Dos Boat

I'm running along a lonely canal road, giggling at the thought of seeing Kevin coming down the trail towards me, amused also at the silliness of the ritual.  I just saw him at home and yet there is something different about seeing him coming down the trail on his bike, I know it's him as soon as he turns the corner.  Nobody would deny that Kevin has an athletic presence about him, no matter what sport.   In cycling he always makes the bike seem invisible underneath him.   And I will know by the velocity, the cadence.....

The ritual is actually rather ridiculous .... Kevin bikes out to the pickle ball courts and I drive the car.   I bring the racquets, spare balls, shoes designed for pickle ball, the six water bottles and the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that we will chow during a break during the three hour session.

So while Kevin rides his bike, a twenty to thirty minute ride along the river and canal trails, I drive ... Then, for my warm up, I take off on a three mile run that overlaps his course only for a half mile.  If I don't dawdle, I will be half way through my run when I will see him barreling toward me, in a manner that I recognize long before I can identify him specifically.

On days that I find him, out along the road next to the canal, I will keep running toward him with arms stretched out to receive him

.... As if we are secret lovers and this is our rendezvous point

 .... Or as if we were back in the Navy, my officer (and a gentleman) walking off the bridge of a huge boat ...him in a beige Navy uniform decorated with all the pins that provide his exact rank...And me in a new outfit with matching shoes, sporting bright lipstick that accentuates an endless smile. The walk from the boat to me always seemed to be a 1/2 mile and I would be so nervous that I could do nothing but giggle.

On today's run, however, I don't see him. I reach the corner of where I turn to add in an extra mile and he continues on to reach the pickle ball courts.   I either ran too slow or arrived too early.  But I'm still laughing, the perfume commercial was flawed today and so I finish up the extra mile without my kiss.

When I reach the car he has already changed his bike  shoes to pickle ball shoes and been recruited to play in one of the more advanced games. I wave the hello wave when he pauses between serves, the idea of the canal kiss would seem ridiculously now.

And so even though today is not my day, I still stop for a moment to watch him on the court; he hits the ball with such power, turning the racquet into a weapon.

My secret lover, the Navy officer coming home from sea,  and the guy who just made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so I'll make it through three hours of pickle ball.

The one I call my husband.

Cycling in Czech Republic

I'm not in Western Europe  nor a former USSR country, but seemingly a blend, with a leftover grittiness of people who have endured many transitions.  Tiny farms link tiny villages by single-lane roads that are either headed straight up or straight down.  These unmarked roads offer up signs that only point to the next village. 

We cling to the smallest of the roads, ones that on a map have the largest numbers. Road 10 for examples means two lanes and fast cars. Road 104356 means traffic that consists of large farm vehicles or lost tourists.  Often the tiny roads with the big numbers are seemingly driveways that abruptly navigate through a farm, dodging between buildings.

We follow Kevin's carefully mapped out courses on our GPS.  I'm not sure how we would ever make it without the GPS.   (Every two or three miles we would be stopping to read the map and argue over the correct direction.  But instead we buzz along rarely every turning around. )

We are lucky to be living in the one town we can pronounce in a manner that people understand:  Mala Skala.  Other towns such as Brzeszcze, Splzov, or Bzi would not be so easy. 

We are not the first to have discovered this area for cycling; many Eastern European tourists ride mountain bikes.  But we rarely hear any language spoken besides the confusing Czech dialect. 

Occasionally someone will speak English to us, maybe even ask us where we are from.   I always laugh as Kevin explains we live close to San Francisco, a description we would never use in the United States. 

But the riding is excellent.  Five stars.  Lovely loops with scenic towns and farms along the way.  Hills that roll, up 500-800 feet and then back down.  Small coffee shops and mini marts that offer up enough food to keep us going.  And cars that keep their distance and drive slow enough not to surprise us. 

Beyond language, my only problem is how to pry Kevin off the bike. Every day he will want to explore a new set of roads; the combination is endless around here.  But always going one of two directions:  straight up or straight down.   :-)

Everybody Hurts

Pointing, holding up fingers to represent numbers....smiling.  Searching for what things mean.  

On a boat tour with the guide yabbering in Czech.  Are we discussing an environmental issue or the historic value of where we are?   People look at things along the way so I try to imagine what he is saying.  

...

At the super market Kevin heads up to the checker to study the process. He reports:  we are supposed to bag our own groceries.   We don't need to weigh the produce. They take credit cards.  And no, they don't give you bags; we should have brought them.   (But we weren't supposed to take the small carts out of the store so I end up in the parking lot with a nice checker screaming and pointing in Czech.  She takes the cart.) 

People glare at me when I talk to Kevin.   We are different, not one of them just because we don't speak their language.  And Americans don't exist here.   So they always give us this odd look...

And on occasion, I mean rare occasion, they speak English to us.  Some of them say things like, "Big heat now" but others rattle away, maybe with a British accent mixed with Czech.  Sometimes they call us Americký (American), which always humors me to hear that word in the middle of a sentence because then I'm sure we have caused a discussion on what we are doing here. 

Mainly they are quiet; they just glare at us.  If we ask them if they speak English, they will laugh at us and respond back in long Czech sentences.  Or switch to German. 

.....

Driving down the highway today I searched for a radio station, anything that wasn't  yabbering at us.... Surprisingly, I heard an REM song I know; 

"When your day is long

And the night, the night is yours alone

When you're sure you've had enough

Of this life, well hang on

Don't let yourself go

'Cause everybody cries

And everybody hurts sometimes

I'm suddenly comforted by this song, not saddened like I usually feel when I hear it.  I can not only understand it, I can sing along .... And yes, everybody hurts, sometimes. 

Not right now, not for me.  Not the Americký.  I'm just insanely tired and ready for a nap.... 

Hafnarfjörður Harbor, Iceland

I'm always fascinated by harbors; the clash and compromise of different interests. This one is no different; a small harbor not too far from Iceland's main airport. The mix of inhabitants are all here to share a calm entrance to the sea.

 On one side stands a large, impressive industrial building with trucks coming in, boats pulling out and steam spewing from a roof top. If I could read Icelandic, I might tell you what they produce. But whatever it is, the product is a major export, the pride of Iceland.

 And then there is a golf course with odd patches of green in a large black lava field, an arrangement that begs the question of what happens if you miss the green; do you trace across porous rock to retrieve the ball?

 Then along the center of the harbor, just past the coffee shop, the bakery, competing hair salons, and a Subway sandwich place... just past the small sailing club with a dozen or so boats slightly large enough to venture outside the bay .... are the various components tied to hauling in and processing fish. There is an impressive assortment of fishing boats, a few that look like they were handed down through generations of Vikings, others that are brightly painted and decorated with modern shaped technology gadgets. There is a dry dock area for repairing these boats with a matching small shop that says, "fishing boat motors" (one of the few signs in English.) And then a large windowless building that no doubt is processing the fish using tiny Asian women that I watch scurry up and down the block at odd hours of the day, always with a sack of work clothes.

 And along with all of this is the cruise ship, not a huge one, but rather one that fits the size of a country that only houses 300,000 people, most who live within 50 miles from here. A cruise ship that sits idol until suddenly buses unload curious tourists headed to an unknown destination .... "Why yes, honey, let's go to Greenland for our summer holiday. We haven't seen enough volcanic rock."

 Besides sharing the calm access to the ocean, the inhabitants also share a small grocery store, a shop approximately three times the side of a mini mart but still lacking in fresh produce. Russian speaking men dressed in large plastic pants counter preppy college kids who ride in on one of the many wide bike trails that crisscross the whole area.

 I wander the isles of the store looking for recognizable photos on the packing. I feel part of the equation, a jet lagged American on a short stop over just to see the wonders of Iceland that are "not too far from the airport." I'm the "next gen" tourist who fails to use the grand Viking hotel just up the road but instead stays at a modern Airbnb tucked quietly in the middle of the harbor.

 And while I am not here to share the calm access to the sea; I am here instead just to watch the clash and compromise. The industrial building next to the golf course. The art shop next to the fish motor mechanic. Just one of the wonders of Iceland not too far from the airport.

Girl Power

I'm heading up the hill on a bike;  she's heading down, running with a big hydration pack, a detail that tells me we share the same addiction to LSD (long slow distance).  I put my hand out to give her a high five and I see her smile, smack my hand, and yell, "GIRL POWER."

I snort a laughter that has me skip a breath, missing oxygen I need to keep cranking.

"GIRL POWER," I scream into the wind, knowing my running twin is too far gone to hear me. I was maybe 12 years old, still embracing the color pink, the last time I thought this expression was relevant.

But GIRL POWER is exactly what seems to push me up the 6% hill and on to finish a "quick" 50 mile bike ride.

Church

I'm feeling awkward in the front row of the church, looking at the notes across the page with a vague understanding of how to read the music.

My only exposure to music:  Middle school band playing an alto saxophone.

I only advanced one chair in the ratings for the B level band group in my whole two years.   I showed no natural talent and my parents did not fork out money for the lessons.   And while I lugged that case 1 mile to and from the bus stop and then to each of my six classes during the day (it failed to fit in my locker), I rarely practiced.

I had two band instructors; the first was close to retirement, a man who possessed only a slight spark of enthusiasm for A level students and would provide an automated teaching routine for the B level.  (I'm sure he never knew my name.). And the second was a sassy, young, Latino man with big hair who wore designer jeans, cologne, and platform shoes; as middle school girls we squealed and then giggled at his every movement.  (I'm sure he was the very reason I didn't drop band after my first year.).

My two years of training taught me notes go up and down and we hold some of them longer than others.  But I really can't read the notes in the church hymn book.

The church service alternates between someone reading and the congregation singing. Finally we reach a ritual that I understand; the offerings.   I slide my money into the envelope, seal it, and then place it on the offering tray. I'm excited that I can then recite the Lord's Prayer without looking at the paper.  I know this will make my mom proud.  I place my hand across her back, feel the tortured muscles that twist in directions that don't resemble mine.  We finish up the final prayer.

"Wasn't that lovely?" She says with her permanent smile.

"As long as you didn't hear me sing," I say, just to make her laugh.

"You know how to read music.  You were 5th chair on the saxophone in middle school," she says as if this were a major accomplishment in my life.

I just smile. There's no reason why she should remember it any other way. She probably also thinks I understand the sermons, the stories about the bible.  After all, I did make it through a summer communion program when I was 13.   (With a small set back of being tossed off the church bus for fighting.   I wouldn't give up my seat to Michael Herzog so my sister decked him.).

Now WHO is this Jesus guy?  And why was he important exactly?

The Death of the Sunflowers

(From Bend, Oregon)
Sunflowers, tired from their endless celebration of summer, hang over the fence top as if at any moment they will grow large enough to jump over the fence and go off to catch the first flight south to escape the cruel frost that will surely soon kill them. Birds become their vultures, picking them apart, scattering parts of them on both sides of the fence. They were so close to making it. Just a few inches taller …

I fear we are days away from their demise. As if soon, Mr. Pumpkin will come to finish the job that the birds have started, hacking off their bright, smiling heads and leaving sunflower parts scattered well beyond the neighborhood. That evil Mr. Pumpkin.

I find myself not prepared to celebrate this change, to think of cold winter days. I am, for whatever reason, imprisoned in the thought of summer. Running tops and shorts, feeling the heat suck the moisture right out of my body. Layers and layers of sun screen. Dusty trails that only compound the problem. Cool water sprinkles me from the paddles of my kayak.

I am just like the sunflowers tired from the endless celebration of summer, but waiting to escape the first frost.

I drift into a daze of island fantasies… Australia maybe and Bundi Beach. Or a small Asian island … or maybe Central America with the humbling humidity mixed with heat that would make anyone wish for cooler times. Or the French Riviera, with topless French girls and rocky beaches that make the land almost useless except for site seeing. Or Spanish olive groves, tucked right along the coast, mixed with white houses and roads that go nowhere fast….

I am sleepy and must go to bed. I am sure I will wake well before the morning to a cold dark house. I will curl up and read, wondering what I will do for the day. And wondering if Mr Pumpkin killed the sunflowers last night.