Travel: Boots on the Ground – Page 4

Category: Travel: Boots on the Ground (page 4 of 5)

April 15, 2014 Tahoma

Tourist or Traveler?

In an earlier blog I said that we can all be tourists, but that we are all travelers. Discernment is in knowing the difference. I’ve been thinking about the difference.

This post is not intended to be about Disneyland, but that seems to be the place to start. I remember the year it opened; I lived a mere twenty-minute car ride away. Growing up in its shadows, a continuous source of entertainment, the fantasy rides when I was young, the rock n rock bands on Friday nights when I was a teen, Disneyland was the place to enjoy myth, fantasy and illusion. Now, several years later it has the largest cumulative attendance of any theme park in the world. In recent years it has hosted over 16 million guests per year. I have not been there for several decades, but soon I will succumb to its magical draw and take my granddaughter.

The OC is no longer known for its rolling orange groves–long gone, but for one of the world’s most famous theme parks. Its long, stretched beaches intermittently broken with hidden nook-like coves for swimming and surfing also draw tourists, and add to its world renown.

What is not so famous, yet OC’s central monumental land-marker visible to all who come to see Disneyland’s Matterhorn, and to those who live behind and beyond the Orange Curtain is Saddle Back Mountain. I grew up in its shadows, too, literally.

It is easy to understand why it is called Saddle Back. Located mid-way along the Santa Ana Mountains it mimics the front knob, sunken center and raised rump look of an ordinary riding saddle. Mojeska at 5,496 feet, more northerly and Santiago at 5,689 southerly, are the two peaks that jointly cut a sharp saddle image against a normally azure sky.

People are surprised to learn that OC has a mountain with accessible trails for hiking and biking. Housed in the Cleveland National Forest there are several ways to get to the summit with the sixteen-mile round trip Holy Jim Trail as the most popular. From the top of Santiago due to a conglomeration of microwave and telecommunications antennas that provide radio coverage for most of SoCal, it is impossible to get a 360 view. On must circumnavigate the summit quarter mile by quarter mile for a full-round view.

On a clear day it can be seen from Los Angeles to San Diego. In earlier times, it nurtured migrant workers taking care of the orange orchards that blanketed much of Orange County. Some agriculture remains; most of the OC has given way to development—constructions and freeways. Rising above it all in clear sight the silent patriarch continues to remind the citizens of its presence.

What is it about mountain that draws us unto itself?

For some ancient peoples the earth was like the human body with mountain as backbone and spine. For others mountain was the place where heaven and earth join; home to the gods, it held the space for the meeting place of humans and deities. The indigenous occupants of the oak and chaparal covered hills and valleys around Saddle Back the Serranos, believed in two existences: one above, one below. They were two states that existed together and the rocks, soil, flora and fauna were considered to be the fruits of their union.

The ancient Egyptians routinely revitalized themselves by drawing energy into the body from key sites in natural environments, water bodies, valleys, mountains, moon and stars included, through breath and movement. Mountains were seen as the place to draw in strength.

I learned this simple practice several years ago from a teacher of Egyptian spirituality:

Settle on a place. Point the arms and fingers toward the site. On an exhale and through the tips of the fingers the energy body is sent deeply into the site. The breath is held while the energy body collects energy. On the inhale the galvanized energy body is brought back into the physical body. It is drawn through the curved fingertips, but still pointed in the direction of the site. Finally, the fingertips are placed over the heart and through them the invigorated energy is sent through out the body.

Sound bizarre? Give it a try. I shall never forget the feeling I got from doing the exercise at Sinai in 2003. It felt like Moses and his entire tribe visited upon me!

I have visited several of the sacred mountains of the world, Mt. Shasta, Parnassus, Olympus, Fuji, Rainier, or as the Pacific Northwest Natives call it, Tahoma—the mountain that was God. For some time I had an unfulfilled longing to make the parikrama by circumambulating Mt. Kailash. Recognized through out Asia as the holiest mountain in the world it is regarded as too sacred to climb. Always off in a distant part of my awareness, I used to tell myself I’m not a mountain person, I’m a water person. In spite of my youthful draw to the piscine, the mountain has continued to call me and in growing age I feel more akin to it.

Saddle Back reminds me of not only the cosmic mountain, but of the one spoken of by philosophers and sages, the one within that is eventually climbed by all pilgrims. “So seek the craggy peak in all the dreams on all the maps, through every circled quest, but finally call it by its rightful name…Tahoma.” (Belden Lane in Landscapes of the Sacred.)

Saddle Back is not Kailash or Fuji, but it is my local mountain and the mountain for the millions who live in the OC. While I may not make it to Kailash in this lifetime, Saddle Back is here and has been for as long as I can remember.

As Ram Dass pointed out many years ago, “Be here now.” Hopefully, I am wiith Saddle Back unbounded by space and time.

February 18, 2014 The Pueblo of the Queen of Angels III

February 18, 2014 / admin / 1 Comment

From the window of the apartment in which I am staying I see rose ribbons streaming across the early morning sky portending another sunny day in the city of angels. Yesterday from the same window I watched flocks of wild, lime green parrots hopping from one tree to another while jet-black crows toned throaty mantras. Forested yards and tall mansions block my view of the San Gabriel’s, but I sense their presence

A friend called and asked if LA was really my favorite city?

Reflecting on the same question I realized that it is not La La Land or Tinsel Town that command my attention. It is the nature of the land as in the morning scene outside the window that draws me.

I grew up in Southern California; its geographical forms, flora and fauna created the trail markers of my childhood. Forever etched in my consciousness: the color of the sun light as it climbs up the gentle slopes of the coastal ranges, the luminescent images created by its descent behind Catalina Island, the crunch of sand massaging my feet when I pad along sea weed littered beaches, trellised bougainvillea and honey suckled fences and one of my favorites, the palm tree. Not the tall fan from Mexico or Canary Island date, but the indigenous California fan that can be found through out the landscape. Both are such a metaphor not only for me personally, but for so much of the history and ecological development of SoCal.

A Brief History of Palm Trees in Southern California | LA as Subject …

In 1952 Simon Weil commented that human beings cannot get enough of place. “To be rooted is the most important and least understood need of the human soul.” Having a sense of the three dimensional world and signposts has even less place in our virtual worlds than in Weil’s time. How I have a sense of rootedness every time I visit Southern California.

A faithful reader requested my favorite sites, specifically tourist sites. That’s a hard one. The city of LA alone is 469 square miles, the Metropolitan area approximately 4,000. Plus, I never think of myself as a tourist so much as a sojourner. I put on my virtual thinking cap and tried to slide into imagination, instead I went down memory lane.

I haven’t been to Universal Studios a go-to for out-of-towners, in years. The first time in 1965 was as the guest of the Public Relations Director. I was teaching a third grade in a school in Fullerton, a city in Orange County. The same Director’s children attended the school and as a gift to the faculty he invited us for a personal tour and lunch in the actor’s commissary. Our visit antedated the time when sets were specifically set up for tourists.

As we shuttled around Robert Goulet spotted us Although he did not have as much critical acclaim that he would have later especially after Beetlejuice, I recognized him. He walked over to us, we must have looked like a flock of penguins, and introduced himself. He told me he had a relative who was a nun, I believe it was his sister, and had to talk with us. We had a short, but great visit.

Moving to the next set Jerry Lewis approached us. During the course of an extended conversation he told us that he was Jewish, his wife Catholic. As such, he raised the first child, a son in the Judaic tradition; the second child, his wife raised Catholic. Such an amenable solution to mixed marriages as they were called back in the day.

The other famous person we met that day was Mia Farrow. This was prior to her marriage to Woody Allen. She was riding along one of the alleys in a jeep with her director. They stopped to greet us. After all a flock of penguins in the studios was a highly unusual site.

I engineered a second and last trip to Universal for my son in the early eighties. A bus tour took us through sets from famous flicks; hanging out and having lunch in the actor’s commissary a thing of the past.

In the present, downtown is not to be missed. Five years ago it was a repellant trash site. Now, it is one of the hottest renovation projects in California. Old buildings are being restored not torn down. Museums, markets, and quality restaurants have become magnets for Angelino’s, let alone tourists.

I had two visitors, one from New Zealand, one from Japan that I took to the new LA Chapter restaurant in the newly renovated Ace Hotel on Broadway between 8^th and 9th for Sunday brunch. The food proved to be a winner!

I recommend the following for a short history, particularly for film buffs:

Los Angeles | Ace Hotel Downtown Los Angeles | Boutique Hotel …

acehotel.com/losangeles‎

It is mid February, the temperature in LA has been in the high seventies; on the east coast low dips, ice, snow and freezing temps. It’s no wonder that there are nearly 40,000,000 people in the state. In the OC city of Irvine alone 40,000 new living units are under construction to meet the continuing growth.

I thought that the III post on the Pueblo of the Queen would be sufficient. I was wrong. Another will follow.

February 11, 2014 Pueblo of the Queen of Angels II

February 12, 2014 / admin / 1 Comment

With Café Om about to close I packed up my computer, whispered Namaste in Buddha’s direction and headed out. An early evening rain dissolved the night scene into blotches of wobbled pastels marked by dancing taillights. We jumped in the car and headed down Melrose now a wet and black oily snake, toward Gracias Madre a restaurant that had been open but a few weeks.

Gracias Madre: such an appropriate name, a thank you to the Queen of Angels, Mother Earth as well as the mothers and grandmothers.

This was our day to eat vegan: we didn’t plan it, it just happened. Lunchtime and hungry for Japanese food we decided to try Shojin a restaurant that had been recommended by a macrobiotic friend. Even though we had been duly warned that the chef does not use refined sugar, brown sugar, agave, dairy, chemicals or artificial flavors, we hopped on the Arroyo Seco Parkway in Highland Park where we were staying and headed downtown toward Little Tokyo.

I pray to the Madre when I travel the Arroyo Parkway. Opened in 1940 it is the oldest freeway in LA. With no on or off ramps just stop signs at lines that lead immediately on to the roadway, it’s the antique of the LA system with few changes since the day it opened. Each time I get on it I think of the early days when Model T’s, Packard’s, and Nash’s slowly plotted their way toward Pasadena. I remember traveling the Parkway as a child in Dad’s old Nash on New Year’s Day. He piled us in and drove up the Arroyo before dawn in order to get a curbside seat for the Rose Parade.

In the summer of 2011 during a trip to Japan James and I visited Kamakura the home of the famous Daibutsu – the great Buddha. In this small town of great temples we had the pleasure of eating temple food. Some temples have restaurants. Some have a kitchen and chef well trained in preparing temple food, but no restaurant. In the latter the sacred meal is served in the sacred rooms. Our guide from Back Street Travels had made a reservation at the last.

On arriving we were seated in one of the meditation rooms at a low table with comfortable cushions for sitting. After a short time for meditation we were served. A panorama of Buddhist deities as well as lingering vibrations from sacred rituals surrounded us as we ate. Each ingredient had been treated with utmost respect. Even the presentation, texture and flavor of the meat analogues generally something I avoid, truly surprised me. This was a meal that would take residence in my memory and imagination.

I hoped temple food would be the basis of Shojin’s menu. I was not dissappointed. While no temple, Shojin is quiet, the walls dark, the lights low, and the servers gracious as in the Japanese tradition. The stuffed shitakes took me back to Kamakura. My resident vegan could not have been happier. Guaranteed to satisfy foodies of all persuasions I cannot understand why Michelin hasn’t discovered Shojin.

As an aside, LA has become a growing mecca for vegan and vegetarian restaurants. PETA, People for the Ethic Treatment of Animals lists it in its top ten list for vegetarian friendly cities in the US. Ten years ago, when I had a craving for vegan I went to Real Food Daily on La Cienega. Real Food is still a good bet, but Indian, Mexican, Columbian, Ethiopian, many Asian are now available.

The idea and practice of veganism has been the topic of recent conversations with my foodie friends. More than once I have heard it referred to as extreme, impossible to be a foodie if vegan! While I am not the total vegan I used to be, I fail to appreciate or understand the dismissive attitude toward veganism. Perhaps the issue has to do more with the word foodie, than vegan. In The Achewood Cookbook Chris Onstad’s response to foodie offers food for thought

“There are so many words that already describe people who like food….Foodie: It’s like the infantile diminutive—you put a y on the end of everything to make it childlike. We don’t need it. It’s embarrassing. I’m a foodie. OMG.”

Raw, vegan, vegetarian, fruitarian, pescatarian, meat driven, culinarian (broadening the term from one who makes food to one who consumes on a given level), macrobiotic or in the heavenly realms of existing on air, (airean?) present quite a range of choices. Would that each of us would listen to the wisdom of the body, determine what it needs, make the appropriate choice and graciously accept those of other foodies.

Crossroads, a formal dining spot on Melrose another recent vegan addition to LA has been getting a lot of positive press. Chef Ronnen who prepared the wedding dinner for Ellen and Portia and worked for Oprah, had acquired fame before he opened the restaurant. A good critique as well as an educational essay for non-vegans can be found at

Crossroads: A New Leaf – Digest – Los Angeles magazine www.lamag.com

By the time we arrived at Gracias Madre the rain had stopped. With its ranch-like interior and colorful pillows Gracias Madre a recent transplant from Nor Cal is casual, a great place to relax over a meal. We chose to sit at the bar per usual as we like getting to know the people who run the establishment. Sitting at the bar is one way to do just that. We started our meal with the seasonal aguas frescas that is made daily from freshly squeezed fruit. In this case mango and pineapple. A tad too light, a bit too thin it tasted watered down, not enough fruit flavor, just ok.

I ordered sopes con pina: two masa cakes with guacamole, pineapple, habanero salsa, pickled cabbage, cashew cream and cilantro. The dish was generally tasty, but the cakes a little hard. I’ve never had a masa cake that required a steak knife for cutting. Pickled cabbage added a nice texture to complement the silky avocado. I stuffed the toppings into the handmade, thick, fresh corn tortillas served on the side. The crema made from cashew milk seemed indistinguishable from “real” crème – a real plus for a vegan restaurant.

For his Principales James ordered El Plato: a bit of everything from the entrée menu: butternut squash, cashew nacho cheese, chorizo mushrooms, cilantro pesto, escabeche rice, pico de gallo, beans and tortilla. Each item would have been just fine on its own, but mixed together they were too heavy and some of the tastes failed to complement one another.

On the whole my experience was good Mexican comfort food all the way–clean and healthy comfort food. Only open for a short time, at this point I could not call it a destination. None-the-less, I would happily drop in to Gracias Madre were I in the area–if only for the chips and salsa.

February 5, 2014 Pueblo of the Queen of Angels I

February 6, 2014 / admin / 0 Comments

So I am in Los Angeles sitting in Café Om, one of the great writing cafes in LA. The sign on the deep orange-salmon wall just off my right shoulder reads, “You’re at OM. No cellphone. Only OMMM.” Music plays in the background, a slow, sensuous contemporary ballad sung by a chanteuse who voice reminds me of the sounds that came out of the French bistros back in the forties. She sings of her love carefully stretching out syllables until they roll into a series of overtones reminiscent of the Tuva singers from Southern Mongolia. Café Om is painted appropriately in the colors of a temple in India or the robes of a sadhu. A few locals are enjoying conversation over an espresso or cup of rooibos. I find it interesting that they sit on the same red stools that pepper the street cafes I saw in Hanoi, but in this case, tall bar stools, not foot stools. A few people are writing one young woman does embroidery.

A Buddha’s contemplative head holds quiet space next to a magazine rack.

This is my kind of place.

I like Intelligentsia or Stumptown or if in San Francisco, Blue Bottle or Four Barrel where the coffees are rich and berried with long tones, the baristas accommodating, but this is an old fashion, hard core venue that resonates with the kind of vibes that speak to a writer’s heart. LA claims several such cafes. I would be remiss not to mention that Intelligentsia in Silver Lake matches the writer vibes as well.

Ten years ago while working on a screenplay with an actress friend, we would frequent Urth Cafe on Melrose the place for food, coffee and star gazing. It continues to be such to this day. Or, we would go to V-Café down the street. Writers galore working on plays, short stories, first novels wrote in wire, spiral-bound, unlined notebooks; today, it’s all computers. Thank goodness for Wi-Fi.

Café Om is but a few blocks from St. Victor’s Church on Holloway Drive. Victor’s holds a special place in my memory bank. In ‘67 I taught a fourth-fifth combination at St. Victor’s School in a classroom on the third floor . A hi-rise Play Boy Club near Sunset Strip neighbored the school. Every time I looked through the windows I was reminded of bunnies.

Through all my years of teaching elementary and junior high, that fourth-fifth combination turned out to be one of the most intelligent classes I encountered. Many of my pupils were movie stars or children of movie stars. Irene Dunn visited me once a week to confer on her grandchild. I held court with Zorro, yes the original Guy Williams over his daughter’s progress. The son of Mayor Sam Yorty’s dentist occupied a desk. I will not forget the brilliant son of one of the stars of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. With my double teaching load there were times when I had little time to prepare science class. When that happened I would call on I will call him Brent. He would provide spontaneous, off the cuff talks minutely illustrated on the overhead projector on topics such as the asexual reproduction of plants.

During my time at St Victor’s the hippie movement in San Francisco was in full swing. Several decided to migrate from the city by the bay to the more temperate climate of SoCal. In West Hollywood along Sunset Blvd from Doheny Dr. to La Cienega Ave. stoned hippies plastered the sidewalks. After a long day in the classroom I frequently took a walk along the same part of the strip. With reverence and respect the tenants reached out to me, shook my hand, and asked for my prayers. In a nun’s habit I must have looked as odd to them, as they with their long locks and baggy muslin clothing to me, but we reached over that divide and had lively, loving conversations.

A few years back I was asked in view of my worldwide travels to name my favorite city. Back in the day I would have answered Barcelona, but as I had not been there for some time I hit the mental delete button. “Los Angeles,” I replied. Oops, did I really say that. The surprise on the face of the questioner was only surpassed by my own. “You’ve got to be kidding,” was all he could say.

I have been observing, intermittently living in and visiting LA for more than half a century. I have watched the prolific development of its freeways (at one point slightly after my post-teen years, I drove them at night just to let out steam), and the ever-growing population with an an ongoing expansion of hi-rises to house it. At one point I moved north and LA became a distant memory, but circumstances brought me back and continue to bring me back. Is LA truly my favorite city? Something deep in my consciousness spurred that answer and I decided to find out what it is.

First, I turned to astrology. Los Angeles as the entire state of California is a Virgo with its official birthdate listed as September 4, 1871. As a triple Virgo, I must resonate. But surely there is more than astrological symmetry that would cause me to claim that LA is my favorite city.

Martin Heidegger claimed that we are not just the subject of mental states and experiences, but daseins, being there and intimately bound up in the place in which we find ourselves. We are so even when we are unconscious of the signposts that pock our local space. But for me the truth of the matter is that I get caught up in whatever place I find myself and as a result claim several places as home.

Perhaps I just have a deep case of topophilia and should let it go at that.

I do not as some, think of LA as a giant megalopolis crisscrossed by its famous thoroughfares full of pumped up speeders insanely weaving in and out of rush hour traffic faster than they could pick up to-go burgers at In and Out. Instead I see the city of angels as a series of interconnected communal villages that can be as different as Southern and Northern California. Populated with cultures from around the world a drive through offers eye-popping opportunities to gain a larger view of the universe. Gentrification is slowly making its way through LA’s fringes as well as the hoods, but remnants of the old sit alongside the new.

Highland Park is a case in point. In the eighties it was a Caucasian community. Then Latinos began to move in bringing taquerias and super mercados. Now shifting yet again it is a multicultural diverse community including neighborhoods that maintain their own identities.

This kind of changing of the guard has been pivotal to LA’s history since the mid nineteenth century when Governor Neve decided to found pueblos next to the presidios along El Camino Real in Alta California. It was his intention to provide support for the military in the presidios thereby taking power away from the Missions. Needless to say, the Mission fathers were not too happy with his move. In the long run the Native Americans also gained independence from the Missions and found jobs in the new pueblo that was known as The Town of the Queen of the Angels.

Bordering South Pasadena Highland Park flaunts a range of architectural styles, some going back as far as 1870. Mom and pop grocery stores, whole-in-the wall restaurants, (Jonathan Gold, the only food writer to win the Pulitzer Prize considers El Haurache Azteca on Figueroa to be one of the top 14 Mexican restaurants in LA.), new gourmet bistros, stylish clothing shops, art galleries, yoga studios and fitness centers line the streets. Figueroa and York, the main thoroughfares.

Edward the owner of Elsa’s Bakery, a forty year old Mexican Bakery and coffee house that has become my go-to when I am in the Park not only for writing, but for great pan dulce and café olla as well, commented to me that in the Park a ninety five year old woman who does not speak English may live next door to a movie producer. To Highland Park’s credit, redevelopment is respectful of what is already in existence.

The Turkish owner of Café Om has just warned us that the café will close in fifteen minutes. It’s time to go out into the rain and head to Gracias Madre for dinner.

January 14, 2014 Spider Rock

January 14, 2014 / admin / 1 Comment

The final leg of the trip home from Vietnam took a little over an hour.

I smiled as I unlatched the lock and felt the contrast between my silent home, which sits of the edge of ten acres of open space bounded by a bike path, and the streets of Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City. In a world where endless streams of Vespa’s roar their mantras through streets bordered by sidewalks that serve as sets where locals live out the daily, I found unbounded space by going within. Now back at home where silence and space have their due, inner and outer seem not so separate and unbounded space much more accessible.

After my partner and I checked the house, the garden and unpacked, I scanned the library for a book. After six weeks on Kindle I yearned for print. Landscapes of the Sacred by Belden Lane caught my attention. I had purchased it long ago when most of my travels were mainly to sites that were called “sacred.” Never got around to reading it. As the title stared up at me it was countered by my thought that all sites or landscapes in Lane’s case, are sacred. Moving right along as thoughts are want to do, I wondered if sacred like beauty, is to be found in the eye of the beholder. Or, is there something qualitative that sets a place apart from others, which marks it as sacred? I went to my wingback chair near the large window on the south side of the house to sort through my thoughts and to do a bit of research, Landscape and computer–my only other companions.

In the past I would have gone to Webster to review the meaning of sacred, but today I resorted to Wikipedia. Sacred…descends from the Latin sacrum…refers to the holy. Reading further I found a section titled “sacred ground” followed by “This section does not contain any references or sources….” Time to move on from Wikipedia.

On the topic of the sacrum Landscapes of the Sacred had more to offer. I was especially taken with a quote Lane took from N. Scott Momoday as quoted from Barry Lopez in Artic Dreams.

“Once in his life a man [or woman] ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wander upon it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of the moon and colors of the dawn and dusk.”

On reading the quote I thought of Spider Rock in Canyon de Chelly, Arizona. While it has been more some years since my last visit it will forever remain one of my go-to landscapes. Initially, I had decided to visit the canyon for the same unusual reason that I have chosen to visit a few other places. On a rare occasion the thought of some country, site or body of water explodes in my waking consciousness. It seems to come out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason other than I suddenly think of it and know I have to go. This odd phenomenon spurred my first trip to India, to the island of Kauai and likewise, Spider Rock.

A trip in 1976 to New Mexico initiated my long love affair with the southwest. On that trip I bought my first drum a Taos ceremonial, at the Taos Reservation and brought it back to California. For ten years it sat in the living room in my home softly drumming reminding me of the land from which it came. Following the first trip my partner and I when we could find time, spent the next twenty-five years combing the inches of the four corners—Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico. In the nineties I split my time between Davis and Santa Fe. I was ecstatic when my in-laws decided to retire in Arizona. Simultaneously, I began spending time among Native Americans and learning their traditions. The canyon to the north, Canyon de Chelly (shay) kept popping up. The name mystified me, sounded like a far-off magical land. I was drawn. And then I went.

Following a day at the Grand Canyon my companion and I steered east and headed toward Tuba City along Highway 160. A few miles past Tuba City we stopped to take a look at the Hopi Villages. I could feel the throbbing energy of the old ones under my feet as we set foot in Oraibi, one of the oldest continuously lived in villages in the US. I felt like I had been drawn to the center of the earth. In the ancient time the Hopi had agreed to be caretakers of the Fourth World this earth, in order to be able to live on it. They renew this agreement annually in ceremony. In Oraibi I noticed signs for ceremony and celebration taking place up on a mesa at that very moment. We got directions from one of the elders and promptly made our way up to the first mesa. We parked half way up the narrow road that led to the village of Polacca then hiked until we reached a large plaza where dance and ceremonies were taking place. In a sea of celebrating Hopi’s two others and we were the only guests. Greeted warmly we were offered food and drink, and given chairs to view the dances. The kachinas played with us. Truly, the ancient ones were giving us their blessing—a preparation for Spider Rock.

I had learned from a native elder that because of my astrology, in native tradition I am a member of turtle clan with bear totem. On leaving the ceremonies we descended the mesa and drove to the Cultural Center where I purchased a ring engraved with a bear paw. I wear it to this day.

At twilight we arrived at Thunder Lodge the only hotel inside Canyon de Chelly National Monument. We checked in and promptly took off to get a glimpse our surroundings, but soon darkness began to descend over the canyon and the only thing that breaks it are the stars. We decided to turn back and wait for morning. A dinner of Navajo taco, green chili stew and fry bread was waiting for us back at the lodge and a basic room took care of our basic needs; more important, we would sleep cuddled in the energy of the canyon land.

Rising at dawn my partner and I stuffed our backpacks with water and snacks and headed out. Slowly, ever so slowly we edged the south rim easing our way through sage and cacti. White House, Sliding House, Face Rock Look Outs, we stopped at all three, but my heart was pounding to get to Spider Rock the last stop and endpoint of the south loop.

The sign read “Spider Rock,” but all I could see was a small parking lot and some large boulders, no view. Another sign read “Don’t leave valuables in the car.” Arrows pointed us toward a narrow winding path. I followed. A gentle breeze softened the intense rays of the morning sun. As I got closer to the outlook vistas of canyon valleys sided by red and green terraced walls began to unfold. Shortly, I rounded a bend, a rock, and there she was! In all her stateliness, magnificence and power: Spider Rock. I stared in disbelief, I gasped in awe. I don’t know how long I remained gaping, taken aback as well as taking in one of the most incredible sites I had witnessed in this lifetime. We recognized and welcomed one another like old lost friends. Had I lived here near her in some past time or life?

When some time passed I do not know how long, the sound of a cowbell from the floor of the valley far below tickled my ears. Later I would learn that in summer some of the Navajos return to the floor of the canyon with their livestock; in winter they return to the nearby town of Chinle. As I came back to ordinary consciousness I remembered that at the lodge the night before a park ranger told me that from the rim above Spider Rock I could shout or sing and anything I said would echo back. First, I shouted greetings. Every word returned sounding like a response from the heart of the universe. I pulled Gregorian chants out of my memory and chanted. The Gloria in Excelsis Deo in echo had never sounded so good. I Om-ed and received in return a score of overtones.

A grey granite, pepper flaked boulder actually two boulders, formed a meditation chair in perfect view of the rock. Now that I think about it, they were just like the granite boulders we installed in the back yard four years ago. My voice weary, I sat down and curled in my legs. My eyes followed the wavy, red sandstone canyons seemingly toward infinity. The soft breeze caressed my arms while a silence so enormous it could only be unbounded space absorbed the entire canyon. I closed my eyes and sat for a long time.

Eventually, as earlier a cowbell began to punctuate the silence. Gradually, I awakened.

I had been called to this sacred place on the Navajo Reservation, but on that day I did not know that it was sacred to anyone except me. We returned to our sunbaked car and drove back to the lodge for a rest.

The following days we rose at dawn went to Spider Rock and meditated, and at noon returned to Thunder Lodge for lunch. We toured the northern rim and late in the afternoon revisited Spider Rock for sunset. The next day we took the daily scheduled valley floor tour in an open truck. The bad news was spending the greater part of two hours bouncing around on hard seats; the good, we stopped at the base of Spider Rock where I could experience her energy from the core.

According to the ancient legends, I was at the home of Spider Woman. It is told that she lived at the base of the two pillars that form Spider Rock and taught the Navajos weaving, so important to their economy. Often weavers honor her by rubbing spider webs on their hands before they work.

At the end of the week I had come to know that I had experienced something precious. It affected me in ways that would not reveal themselves until a few years later. I had to as Momoday advised, give myself up to this landscape, view it from many angles, listen to its sounds, experience its dawn, mid-day and dark. The impact of the first visit was such that I would return in order to come to know her well.

In the summer and early fall the light over the canyon is golden. Thunder and lightning accompany the frequent showers dividing the dark sky like a furious Kali providing moksha for her devotees. Rainbows, cross thread one another forming translucent weavings of loops mimicking dream catchers. Autumn light turns filmy, crispy, blue, and as snow sets in the canyon goes quiet. Winds whistle through red walled chambers singing of the aloneness that arises in solitude. Beauty reins along its articulated spaces and upon her rock Spider Woman stands firm.

On my last visit full of anticipation for what it would bring I made my usual pilgrimage out to the rock. Well into fall, deep in the canyon winds whistled like finely tuned violins. I felt a slight, but pervasive chill. I greeted Spider Woman and sat on my now favorite boulder for a meditation. Hours passed, or so it seemed, it could have been minutes. I don’t know how long he had been there; he made no sound. When I opened my eyes a Navajo sat beside me. He spoke. “You’ve been meditating. Do you come here often?” Surprised, I responded, “As often as I can. And you?” He answered, “Now I do. This is the place for my people. This is where they come and need to come much more.”

We sat together in silence for several minutes. Finally, both of us got up and walked together through the sage and sand back to our cars.

In silence.

The following photos are far better than my snapshots from an earlier time.

Heaven aka Navajo Nation – Canyon de Chelly National Monument

www.lovethesepics.com/…/heaven–aka–navajo–nation-canyon-de-chelly-…‎

January 7, 2014 Little Saigon

January 8, 2014 / admin / 1 Comment

How does it feel to leave one’s root country for a foreign land?

Although I am third generation American with Celtic roots it has been my blessing to live most of my years in a state that has been called the most diverse culture in the history of the world; and while I am not a formal part of the current diasporas I have had the privilege to live near and share life with many who are.

I will call her Huong, is an example.

On an ordinary day some fifteen years back I took my mother to a salon in Southern California for her hair appointment. While she was having her permanent I checked with the receptionist to see if a manicurist was available. A few moments later a bubbly, smiling woman who looked twenty years my junior walked up to me. “I just had a cancellation,” she chirped, “Come on back.” Later, I would find out that she was six months my senior. I wondered why Vietnamese look so young, so healthy, and so beautiful. Now that I have been to the mother country, I am convinced that among others, one reason is the diet.

My first session with Huong turned me into a regular at the salon. Every time I visited my parents I also checked in with Huong. Never made an appointment until a few hours before I wanted to see her. Huong who had a full schedule marveled over the fact that each time I called she had just had a cancellation. This went on the two years until my schedule increasingly complex forced me to call ahead. Now, I text.

The connection between a stylist or manicurist and her client is precious. It’s one of those “whatever is revealed in the salon remains in the salon”. Over the years I have listened to the stories of how she, her husband and sons left Vietnam after the American War, the rigors of their adjustment to life in the west, and about raising her children bi-culturally. Early on we began a personal, cultural, political and religious dialogue that has lasted to this day.

At the conclusion of the American War Huong and her family were flown out of Vietnam by the American government to an island. While she has never mentioned the name I suspect it might have Guam. On arrival they had build themselves a shelter out of banana and palm leaves. It would be their home for a year.Once a month representatives from the UN would come to the island and interview the evacuees in order to find them a proper home.

Finally, a woman from a Christian Church in Columbus, Ohio volunteered to have Huong and her family come to live in her home. The day that the they arrived in Columbus was joyfully filled anticipation for the life that was about to commence. It did not last long. Two weeks later the volunteer decided she could not follow through so an apartment had to be found for the new arrivals. Huong’s husband had been an engineer in Saigon, Huong a teacher. In Columbus he found a job as a dishwasher at the local Hyatt. He worked the midnight shift traveling to work by bus. Huong found work as a waitress in a local restaurant. Soon she delivered a third another son.

When Huong’s husband learned of an engineering job in California for which he qualified the fate of the family changed. He applied, got the job and a year later Huong and the youngest son followed. The eldest remained in Columbus attending Ohio State. Eventually, they settled in the OC where Huong gave birth to another son and a daughter and began to work as a manicurist.

By the time I met her, two sons were attending UC Irvine and the daughter was in an elementary school. Today, the sons have obtained graduate degrees and the daughter is in graduate school in pharmacology.

I once asked Huong why she had not continued her work as a teacher. She replied that when she arrived in the US she knew very little about the culture or the history. She would have to return to school, get another degree—just not possible at the time.

Our extensive conversations have been empathetic, emotional, a time or two we nearly reached a level of shouting when we disagreed, loving and dear to my heart. I have grown to understand how it feels to arrive as a foreigner in a strange land, to go through the adoption process of the new country and especially how it feels for a mother rooted in a different culture to open her heart, mind and personal bias to allow her children the freedoms of an American child. We speak in English, which she has mastered. We have shared as mothers, as wives, as girlfriends; I could reveal more, but at this time I feel bound by the code: “what is said in the salon stays in the salon.”

Many of the thousands who left Vietnam at the end of the war moved into what have become known as “Little Saigon’s”. Huong and her husband decided not to as they wanted the childen to grow up in an ordinary neighborhood.

A month before my trip to Vietnam and a week before I knew I was going, yes, it was a last minute trip, I decided to go to Little Saigon for lunch. While my main interest was food in researching for a good restaurant I came across some interesting factoids.

There are eleven Little Saigon’s throughout the country. Orange County hosts one of the largest, the one I generally visit when I am hungry for good Vietnamese food. In the late seventies-early eighties available land and agricultural space were a draw as well as the weather. Some of the immigrants set up restaurants. Originally intended for Vietnamese who were putting in long hours of work it did not take long until they captured the attention of the foodies of the eighties. Jonathan Gold, the Pulitzer Prize winning food writer occasionally eats in Little Saigon, OC.

Once my partner and I returned from Vietnam, recovered from jet lag and the New Year celebration we drove to Little Saigon in search of the best bang cuon and banh zeo we could find. Once there we found ourselves drawing comparisons to Little Saigon, OC and Saigon – now Ho Chi Minh City – in the old country. Both can be found in the images that follow especially in those of the food stalls and shops in the market.

A couple decades back I had a spiritual teacher who told his students that, “In the scheme of things, America is a great experiment in the grand plan of the universe”.

December 31, 2013 A Dozen Stories Waiting in the Wings

January 2, 2014 / admin / 1 Comment

It took two full days to return from Vietnam, one spent having lunch in downtown Tokyo between flights. Followed by a long sleep mid-air, we arrived in San Diego on Christmas Eve at 9 AM. Now that the holidays have had their due I can reflect on the haiku-like thoughts streaming through my mind as well as the many stories left to tell. In the meantime here are some of the thoughts and photos that captured my attention.

Ok, so I could not build on my manhole collection, but check out the wiring systems in Vietnam…there’s an art-form!

Like a canopy at night…..

Motor scooters seemed to have mastered it: unbound wholeness

Tis the season in Hanoi, Saigon, Hoi an, not of a savior, but rather of saint santa creating illusions, delivering on fantasies…

While in the Mekong, Buddha laughs his head off

The simple life

Hanoi teaches surrender: renunciation and capitulation

War destroys and war builds: victims of agent orange trained in the ancient art of lacquer painting become artists.

Trickery of the mind creates illusion of privacy; the street reveals all.

It’s finally coming to Saigon

New friends in their one room home on a fish farm in the Mekong Delta

Time to take a break and relax

December 21, 2013 I will leave my heart in the Mekong Delta

December 24, 2013 / admin / 2 Comments

Sunday morning in Saigon. Got up early, did the morning rituals and headed down the street to our new favorite French Boulangerie. Closed. Back to the hotel, research on I-phone. Now at the Id a block from the hotel and my new favorite coffee house in all of Viet. In its upstairs room full of comfy sofas, beautifully appointed Christmas tree out of bamboo stalks, soft western music with Asian overtones, lots of hip young locals, freshly brewed Vietnamese style coffee-beans from the central highlands, sitting here at my computer, what a way to spend Sunday morning.

The Solstice

Here, it is celebrated this on the 22^nd. I did mine on the Mekong Delta. After three days of Ho Chi Minh’s revenge, I was purified and ready for what the day would present. I am impressed that I have never been sick in my world travels, not even once in the year that I lived in India. I had to wait for Saigon in order to have this blessing.

Grace and her driver picked us up at 9 am at the Lavender. One of the beautiful things about Grace and there are many more, is that she is a deeply flexible being. When she told me of her life, I understood why. Grace is a name for tourists, not the real. Ten minutes out of the gate we completely rerouted the day from the original intention of heading straight to the boat on the delta. First, we would go to the Cao Dai Temple near the city of Mekong.

In my research on temples the Cao Dai came up several times. As I searched deeper more information revealed itself and I discovered that the Cao Dai was far more than a temple. Caodaiism a fairly new tradition is focused on the worldwide union of religions. Although a lifelong student of spiritual traditions, I had never come across this one in my studies or research. Victor Hugo, the French writer, Sun Yat Sen, leader of the Chinese revolution in 1911, and Nguyen Binh Khien Vietnam’s first poet laureate born in 1492, are referred to its three leading saints. The first two were disciples of Nguyen.

We arrived at the temple at noon in time for the Mass that is held daily every six hours. A simple service of chanting, forty five minutes for the living followed by another forty-five for the dead. The members all dressed in white knelt on small pillows evenly spaced on the marble floor; spectators stood upstairs in the balcony. Taken by the simple melodious sounds and over tones I experienced unbounded wholeness, space and solitude. A moment focused on the stability of the impermanent.

After a while, we withdrew quietly, returned to our brand new Toyota SUV and rode in silence to our next destination.

Grace grew up on the delta. As we made our way through the day she revealed her story. Her grandparents were wealthy because “they had only two sons instead of nine children, but when the communists came, their wealth was taken and they became quite poor.” Later, after Grace’s father died she along with her mother, sister and brother moved into Saigon. “My older sister became a nun and remained in a monastery in the home village.” She attended the large university in the Mekong and majored in English. As an aside, I have seen posters here that advertise English as “your gate to the future.” After graduating she went into teaching, but with an eye to restoring the family wealth, went back to school to prepare to work in tourism. On passing her exams she became a tour guide. According to Grace, “there is an old saying in Vietnam, you cannot be poor for more than three generations, and you cannot be rich for more than three generations.” True to yin/yang, Grace is mid-stream in reversing the flow.

Today, Grace is an independent guide working for several agencies with plans to form her own company. She lives with her mother, younger sister and brother about an hour west of the center (where we are staying) of Saigon. Drives into Saigon central daily on her scooter. Supports her sister the nun, the younger sister who just graduated from the university and her mother. When I asked if her brother helped out she responded, “No, as the son, he is free of that responsibility. It’s an unfair system, but when my younger sister gets her job, she will help out.”

On arriving in the City of Mekong, we hopped on board and sailed along the Mekong River stopping first at a combination home and fish farm, then a bee farm. Grace explained that there is a large dangerous bee native to Vietnam. During the American War the Vietcong cultivated that bee and trained it to kill Americans.

After a demonstration and tasting of sweets made with honey we walked along a path through local homes and into a large open café. Local musicians performed traditional music for us. Touristy, somewhat, but real and true to the ordinary culture of the Mekong. I was happy.

Before we left the Mekong Grace took us to the local market where she had shopped as a child. Then we drove to one of the most magnificent Buddhist Temples I have seen in all of Asia. The photos speak for themselves.

Wikipedia refreshed my growing-age memory on some of the details of Buddhism in Vietnam. One of the things that I note is that the populace does not identify with particular schools of Buddhism as American Christians would identify with specific Churches. Also, they merge their beliefs and practices with the indigenous traditions. In addition to Buddhism, the country is fifteen percent Catholic. When I asked Grace about her upbringing she related that her mother was Catholic and her father Buddhist, so “I am both.”

In the Mekong I find the Vietnam that has been riding in the back-roads of my imagination. A poor and simple life on the banana tree studded river living in floating houses and fish farms–beautiful. I could live here.

December 20, 2013 First Impressions: Ho Chi Minh City

December 22, 2013 / admin / 0 Comments

Saigon twelve million and busy as Hanoi, but there is more order than in the capitol city. People generally drive on the right sides of the road, respect cross lights, there are more of them, and are careful of pedestrians. In Hanoi, it was anyone’s guess. I stepped out on the road and the die was cast. Fortunately, it always came up in my favor. Drivers rule the road, but carefully weave around walkers. Crossing a street in Vietnam’s large cities is a great form of psychic education.

Within two hours of our arrival at the Lavender Hotel we had covered several major tourist sites: the post office, opera house, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the war museum all within walking distance of the Lavender. The Vietnamese may not talk about it, but the presence of the war is vividly evident from memorials to museums as well as in the content of the fine arts.

Famous post office and Uncle Ho

Notre Dame Cathedral

War Museum…I did not go in

Henry and Jen arrived last evening from Hoi an. All of us went to dinner across the street at Ben Thanh Market. My partner read that it is one of the top ten markets in the world literally selling everything from soup to nuts. At six when the market closes tables, chairs and cooking grills are set up turning the entire place into restaurants. Our group ordered some great fish and Saigon beer, but recovering from a food bug I stayed with steamed rice. A rainy evening, periodically, the chef had to empty water from the canvas roof as seen in the photo.

This morning while we toured the market I could not help but thinking of how our supermarkets and department stores are so neat and tidy compared to the organic structure of the markets here.

A watch for everyone!

Space continues to fascinate me. Today I watched two women sitting on the famous red stools on the sidewalk having a prolonged conversation. As they finished their chat they exchanged shoes and one of them walked off in the others shoes. Here one engages even in the space of shoes.

Good tidings: John Kerry, as reported in the Vietnamese News has been in Hanoi for four days. “Viet Nam has the potential to become the largest trading partner of the United States in South East Asia,” said the visiting secretary. Everyone here is happy.

Visited the Ngoc Hoang Temple – Jade Temple Pagoda, a Taoist site. A bit shabby, odds and ends strewn about, it was built in 1909 by the Chinese community. A large pond of turtles banked the entry. Neither turtles nor coi in their pond were well cared for. They seemed unhappy. In spite of the conditions, the energy in the temple ran deep. Large cartoon like deities were happy with the incense and candles presented by a constant stream of devotees.

After the visit to the pagoda we caught a taxi to take us to the Bitexco Building, the tallest in the city and a good place for viewing with afternoon tea. Our driver spent a lot of the trip pointing out embassies and praising the Americans. He told us about the soldiers fed babies during the war. First time someone mentioned the war.

Ben Thanh Market from the Bitexco

I feel like more of a tourist in Saigon than Hanoi.

December 19, 2013 Da Nang to Ho Chi Minh City

December 19, 2013 / admin / 0 Comments

Took off into gray, cloudy skies leaving rainy Hoi an in the dust of our Vietnamese Airlines airbus. My partner purchased our tickets three weeks ago giving us a fifty percent discount from normal price. Full plane. Bottled water, the only gratuity. And the only one I need after last night’s dinner.

We had an invitation to Chef Tu’s home for a dinner cooked by none other than the chef himself. Jennifer and Henry met him on their last trip to Hoi an at one of the cooking classes he teaches at Tra Que Herb Farm. My partner and I hopped a taxi from Ha an out to Betalhomestay where Jen and Henry are staying. Chef Tu sent a driver to pick all of us up.

We drove out to the suburbs of Hanoi through rice fields, rows of street food stalls and into the quiet of Tu’s neighborhood. While he has his own home, Tu’s brothers live next door. They share a common wall. An open window had been cut in the wall for conveniences, but privacy was afforded with wooden shutters.

When we arrived four young boys, cousins, were in the front room watching cartoons. Tu’s wife in the far back room doing laundry or washing veggies, I could not tell which. Tu arrived a few minutes later and went to the kitchen with his nephew and brother. We watched cartoons with the boys. Soon we were invited back to the kitchen (In Vietnamese homes, the living room is the entry room, kitchen is directly in back. Food is generally served in the kitchen) to watch the last preparations for our meal of salads, spring rolls, five spice duck, rice, sweet and sour mackerel, the ubiquitous sauces, and fruit accompanied by red wine from Da laat and Tiger beer.

Tu only stove is a two-burner hot plate. The refrigerator is housed in a bedroom next to the kitchen. The propane tank for the hot plate ran out so the final dishes had to be completed next door on his brother’s hotplate. Dishes were passed through the open window.

A table big enough for four was set up for six, but eight of us gathered round.

Tu shared that he grew up cooking then went to work at the Continental in Saigon for further training. No he is well-known as a chef at the organic herb farm’s cooking school and owns his own small restaurant. His next project is to add a floor on to his own home and create a homestay.

Dinner set a new bar for great food.

As we have flown, the gray clouds above Hoi an have given way to mounds of cream puffs above an azure sea. A lady across from me is studying and penciling notes in her guidebook. Lots of Australians on the plane.

Finally, several of you who have been reading my postblogs over the past several trips have taken note of the many manhole covers I have been following around the world. Nothing in Vietnam until the last night in Hanoi. Only one worth shooting ; it is far more artistic in the photo than the real. Wouldn’t exactly win the manhole fine arts competition, but could hold up to those of some countries.

On another note,

Travels with Penelope

Travel, Food, Wine, Spirituality and Everything Else