. Maya Vista was built 14 years ago by a family from Montreal. It´s on top of a hill and is all vertical, many stories, giving every single room a breathtaking view of the entire coastline. It was expensive by Honduras standards, but cheap by U.S. standards and easily the best hotel I´ve ever stayed in. They even had hot water! Yay!

Laid around on the beach today, swam in the warm water and played in the gentle waves. Delicious conch soup with a yummy pina colada. And to top it all off, the TV in tonight´s cheaper hotel actually had the Bears playoff game on. Alan was in heaven. I´m not sure what´s more exciting for him, that after 22 years, the Bears are finally going to the Super Bowl, or that he got to see the game in Honduras.

Tomorrow, we head down the coast a bit in search of a good place to stay for a couple weeks - something with a beach, a kitchen, and Spanish school nearby.

Miss you all very much!

coffee, cardamom and great company

We´re about to hit the road, at last, for the Pacific beaches of Honduras, so this entry won´t be long. Had a blast at Finca El Cisne (www.fincaelcisne.com), a coffee and cardamom farm where we spent a day and night with Carlos Castejon riding horses, seeing beautiful plants and birds, eating delicious food, and most fun of all, seeing how the farm works. Picture coming soon if we can get Alan´s phone working again.

Note to IATP folks: you guys should put together a field trip to the finca and see shade-grown, eco-friendly coffee farming, hands-on, seriously.

Note to Max: I´ll admit I hadn´t been thinking piano at all, but now I will be!

Honduras at last!

After two days of resting and hanging out in a fun little town, we regained our composure, sense of humor, and proper amount of humility, then headed to El Florido, another border crossing between Guatemala and Honduras. Our latest theory was that Puerto Cortes, being a big commercial port, had extra procedures because most things, including vehicles, arrive via containers and ships. El Florido was the crossing most people in Guatemala take to get to Copan Ruinas (Mayan ruins) in Honduras - big tourist attraction, and maybe smoother procedures.

Got up early, took deep breaths, braced ourselves like we were heading into battle, and off we went. The whole procedure took about an hour (even including the time several of them spent arguing over how to file all of their 2004 files into a gigantic box) and cost us about $30. It took us 10 km and arriving in another town before we believed we were in and legal. Yay!

Arrived in Copan, parked in front of a little cafe that advertised coffee and bagels(!) sat down and were euphoric in our little victory. The cafe is run by Liz, who grew up in Texas, came here to learn Spanish, met a Honduran man, got married, and against all the advice of her friends and family, has been here happily for 15 years ever since. Lovely conversation, shock at our previous border experience, and lots of assurances that Honduras is a friendly, fabulous place.

We've gotten a room for the night and booked ourselves in for an all-day and overnight excursion to a coffee and cardamom finca (farm). There, we will tour the farm, go horseback riding, dip in hot springs, and eat lots of big farm meals. We're told it's an awesome eco-tourism adventure. Our first official tourist-type tour, we're pretty excited. After that, we're off to the beaches we were trying to reach in the first place.

By the way, for friends in Minnesota, I've got to share, it's about 75 degrees here and flowers are blooming everywhere. Sorry, don't mean to rub it in, just hoping to share some vicarious happiness. And we're starting to get tan. {very relaxed sigh}

Note to Emily (I can't seem to get the hang of replying to comments): Alan did not break his hand, nor even bruise it. He didn't punch that hard. But it did impress our "custodian." Later, our custodian told us his favorite kind of movies are action - Jean Claude Van Damme mostly - and he asked if Alan knew karate. Cool, huh?