Love was made for me and you

The California Supreme Court will decide any minute now on whether or not our state consitution allows for same-sex marriage. I'll update this as soon as I hear.

In the meantime, here's a piece I wrote about Annie and me getting married in the city when the mayor decided to allow for some civil disobedience. It was an amazing day.

*

(This piece first appeared in Divide 4 years ago)

Spouses for Life

It’s Valentine’s Day, and we’re getting married. It’s still dark outside when we wake and dress. We keep looking at other. We can’t believe we’re actually doing this. The sun is just starting to streak the indigo sky as we drive to our friends’ house to pick them up for the trip to San Francisco. It’s a Saturday morning, so there’s not much traffic. From the back seat, Carolyn hands us a gift, a CD she burned last night. We put it in the player and the first song rings out: Going to the chapel and we’re gonna get mare-air-air-eed . . . We all join in on the song, the morning sun freshly illuminating the now pale blue sky, the promise of one of those jewels of a California winter day. We’re not actually going to a chapel, though. We’re going to San Francisco City Hall where we’re not only getting married but performing an act of civil disobedience. Carolyn will marry Mary Beth. And I will marry Annie.

We arrive two hours before the City Hall doors are to be opened. Already a line stretches from the steps down to the sidewalk, halfway along the building that runs a few city blocks. Joining the line, we play Carolyn’s CD mix in our boom box. The Dixie Chicks sing I believe in love . . . Honking cars drive by and the drivers wave. The crowd cheers. This line holds it all: white people, people of color, old, young, people with children—even what appear to be heterosexual allies. Or maybe they’re just straight people who didn’t hear the news, who came to get married on Valentine’s Day.

The news is this: San Francisco’s mayor Gavin Newsom believes that the ban on same-sex marriages is counter to the state constitution’s equal protection clause. Because he believes his job is to uphold the state constitution, he has decided to allow the city to marry same-sex couples. In spite of the fact that Californians voted in a proposition to define marriage as between a man and a woman. In spite of the fact that then-President Clinton signed DOMA, the Defense of Marriage Act, which defined marriage the same way at the federal level. Heterosexual and married to a woman, Newsom has said that same-sex marriage is an issue of fairness and compassion. Valentine’s Day is two days into his proclamation.

By the looks of the growing line, the news has spread.

A tall woman with glasses walks the line, asking each couple, “How long have you been together?” The two men behind us have been together for eighteen years. Two women toward the front have been together for thirty-five years. Two women with a baby: twelve. Carolyn and Mary Beth: eight. Annie and me: ten. We add up the numbers as though to fortify ourselves. We are in the midst of celebration, in awe of what’s happening, but we also know that there will be a backlash. We keep expecting the picketers to arrive, the ones who always manifest at the pride parades, the queer youth proms, even at Matthew Shepard’s funeral: Save the Family. God Will Forgive You, Repent Now. God Hates Fags.

Oddly, though, they’re not here. I briefly wonder why, then file that thought away, not wanting to expend energy on hate on this historic day, my wedding day. Funny to call it that, since it’s so spontaneous. This was the day we were planning to drive to my parents’ house for the weekend—to play cards, go out to dinner, and change the hard-to-reach florescent lightbulbs in their kitchen. But after hearing the news yesterday, we’ve taken a detour, stopping off to get married. We’re even wearing our casual, comfortable car-travel clothes. Mary Beth and Carolyn, on the other hand, are all dolled up in silky fabrics, curled hair, and makeup. We represent two ends of the broad spectrum around us: young men in tuxes with boutonnieres wrapped in rainbow ribbons; two septuagenarians dressed all in purple; couples in jeans and tee-shirts; others wearing red Valentine’s Day chiffon. Two women in white wedding dresses and carrying bouquets walk by, and the crowd cheers. A woman near us is on her cell phone, giving the play-by-play to whoever’s on the other end. And a few entrepreneurial people mingle around selling snacks, sodas, bags of rose petals. A blonde, large-breasted woman exhibits a sample of her wares: a very tight tee-shirt that proclaims in colorful paint: “I Got Same-Sex Married at San Francisco City Hall.”

And now the boom box is playing Faith Hill a capella: Amazing grace how sweet the sound. Annie and I begin to slow dance. I breathe in her familiar scent, feel the velvet of her cheek against mine. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I see sitting on the curb a young woman with spiky hair and an eyebrow pierce singing along, was blind but now I see . . . Amazing grace . . . . Grace, one of my favorite words. I wish grace for us all, the big beautiful dark-skinned butch woman wearing red suspenders, the forty-ish woman with long red hair and a gap between her teeth, the curvaceous black woman in a long black dress, the two balding white men who keep kissing and staring into each other’s eyes. And for some reason, at this moment, an inauspicious thought blasts through my brain: What if this is all some sort of ruse, to get a bunch of queers in a vulnerable position, all gathered together in a building? A film clip flashes through my mind, men in black ski masks storming the building, blowing us away with machine guns. Knock it off, I reprimand myself. But then my mind imagines someone pumping the crowded city hall with a poison gas. Stop it. Stop it. I imagine someone breaking into City Hall, gathering all of the names and addresses of the newly married same-sex couples. Hunting us down in our homes.

A woman begins shouting through a bullhorn. My heart races—has something happened? Bullhorns, evacuation? But no, she’s giving some kind of directive, holding up a stack of papers. Officials begin walking the line, handing forms to couples, explaining in detail how to fill them out. The forms are applications for marriage licenses. Father’s full name here, mother’s maiden name here, place of birth here. Applicant One. Applicant Two. I take refuge in the systematized bureaucracy. The woman who patiently repeats the directions over and over to couple after couple is one of the numerous volunteers, some of whom married their partners the previous day. I think about these volunteers, their respectful, calm demeanors, the way they keep saying “congratulations” to all the couples. I’m trying to push myself further and further away from (historically precedented, albeit Hollywood-fueled) paranoia. Away from fear, closer and closer to gratitude. We are getting married. How can this be? Isn’t it amazing?

Gavin Newsom has made this happen, the man who was so alarmed after witnessing President Bush’s State of the Union address in Washington D.C. that he decided on the plane that he had to do this. That he had to take this stand. When he got home, he spoke to his wife, who fully supported his decision. Then he called his father, a retired California appeals court judge, William Newsom. The senior Newsom bemoaned that his brilliant son, the youthful mayor of San Francisco, was committing political suicide. “You’ll never be President,” he said.

So here we are, all of us in line, winding around the block, beneficiaries of the conscience of a man who, I have no doubt, will go down in history as a visionary. He will be condemned by the righteous—the very people whom history undoubtedly will view as morally wrong, akin to the segregationists of the South. I don’t have a doubt, but I worry. The backlash will come. Again I remind myself to move away from fear. I am here, with Annie, and we’re filling out this form. I have a vague recollection of another time I filled out such a form, almost twenty years ago.

At twenty-two, I married Robert. If marrying Annie is an act of civil disobedience, then marrying Robert was an act of civil obedience. Engagement party, white wedding dress, diamond ring, best man and maid-of-honor, champagne reception, Hawaiian honeymoon. A textbook case. It was an entree into a world that everyone else I knew inhabited or planned to inhabit. The world of marriage and the promise of children, the world of unquestioning social support for our relationship. And I never thought of the status of my heterosexual marriage as a privilege.

Until later, long after the divorce, when I fell in love with a woman.

Suddenly holding hands in public with the person I loved was a “statement” at best, unsafe at worst. Suddenly there were straight people everywhere—all over T.V., billboards, in books and movies. Where were the lesbians and gay men? No one asked me, “When are you two getting married?” Even after the oh-my-God-you’re-not-who-we-thought-you-were turmoil had subsided. Even after my family began to love Annie. Even after my mom said, “You seem happier with Annie than you ever did with Robert.”

But my friends and family are not to blame. When Annie and I fell in love ten years ago—pre-Ellen, pre-Will & Grace, pre-Queer Eye for the Straight Guy—fewer people were publicly out, and almost no one was talking about same-sex marriage. There were some rumblings, though. In 1989, Denmark became the first country to recognize same-sex unions. However, in a separate-but-equal mode, they were civil unions, not marriages. And besides, that was way over there, in an insanely liberal and very cold country. Two years after that, same-sex couples in Hawaii sued the state for the right to get married. This didn’t make the news until a few years into the litigation, when it looked like the same-sex marriage side might win. Hawaiian voters trumped the court before its final decision; in 1991, the voters amended the Hawaiian state constitution to define marriage as between a man and a woman. In the 1990’s, the issue of gay unions was being raised not only legally but socially: IKEA aired a T.V. commercial featuring two men, clearly a couple, shopping for furniture; and two men on Northern Exposure “married” as did two women on Friends.

This has led to some interesting confusion: over the years, when people have asked me if I’m married, my standard response has been, “I’m not legally allowed to marry my partner, Annie.” Once someone responded, “Really? But I’ve seen two women marry on Friends.” And others have said, “But can’t you go to Hawaii or Vermont?” And recently I’ve gotten, “Why don’t you go to Canada (The Netherlands, Belgium)?” I respond that Vermont offers civil unions, not marriages, meaning that federal recognition and benefits don’t apply; and that an Ontario or British Columbia or Netherlands or Belgium same-sex marriage doesn’t count here in the states. Many people are unaware that in 1996, the same year Ross’s ex-wife and her girlfriend got “married” by Newt Gingrich’s sister Candace on Friends, Clinton enacted DOMA. He signed it under cover of night, at midnight to be precise, perhaps hoping his gay constituency—the group many say helped get him elected—wouldn’t notice. Maybe others didn’t notice either. Given polls that claim the majority are opposed to same-sex marriage, I wonder about people’s confusion regarding this issue. Apparently many people think same-sex marriage has been legal in parts of the U.S. for some time. Indeed, commitment ceremonies look like weddings. In 2002, the New York Times began announcing same-sex civil unions in the wedding pages, and in 2003 Bride magazine ran a feature on lesbian weddings. In the wings, too, is the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court decision that has proclaimed Vermont-style civil unions discriminatory. This has set the stage for same-sex marriages to take place in Massachusetts.*

It’s likely—indeed, inevitable—that the Massachusetts ruling and Newsom’s courageous act will spark a fierce backlash. Indeed, almost two weeks into the San Francisco marriages, President Bush interrupted afternoon soap operas to televise an announcement. Not about war or a terrorist-related crisis. But about the “crisis” of same-sex marriages. He chose this dramatic venue to call for a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. Even Laura Bush—who in an amusing Freudian slip once said that she didn’t want to speak out about “controversial issues like gay marriage” because her husband “has enough opponents”—pronounced the San Francisco marriages as “very, very shocking.”

And so here are Annie and me, and Carolyn and Mary Beth, being shocking. Along with thousands of other lesbians and gays, we are adding fuel to the backlash fire. Because we love each other. Because we, along with Gavin Newsom, believe that we deserve the same social and economic benefits that straight married couples receive.

The city hall doors open, and the line inches forward. Nat King Cole is singing, Love was made for me and you. When we get to the steps, Mary Beth, who has become our official wedding photographer, takes a picture of us in front of the sun-illuminated City Hall sign. Cement statues of titans emerge from the pillars, shouldering the weight of the building, of tradition. I think about how the city of San Francisco has so often been in the forefront of shouldering the burden of social change. We’re almost to the top of the steps when two women emerge, beaming, holding a marriage license in their hands. The crowd roars.

We make our way slowly through the turnstile, through security, and into a line that winds its way into the official offices. More volunteers come by, checking and rechecking our forms, our IDs, handing us paper tags inscribed with wait-line numbers. They repeatedly smile at us and say, “Congratulations.” When we get to the office where we submit our form, it takes just a few minutes for an official behind the counter to input our information and print out an official marriage license.

“Raise your right hands,” says a woman with short salt-and-pepper hair. “Do you swear that everything on the form is true to the best of your knowledge?” she asks. We do.
Carolyn and Mary Beth do the same. We gaze at the papers: “License and Certificate of Marriage,” signed by Mabel S. Teng, San Francisco Assessor-Recorder. City seal in one corner, State of California seal in the other. And a bar code. We’re official.

Next we take the elevator to the rotunda, its arched windows flooding in sunlight, illuminating the impressive decorative wall reliefs and marble pillars. In various stations on the wrap-around balcony, officials preside over the union of couples. Two women with shiny black hair, two men in jeans and tuxedo jackets, two women in red dresses with flowers in their swept-up hair. Vows are murmured, friends and family clap, officials read from their scripts.

We are matched up with a woman whose name sounds like one dreamed up by Harriet Beecher Stowe or Charles Dickens: Vivian Gay. First she weds Carolyn and Mary Beth, and then Annie and me. Peering over the edges of her dark, thick glasses, her steady voice pours forth a stream of familiar words: wedlock, honor, respect, cherish, faithful, not to be taken lightly, true, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Holding hands, Annie and I look at each other, at our friends, at Vivian, back at each other. We hold each other’s gaze. As though we have the same thought at the same moment, tears fill our eyes. Someone is saying these words to us, for us.

This doesn’t feel like the beginning of something, as the rhetoric of marriage insists. It feels like the re-affirmation of something. Of our ten years together. Of the commitment we made long ago. Of the commitment we’ve been living in the light of those who love and support us—and in the face of those who don’t.

“I now pronounce you spouses for life,” says Vivian. Funny how it rhymes with “husband and wife.”




*As this essay was going to press, on May 17, 2004, Massachusetts became the first state to legalize gay marriage. In order to block out-of-state same-sex couples from coming to Massachusetts to marry, Governor Mitt Romney invoked a state law that forbids the state from marrying anyone who cannot be legally married in their home state—a law adopted in 1913 to block interracial marriages. Immediately, several Massachusetts communities announced they would defy Governor Romney by issuing out-of-state couples marriage licenses. Romney supports a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage that will come before Massachusetts voters in November 2006; if passed, the amendment will nullify the same-sex marriages that have taken place.

Sex and the lezzie

Annie and I have always enjoyed watching Sex and the City episodes on DVD, and we're looking forward to seeing the movie this weekend with my mom.

Our lives couldn't be any more different from the lives of the characters in the show. We don't care about shoes or clothes. We don't even like to shop (although Annie likes it more than I do). We could care less about trendy things. I hate martinis. And parties.

We love Manhattan, but just to visit. And when we're there we go to the museums and walk for miles through Central Park and along the city streets in our sensible shoes--not to clubs or trendy places.

Those trappings of the show, while fun, aren't what make it so great. What makes Sex and the City good is this: great writing, rich characters, and humor that bumps up against poignancy. (One reviewer called the movie "existential haute couture.")

There are a lot of lesbians out there who love this show that features four very heterosexual women. Oh, wait a minute--there's the episode where Samantha boinks a woman, but she doesn't like it a whole lot. And there are several gay male characters. Still, the focus of a lot of the show is the woman/man mating dance, normally not a big feature of most of what I'm drawn to view or read. But Sex and the City has four funny, complex female central characters who are irresistible.

And now there's another way I connect with the show, albeit at a slant: Cynthia Nixon, who plays Miranda, has a woman partner, Christine Marinoni. Cynthia was married to a man and then one day it became clear she was with Christine. I love that Christine isn't in the biz. Sure, Ellen and Portia de Rossi are pretty to look at, but Christine looks more like the women I know. Meaning, women who haven't been gussied up by Hollywood.

Cynthia had basically been under the radar until her relationship with Christine was reported in the media. In one article, Cynthia says this:

I never felt like there was an unconscious part of me around that woke up or that came out of the closet; there wasn’t a struggle, there wasn’t an attempt to suppress. I met this woman, I fell in love with her, and I’m a public figure.

I like she doesn't insist that she was "born that way." Instead she acknowledges sexuality as fluid. There's nothing wrong with being a lesbian or a bisexual woman (or a straight chick who loves girls!)--so there's nothing wrong with choosing to love who you love.

Panama Highs & Lows

NOTE: SADLY, FOR SOME UNKNOWN REASON, BLOGGER DELETED ALL THE PICTURES ON THIS POST.



Villa Palma Boutique Hotel

No other trip in our time as nomads has taken us to such highs and lows as Panama. 

We began the journey in Panama City, staying in a darling hotel in Casco Viejo, the old quarter built in 1673 after the original city was burnt to the ground. The Governor had it set on fire when he got word pirates were coming to attack and loot it. That's one way to spite your enemies.



Casco Viejo

We visited the remains of the original city, now a World Heritage Site, with Carlos, our guide. He was the first of many amazing people we'd meet in Panama, a highlight of our time there. 



Carlos & me

Originally from Venezuela, Carlos is a single dad to two teens boys. I was amazed by his resourcefulness. During the pandemic his tour guide business tanked so he started cooking and selling food to neighbors. He did some legal consulting work, and he recently became a day stock trader. He pulls together all of this employment to support his family and so that his kids can go to a private school and play club-level soccer.



Screw Tower

His knowledge of the city was mind-boggling. When we drove around, he pointed out the wacky design of one high rise called Screw Tower, which he joked houses lawyers. We also saw the financial district, toured the high-end Jewish area that housed descendants of many who escaped the horrors of Europe, and crossed the Bridge of the Americas for lunch on the peninsula. Later, at the Panama Canal, we watched the technological marvel of a ship coming through the locks.  



the canal

Carlos pointed to a statue depicting Panamanian students who pulled down an American flag and put up a Panamanian flag in protest of the occupation. One was shot and killed, and that sparked deeper sentiment to oust the U.S. military. It took another forty years, but the U.S. finally ceded its massive landholds that had excluded Panamanians, including high-end properties and even the first McDonald's that allowed only U.S. citizens.



Lots of murals everywhere

I asked Carlos how the U.S. could have done better, and he said investing in the Panamanian economy and integrating into its society over their 80 years in the country. I hadn't realized that part of the U.S. military agreement to exit included dismantling the Panamanian military. So everyone we saw in a uniform was some version of police, not military...even those guarding the President who lived down the street from our hotel. In return, the U.S. agreed to have Panama's back in any conflict. Let's hope that is lived up to if, god forbid, it is ever needed. 



Panama City skyline from Casco Viejo

I love meeting world citizens and learning about their lives...and soon had another opportunity. At a restaurant eating breakfast, we chatted with the only other guests, two women with an adorable toddler. 

The mother is a 32-year-old German who has lived most of her life in the U.S. In her early twenties she worked as a cocktail waitress to save up money to travel the world for four months before entering medical school. Now she was a traveling M.D. who went all over the world to practice. Two years earlier, she got medically inseminated and became pregnant on her first try. 

The other young woman was her au pair from South Africa. She does MMA (mixed martial arts), bakes wedding cakes, models part time, draws animation, has exquisite tats, and has volunteered as a teacher for street kids. She loves traveling so this was the perfect job for her.



about to land at Bocas del Toro

Soon it was time to head to our first housesit, so we boarded a small plane that took us on the one-hour flight to Bocas del Toro, an island archipelago on the Caribbean. While we waited for our luggage at the tiny airport, a local guy played the guitar and sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and other island-inspired songs.

The homeowner, Carmen, gave us the biggest heart-hug I've even gotten from someone I'd met only by text. We followed her through the dusty streets of Colon, the central of nine main islands that make up Bocas del Toro. Most of the islands are car-free. I liked the feeling that I was plopped down into a completely new world, where people speaking a melodic Patois sold fried chicken and empanadas and meandered around on bikes and by foot. 



You can see the house we stayed in nearly hidden in the palms.

Carmen, who is Dutch, led us to a dock, where we boarded a boat for the 15-minute ride to Bastimentos Island, our home for the next month, caring for two loveable dogs, Stormy and Thunder.



Stormy on the dock

Carmen and Marcel's place is a BnB with several rooms and their own open-air home with a big kitchen where Carmen whipped up delicious food. Her culinary skills were the highlight of the five-star TripAdvisor reviews I'd read. Usually we secure sits through a website, but in this case I'd posted about us on a Facebook page featuring Bocas del Toro housesits...and a few days later a Carmen had contacted me.



exploring Colon



Renting power-assist bikes made for a fun day.

We'd been excited about the idea of living on an island--and indeed, the place had warm turquoise waters, palms trees, the works. However, challenges immediately became apparent. That night we found it hard to sleep in the humid heat with no A/C or a circulating fan, unsupportable in this off-grid place run on solar. While I worried about my ability to adapt, I tried to focus on the adventure of it all. Sitting in their home overlooking the dock and watching a spectacular sunset, my inner kid got a little giddy at the notion of living in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse with a dock where we could jump in the kayak and go snorkeling at nearby reefs.



Unreal colors

I admired Carmen and Marcel's ability to relax into island life as lived by the locals. They were around our age but totally adapted to things that were a steep learning curve for us, such as walking the dogs on narrow, steep and often slippery pathways; handling all the house systems and their backups; and making meals from limited available foods. We also soon learn we'd have to try to sleep with late-night night party music blasting from the other side of the island. 



Swiss Family Robinson-esque

In our few days together, the hosts generously fed us, showed us all the important details (such as propping up a flag at the end of the dock to signal a water taxi to come get us) and took us out to dinner one night on Colon with ten of their good friends. There we met the owners of the Floating Bar, and another couple who picked us up every Monday in their boat to take us there for live music.



Laura, the Floating Bar owner, jumping into the Caribbean Sea.

What a cool scene, to be dancing with a crew of Panamanians, expats and travelers then, hot and sweaty, jumping into the sea. I also attended a few morning yoga sessions at the Floating Bar.



Floating Bar band

Because Bocas del Toro was a happening tourist spot, there were many kinds of restaurants on Colon, including a delicious Chinese place run by Chinese immigrants, as were the grocery stores. Hearing them speak Mandarin flooded me with memories of our time in Nanning, and I greeted the cashiers with a smiling nihao. 

We also found several places that served delectable whole fried fish. However, prices weren't what I'd call low...and getting to these places required paying a water taxi $5 per person each way.

Through our online groups, we discovered another nomadic couple from the U.S. housesitting the next island over. We ended up spending some wonderful days with Sarah and Jimmy, going out on boats to explore Red Frog Beach and the remote Zapatilla Islands, the definition of paradise with pure white sand and swimmable turquoise waters.



On one of our adventures.



On the way to Zapatilla, a glimpse of which is in the distance.



Sloth! 

We loved the Bocas boating life, the people we met, our time in the water, the creatures we saw. We agreed we would return if we had a place where we could retreat from the elements. The off-grid rain forest island life was sublime yet physically demanding and could be mitigated with a sealed, cool room to retreat and rest.

For our next sit we headed to Playa Morrillo, on the Pacific side of the country, taking a four-hour bus ride from Panama City to Santiago and were picked up by Gisela, the Swiss homeowner--and once again I was struck by how cool it is to meet a virtual stranger whose life we'd be living.



kale and lettuce, freshly picked

She took us grocery shopping in the city, encouraging us to stock up because we'd be spending six weeks at their home in Punta Duarte, nearly two hours away on mostly bumpy dirt roads, and food acquisition would be limited with two small grocery stores and a produce stand. There were a few restaurants, mostly small local places called fondas, which served meat or fish, rice, beans and plantains. We also met a guy who cut greens directly out of his garden to sell. What a character. He toured us around his property and chatted for so long that a trip to get veggies took nearly two hours.



View from patio off living room.

The house was a stunner. It had a huge kitchen and living room with plate glass windows that overlooked the yard and pool--and, thank god, fans and AC. In fact, our hosts insisted we run the AC in the main house and the three casitas for several hours most days to keep the mold away. 

Most days we hiked to the beach with the dogs and trudged back up steep and slippery terrain, stripping off our clothes and diving in the pool. Cheers to no visible neighbors! The gardener who came every week didn't touch the pool or mow, so pool and lawn maintenance were left up to Dave. Similar to the Bocas couple, this couple was about our age and hearty as hell. In spite of the AC, living there and taking care of our tasks was like pounding out hours at the gym every day.



Loved this daily beach walk with the dogs.

Dave and I talked about how every time we do a housesit there's an adjustment to the pets, neighborhood, house, location--which can be fun and stimulating, but also demanding. Both of our housesits in Panama turned out to require significant adjustments and more work and discomfort than we'd been prepared for due to their off-grid natures in humid environments. Living off-grid in Central America is peaceful yet it's not for wimps. 

In the thick atmosphere and howler monkeys eerily baying in the trees, it felt like being on another planet. At times I'd be walking alone through the jungle then emerge at a secluded beach and feel like I was the only person left in the world.



One of the many creature sightings.

Twice a week Dave got up at 6:30 a.m. to pick up the house cleaner and then return her a few hours later, a 45-minute ride down rutted roads each way. The homeowners left the money for her pay and gas, and we appreciated having a clean home. Also, she was a lovely woman, and I liked speaking Spanish to her because she'd correct me when I said things wrong. 



howler monkey

But the first day Dave got in the car to pick her up, it wouldn't start. The truth about living in the rain forest: the climate breaks things. Fortunately, we were able to borrow a car from Roger, the neighbor who, with his pack of dogs, was often the only other one at the beach. While we were grateful to have a vehicle, this was his beater car, an SUV with mold-eaten interior. It was like sitting inside rotting walnut.



jungle walk

Once we were driving with Beto, the gardener, in a downpour and the windshield wipers stopped, blinding us to the road. Beto told us to stop at a road crew construction site where he spoke rapidly in Spanish to a guy who dismounted from a tractor. It took him five minutes to fix our wipers, and he wouldn't take the money we offered. Later when we passed another road crew, I asked Beto if those guys were also his friends. He laughed and said, yes, they all were!



Parrots hung out near the house.

And then guess what happened? We caught Covid. Ironic that we'd contract it in one of the most isolated places we'd ever been. Must have happened at the tiny grocery store with dusty shelves. While we miserably nestled in bed, the dogs had to walk themselves (owner-approved) and returned looking like mud mummies. Had I mentioned it was the rainy season?



With Roger, may he rest in peace.

Fortunately, a week later we were back to our chores, sweaty walks, and heavenly pool swims. But then the unthinkable happened. We went to return Roger's car, only to discover he'd died the day before after having had back surgery in Panama City. Stunned, we thought about how life can change dramatically in one breath. 

I thought about all the people we'd met in Panama, and all across the globe on our journeys. Even though he left this plane, Roger would always be part of our web of connection.

***

Have a look at the video interview we did with Travel Live Learn:

House sitting in retirement – 9 years of freedom! - YouTube

*** 

PS: Books make great holiday gifts!

Call it Wonder: An Odyssey of Love, Sex, Spirit & Travel (award-winning memoir)

For the May Queen (coming of age in the dorms in 1980, with lots of sex, drugs & rock n roll)

Complementary Colors (what happens when a straight woman falls in love with a lesbian)

Revolutionary Kiss, co-authored with Mary Janelle Melvin under the name Mary Kate Summers (love story set during the French Revolution)

Bye UK, Bonjour Paris

This is the 6th installment on our 8-month trip, following:

1. Colorado 

2. London/Salisbury 

3. Coastal England

4. Marple/Liverpool/Sandbach

5. Tales from Wales

Main square in Bath, England

After nearly two months in the UK, we were headed to a place I'd been waiting to experience for over 60 years: Paris. We decided to take a direct flight out of Bristol, England and build in a couple of days for the nearby historic city of Bath. Between Bath and Bristol is the village of Keynsham, where we stayed two nights in a 17th century inn that had good prices and easy access to public transport. We still had a couple of rides on our Brit Rail passes to use up.

At the ancient Roman baths

Bath is an elegant city with a fascinating history. It was amazing to walk through the Roman baths in the footsteps of people 2000 years ago. The curation of the site, including video recreations of ancient bathers, invites the feeling of time travel.

Lacock

We got a free tour of the city when two look-alike women pulled up in their tiny car, and we folded inside with their dog, Tiggy. The previous month in Sidmouth, we'd met these twin sisters, Cat(therine) and Hat(tie), and now we were reuninting in their home town of Bath.

Lacock Abbey

Cat and Hat took us to Lacock, a National Trust storybook village where scenes from Downton Abbey, Pride & Prejudice, and Harry Potter were filmed. Lacock Abbey, a gothic revival building founded in the 13th century, remained a nunnery until the suppression of the Roman Catholic institutions in England in the 16th century. After that, it became a private home. We explored the lush grounds with Tiggy romping happily in the grass. We laughed together so much, I'm pretty sure we knew each other in a past life.

Eating dinner with Maura & Anna overlooking the river.

One evening we took the train to Bristol for a sweet few hours with Anna and Maura, whom we'd met in China. This trip was becoming a reunion with people who'd taught at my university in Nanning, since we'd seen Kevin in Colorado and Paul in Liverpool. Bristol has recently been named a choice spot for expats by EatWalkLearn and Brent & Michael are Going Places. Based on the few hours we were there, I get it. The city is walk- and bike-friendly, has several universities, and is built around the river Avon.

We had considered taking the Eurostar to Paris, but the flight from Bristol was only an hour and a bit less expensive. However, after getting to the airport two-and-a-half hours before the flight, and dreamily imagining the convenience, smooth ride, and leg room of a high-speed train, we wished we'd opted for the rails. 

Oui!

But all regret evaporated when we stepped onto the streets of Paris and checked into the Hotel Henriette. I don't recall who recommended this affordable, darling place in a convenient location at the border of the 13th and 5th arrondissments, but merci whoever you are!

I was stunned to finally have made it to Paris. Can you believe I co-wrote a historical novel set during the French Revolution without having been there? My co-author was an expert in the era--and I'd done some of my own research. Because of this, I had weird deja vu moments throughout the week.

Sadly, Dave had developed a cold and a nagging leg injury, so I ended up spending a lot of time solo walking the streets. Fortunately he had been to Paris before. And while I would have loved to have experienced it all with him, I enjoyed wandering alone about 10 miles each day. I never took the metro, only a few buses because I wanted to see everything.

The first day set the tone for the week, when I discovered a tranquil rose garden behind our hotel. It was set in the Square Rene-Le Gall, a huge but magically hidden public park with shady tree-lined paths, hedges shaped like green snowmen, and a children's play area. I felt like Mary discovering the Secret Garden.

That day I wandered around a Sorbonne campus, through the Jarden des Plantes, and along the Seine where I viewed the magnificence of Notre Dame. It's under construction so I couldn't go in and in my mind saved it for another time. As I snacked on the best-ever ham-and-cheese croissant on the sidewalk at Cafe A Lacriose, it became clear this whole city is a feast.

I was stunned by the scope of it all. Everywhere I looked I saw something I could have gazed upon for hours. Every place I went, I wanted to spend a whole day there. I was already scheming on a way to return and stay for a few months.

Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin de Francuil, aka Geroge Sand

In Luxemburg Gardens, I whispered to George Sand that I'd been on the edge of happy tears all day. Then I bought a sugar and lemon crepe on the street and made my way back to the hotel. 

That night, Dave and I went to St. Julien le Pauvre, a gothic church on the Left Bank, for a classical piano and cello concert. Built in the 13th century, it's one of the city's oldest religious buildings. Hearing Handel, Schubert, Mozart, and Pachelbel in this 13th century building would send shivers through a statue. 

piano & cello at St. Julien's

The next night we attended another concert at the larger Egalis-St.-Germaine-de-Pres. My spirit rearranged itself as I heard Ave Maria and Vivaldi's The Four Seasons performed by a quintet. In our travels, we always seek out soul-enlivening music and dance and all the arts.  (At four months into our trip, we've gone to jam band shows in Colorado, a musical in London, a rock concert in Liverpool, a choir in Wales, a Fado show in Portugal, and flamenco in Spain.)

Earlier that day, I found 27 Rue de Fleurs, where Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas lived from 1903-1938. It was quite a moment standing there, imagining the domestic and creative life of these two extraordinary women. Here they held Saturday literary salons attended by the likes of Picasso, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Guillaume Apollinaire, Marie Laurencin, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, Thornton Wilder, Sherwood Anderson, Georges Braque, and Henri Matisse.

Everything looks like an oil painting.

That day I walked through Montparnasse and outdoor markets, to Bon Marche. I visited the Hotel National des Invalides and gardens and crossed the Seine to Tuileries Gardens, where I savored a croque monsieur at an outdoor table and checked out a vintage merry-go-round that struck me, somehow, as quintessentially French. Maybe it was in Amelie? If not, it could have been. 

Dave rallied on Day 3 to go to Sainte-Chappelle, which he was looking forward to seeing again but was disappointed at how crowded it was on this free-entry day. But the push of people didn't diminish this jewel of a royal chapel.

I wanted French onion soup all day, every day!

We also went to Musee d'Orsay, housed in an 1898 glass-roofed railway station with a monumental golden clock. It has the largest collection of impressionist and post-impressionist masterpieces in the world. In other words, just another day in Paris! It was crowded, too, but even so I had sublime moments alone in front of Renoirs and Van Goghs--and other paintings I remember searing into my brain as a kid when I leafed through an art book my parents had on the coffee table for years.

Luxemburg Gardens

I loved Luxemburg Gardens so much that we went back together, strolling amidst the sculptures and lush flora, while people read *real* books on green chairs scattered about. 

One little corner of Sainte-Suplice

Later we made our way to Sainte-Suplice, the third largest church in the city, built in the 17th century. A service was just ending as we walked in. The orchestral Grand Organ, which is considered a national monument, boomed as people rose from the pews to watch a procession of priests in imperial garb. The church is a jaw-dropper, with Delacroix murals and soaring architecture.

My favorite piece in the Petit Palais

We also made it to the Petit Palais to view its eclectic collection of art from across centuries. And later I roamed the architecturally complex funhouse called the Center Pompidou to see the Surrealism exhibit. Being so immersed in art made me think about how humans have forever strived to express the spirit and mysteries of life, in all its horror and beauty.

One of highlights of this trip was finally getting to see Shakespeare and Company, the famous English language bookstore that first opened in another location in the 1930s. It was closed during the war by the Nazis and later reopened in its current location in 1951. It became a meeting place for expat literary life in Paris visited by writers such as Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Anais Nin, Richard Wright, Henry Miller, and James Baldwin.

tah dah!

Ever since reading Time Was Soft There, a memoir about a writer who lived for a time in the bookstore, I wanted to visit. The place is perfect, with its stuffed shelves, reading nooks, and a piano that someone was gently playing. I wandered around for an hour and bought Barbara Kingsolver's Pulitzer Prize-winning Demon Copperhead.

That night, I met up for dinner with a long-time Facebook connection, the poet Kaaren Kitchell, who has lived in Paris many years. While rain romantically stippled the windows and I devoured lush mushroom risotto, we talked for hours like old friends about literature and politics and people we know in common. I'd love to see her again. 

My one low-light was my tour of Versailles. Ironic, given how excited I was to see it since I'd cowritten that aforementioned novel about the French Revolution. First, no maps of the palace or gardens were provided. Instead, you had to use a QR code, useless for me since my phone didn't work there. Besides, I hate looking at screens in lieu of maps and menus. I know, I sound old. 

But beyond that, the rooms were jammed with so many people that progress was slow. From afar, everything looked sumptuous, but up close, a lot of the art and furniture and flora in the gardens was unkempt. Not one of the many fountains was running. A contrarian part of my brain laughed at how appalled the royals would have been at the plebes desecrating their possessions. I can't even find a picture I took of that day, so let me offer instead this one of the Pont Alexandre III bridge--an example of the artistry available to all everywhere you look in this city.

If you're interested in our life of housesitting, budget travel and living in Mexico, check out my books Wanderland: Living the Traveling Life and Call It Wonder: An Odyssey of Love, Sex, Spirit & Travel. 

Repositioning Cruise from Europe to S. America

 

our route

For years I'd heard about "repositioning cruises," when a ship is relocated from one part of the world to another. A lot of full-time travelers use them to avoid long flights and jet lag, to enjoy a variety of ports, and to save money. Repo cruises tend to cost about the same as a long-haul flight, with two or more weeks of food, accommodation, and entertainment thrown in.

Chris Englert and Steve Goodfriend, who found the Nomad Life group, told us they planned to travel from Europe to S. America this way in December 2024. This couple has embraced being nomadic and minimalistic for four years, traveling the world full-time with mere carry-ons. They share resources and strategies in their website, You Tube channel, and books.

Dave and I were enticed, as were 15 others, to join them on the Norwegian Star. I'd yet to meet Chris in person, but we had a history of giving each other feedback on our manuscripts. Her blurb appears on the cover of Wanderland.

Tavira Castle was built in the 10th c. by the Moors

Dave and I picked up Chris and Steve in our rental car in the Algarve for the drive to Lisbon, the port of embarkation. When we finally came together in real life, it felt like hugging old friends.

Dave and I had circled back to Portugal after a month in Spain. I adored the seaside village of Tavira, with the idyllic River Gilao running through the town. With its gorgeous architecture, it has the aesthetic of a mini Paris. There, and in the the nearby adorable town of Cabanas, we took ferries to the barrier islands, peaceful places with long beaches and little eateries.

This enjoyment was hard earned after the drama we'd been dealing with, First, I'd had to go to the doctor who administered a shot of cortisone to relieve my ghoulishly swollen eyes due to some kind of allergic reaction. Next, we'd had to change accommodations because of loud and maybe drugged-out neighbors.

monk skulls

And then...our rental car was keyed. We'd parked in a public lot in Faro so we could gawk at the eerie site of over a thousand monk skeletons in the Capel dos Ossos (Bone Chapel). When we returned, we discovered scratches all the way down the driver's side. Soon we learned that the insurance would not cover such damage. I was sure we were screwed out of $1,000 but then thought to call Capital One Visa who assured us such coverage was a card benefit. We sent in a tidal wave of paperwork and are hoping we'll be reimbursed.

Cabanas Island ferry

What a relief when we got the car out of our hands and checked into a Lisbon hotel in the Alfama district where we spent one night, close enough to walk to the cruise port in the next morning. The streets were lively with musicians, vendors, and art. The next morning at sunrise, the Norwegian Star loomed large and lovely from the overlook. 

Look closely and you can see the ship.

Walking down those steep cobblestone streets with our luggage was tricky, but check-in was easy. In fact, the "cattle call" aspects of cruising were absent our full 17 days. Rarely did we have to wait in a line. The ship docked at each of the seven ports, so we never had to take a tender. And, incredibly, it was smooth sailing the entire time--although my body always felt a bit asway.

Women nomads representing!

Being aboard with a group of friends was super fun. (To see a few of them, including us, check out this video.) It was a vibrant social scene with deliberate and spontaneous gatherings. We ate meals together, watched shows and enjoyed live music, danced, played group trivia and cards and Scrabble, swam in the pool and soaked in the jacuzzis, and walked the decks in the sea air. Every morning Dave and I led yoga sessions. It was like adult summer camp!

At any moment, I could hear various languages being spoken. At least 60 nationalities were represented by guests and staff. At one point, a Japanese man and I struck up a conversation. When I mentioned I was originally from California, he said 45 years ago he'd attended San Jose State University to learn English...the very place I used to teach!

There were several restaurants, but I preferred the choices at the buffet. Dave liked it, too, but as a non-lactose guy he struggled with milk being an ingredient in unlikely dishes, such as Asian and Indian food. When he told a server that he was disappointed at the lack of dairy-free desserts, a manager arranged to have one made for him every day. 

Seasoned cruisers seemed to think the ship was "just okay"--but I liked its design and our room, too, with its comfy bed and window looking out to the passing sea. My only complaints: the jacuzzis could have been hotter and the library bigger. I felt like an excited kid the morning we woke up to the ship trimmed in holiday decor.

Christmassy atrium

I enjoyed each port as well. We didn't use the cruise's excursions, which are convenient but expensive and often crowded. Instead, we either hired our own drivers in town or arranged tours with Airbnb Experiences or Get Your Guide. Other times we took self-guided walks using the GPS My City app.

1. In Funchal, Madeira, a Portuguese archipelago in the North Atlantic, I did a walk with Chris and Steve through the picturesque town and seaside.

Chris & Steve at a pandemic "we will hug again" installation.

the market

cathedral

swimmers

2. At Tenerife in Spain's Canary Islands, Dave and I strolled around downtown Santa Cruz then hired a driver to take us to Mount Teide. This volcano is the highest point above sea level in the island of the Atlantic. We drove up the spine of the mountain range with spectacular views around every bend and emerged above the clouds.

Tenerife market

above the clouds

Dave on the volcano

3. Porto Grande, Cabo Verde, an African island country, sits off Dakar, Senegal. At the port-of-call, Mindelo, we walked around downtown, feeling we could have been in the Caribbean. A guide drove us around the island, which was stark outside the city. At Salamansa Beach, we watched kite boarders against a backdrop of volcanic mountains.

dog and fish

4. After we steamed across the Atlantic in three days, crossing the equator, we pulled up to Recife, Brazil. Near a vast beach swarming with families, Dave, Chris, Steve, and I met up with our guide and hopped on bikes. He led us through various communities, from expensive condo high-rises to poor barrios. We saw the Parque de Esculturas, an impressive and surreal sculpture garden created by Brazilian artis Francisco Brennan as a gift to the city in the year 2000. The main piece among the 100 sculptures is the 105-foot tall Crystal Tower made of clay and bronze.

Next we loaded the bikes onto a ponga to cross the channel to the city center. There, at a bustling street fair, we ran into friends from the boat and had lunch together.

approaching Recife

Parque de Esculturas

Love seeing a city by bike.

5.  At Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, a driver took the four of us to the famous beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. As in Recife, I was amazed by the art everywhere, especially Escadaria Selaron, a landmark public stairway adorned with colorful hand-painted tiled by artist Jorge Selaron. It was a crowded, happy scene.

Next we ventured into Real Gabinete Portuguese de Leitura, aka Portuguese Reading Room, established in 1837 by immigrants. When Chris and I, two writers and book lovers, walked into this magnificent gothic style building with the largest collection of Portuguese books outside of Europe, we were so affected we hugged each other, teary eyed. 

Olympic-era mural

Chris & me at Copacabana with Clarice Lispector (1920-1977), Jewish Ukrainian novelist who escaped the pogams in Brazil.

Escadera Selaron

One wall of the amazing reading room

6. Montevideo, Uruguay, was a sweet surprise. This city of 1.4 million has a hippy, Art Deco charm. We saw a plaza dedicated to LGBTQ people, tarot card readers, and street markets selling exquisite vintage items. We wandered into an incredible bookstore, Libreria Puro Verso, in a stunning building erected in 1917. I left wanted to see more of Uruguay one day.

a gem of a bookstore

so welcoming to see Pride flags

vintage

tarot

gorgeous architecture

7. Buenos Aires, Argentina, our last stop. We spent a month there, so my next entry will be all things BA.

I wasn't sure how I'd feel about cruising for so long. At about day 14, I felt ready to sleep on a non-swaying bed. But would I do it again? Yes! And I plan to.

If you're interested in our life of housesitting, budget travel, and living in Mexico, check out my books Wanderland: Living the Traveling Life and Call It Wonder: An Odyssey of Love, Sex, Spirit & Travel.