The Joys of Airline Travel

Every child has a dream of what she wants to be when she grows up.  I, myself, had four such dreams, listed in order of preference:

1) Veterinarian
2) FBI Field Agent
3) Airport Tower Control Officer
4) Airline Stewardess

Early on in my childhood, my dear mother, when hearing about dream number one said to me:  "Judy, you would never be able to put an animal to sleep, would you?"  Dream number one burst as quickly as a balloon with a hot needle applied to it.  She saved me some grief though, because the sciences and I were never good friends.  I would have never made it.

A few years later, after hearing about my second dream, mom said to me:  "You certainly don't want to carry a gun, do you?  You might have to shoot someone."  My balloon bouquet was now halved.  Never thought of that one.  I don't know what I thought being an FBI Agent meant.  I sort of envisioned I might have my own television show.

When I was in 8th grade, they were having a special tour of the air control tower at Kent County Airport (now named the Gerald R. Ford INTERNATIONAL Airport).  I was all set to go and see what my future career would hold when mom said:  "Judy, those workers have a high rate of suicide."  And there I stood, with one lonely balloon, but it still had lots of helium.  I was enamored with the idea of travel, and I was going to be a stewardess.

I used to love flying on airplanes.  Growing up, my only flights were from Grand Rapids to New Orleans, to visit my grandparents.  I would fly down with mom, or, on occasion, was even shipped down on my own to spend a month or so with them and with my cousins.  Half of the fun of flying was the anticipation of it all.  And the stewardesses (now "flight attendants") were always so nice and kind.  They always gave me a set of wings to pin on my shirt.  As a youngster, I thought it was the best thing ever that you could have all the free drinks you wanted.  Soda wasn't usually found in our refrigerator, and so getting a Coke was a big deal. 

I remember the exact moment I became disillusioned with flying.  Just after graduating from high school, I went on a trip with my high school Spanish class to Spain.  This was my first "long haul" flight.  I was as excited as ever, both for the flight and for the actual trip to Spain.  I was severely disappointed when our flight out was delayed by almost an entire day.

When we finally boarded and took off, things were going well.  We were all chatting excitedly, and later playing cards.  And then, somewhere over the Atlantic, I had my first panic attack.  I don't want to make it sound as if I'm prone to them.  I think I've had about 5 or 6 in my lifetime.  But, as a 17 year old, I had never heard the term "panic attack."  All I know is that I was shaking, my teeth were chattering, I was perspiring and hyperventilating, and I had this very certain fear (that I wisely opted not to voice aloud) that the plane was going to crash into the ocean.  I can't say what caused it, but it certainly was an "episode."

The stewardess was a star that day.  She brought me a blanket and some hot tea, which she wisely would not let me hold, given the shaking that was going on.  I am assuming I am not the first person to have undergone such an episode on a flight, but she clearly knew what to do to get me back to normal; or to what counts for normal in me.  To this day, I remember her and am very appreciative of what she did to help me through what was, at the time, a terrifying experience.

After that, I can only say I never wanted to board a plane again.  But, of course, I did...many, many times in fact.  I no longer have panic attacks on airlines.  It's more like dread.  Flying has become a nightmare in a very different sense, and I fear that if I were to have a panic attack on a plane today, I would probably be arrested and removed for suspicion of something...and it goes without saying that my dream of being a stewardess has dissipated into nothingness. 

I just returned from Phoenix yesterday.  My scheduled flight out of Phoenix was cancelled after we were held hostage on the plane for over an hour.  New rules:  they can only keep you on board for 3 hours now.  The delay was attributed to thunderstorms; one of which, we were told by the Captain, was directly over O'Hare Airport (I found out later they didn't receive a drop of rain).  I was able to secure the last seat on the next flight out of Phoenix, and it was jam packed; therefore, I ended up in the dreaded middle seat.  The gate agents were, understandably, harried, and therefore, quite rude with all of us.  The flight attendants were even worse.  Nowadays, because most airlines have opted to charge passengers to check their luggage, everyone tries to carry on their bags.  Well, on an overbooked Super 80, there simply isn't enough storage space for everyone's carry-on luggage. The flight attendants were getting very annoyed because bags weren't fitting, and people were not getting into their seats, making for a late departure.  Passengers were responding in kind.  It was very ugly--not to mention quite warm, as we were sitting there at the gate in Phoenix.

Flying is just downright uncomfortable.  Let's talk about the seats, shall we?  Since I fly enough, I sometimes have the opportunity to upgrade to first class; however, because both my cancelled flight and the new one were packed, I wasn't given the upgrade.  I like sitting in first class for one single reason, and it isn't the free food and drinks (although I'll get to that in a minute).  It's for the space.  I have had a 33 inch inseam since high school.  Those legs do not fit well in the new, streamlined economy section of most airlines.  And when the person in front of you opts to recline his or her seat, it bunches me up like a pretzel.  I can live with this on a one hour flight, but the flight from Phoenix is a minimum of 3 hours and it's miserable.  I don't even want to reflect back on some of my overseas flights--the worst of which was a very long trip from Chicago to Istanbul, on a plane where my knees were jammed up against the back of the seat in front of me, and the guy across from me had a 12 hour gas problem. 

The width of most airline seats is something that has, in past years, also become streamlined.  I will not argue with anyone who points out that I am overweight.  Yeah, I have a bit of chub on me.  But I am never the fattest person on that plane--not even close.  And when I wedge down into the seat and the arms of either side of the seat are squeezing down on top of my legs, I can only wonder how other, chunkier folks are fitting into their little spots. 

Eating and drinking on board is a joke.  It's not so much a problem these days on domestic flights, because, frankly, they don't feed you.  Well, unless you want to pay (get ready) $10 for a roast beef sandwich on a stale roll, or shell out $7 for a glass of wine.  And it's not a first growth Bordeaux that they are serving you.  But if you fly overseas, they do serve you a meal, included with the astronomical price of your ticket.  The pull out tray comes right up to your chest.  And, more often then not, the seat in front of you is reclined, making it impossible to eat, unless you have short arms like the T-Rex.  I have dashed through London train stations while simultaneously shovelling a meat pie in my mouth, and felt more civilized eating there then I do in this sort of situation.

Yesterday on my flight, they also announced that they no longer supply blankets in the main cabin, but, for $8 they would happily sell you one.  I had never heard this before, and I snorted out loud.  I am 100% certain that within 5 minutes of that announcement, the temperature in the main cabin dropped at least 10 degrees.  I froze my way from Phoenix to Chicago, because I was in short sleeves and I refused to pay $8 for the tissue paper that they call a blanket.

Airlines have given up on the idea of customer service, and they have done it for one obvious reason--they clearly need the money.  They are going to bilk us for every single service they possibly can.  I literally guffawed when I read that Easy Jet--a no frills airline I have flown in Europe on occasion, is opting now to charge to use the restroom.  Ticket prices have risen astronomically, passengers are charged for checked baggage (and soon, you watch, you'll be charged for carry-on items too), food is not only not free, but it is seriouly overpriced and, if one can even imagine this is possible, it even tastes worse.  Seats have become narrower and they are put closer together in order to fly as many people as possible.  But, I think the worst result of all of this is the attitude of the cabin crew.  When I was young, I looked up to them.  I admired them and loved the way they used to treat me when I flew; so much so that I wanted to be one.    Now, it seems the majority just want to pack you in, throw your drinks at you, collect your cups and whisk you off with a perfunctory "buh-bye".  They are seriously stressed and overworked on these flights, and they are the front lines, taking all the grief from we, the public--a lot of very unhappy passengers who simply don't like what the airlines are doing to us, just because they can get away with it.  I can't blame them for being that way, but, in the end, it makes me despise air travel.  And I haven't even yet discussed the stale air issue.

My eldest brother recently retired as a Captain for Southwest Airlines.  He denied my accusations that fresh air was piped into the flight deck.  I have a somewhat irrational (or is it really?) fear of breathing that airplane air.  I figure that if the guy 8 rows up in 7D has tuberculosis, his germs are going to get into that recycled air and I'm going to walk off the plane with a case of consumption.  This suspicion is confirmed, as far as I am concerned, as I tend to become ill quite frequently after flying.  Tom; however, almost never got sick, but he insists that for years he breathed the same air that they force on the folks in the back (in the "cattle car" as he called it).  Personally, I think he had to take a pilot's oath that he would never divulge the fresh air secret.

Anyway, some of my friends are taking an enormous trip across country via Amtrack this summer.  I used to take the train to New Orleans when I was in college, because, quite frankly, it was less expensive than flying.  But eventually, train travel became just as expensive, if not more so, than air travel, and I haven't been on a train in a very long time.  In light of what's going on with the airlines these days, I am thinking of looking back into it to see if it's comparable to airfare.  It might take longer, but it has to be more civilized (doesn't it?)

Take Your Dog to Work Day

Lately, and unfortunately, it has been very rainy and dismal in this part of the world.  Late May is the time of year that, normally, one would love.  The temps are supposed to be warming up and the sun should be making regular appearances.

But here in NW Indiana, there has been an unhappy amount of rain.  It is spring, and we need rain, but I say "enough."  It's bad enough that such weather ruins outdoor plans.  But rain, and even worse, rain with thunder (such as we have today) makes my life a living hell. 

My dog, the Zipster, spent the first ten years of his life as a normal Jack Russell Terrier.  He was rough, tough and fearless.  Zip was raised in Arizona, and while rain storms are infrequent, the summer brought a lot of lightening and thunder (usually accompanied by dust and sand instead of rain), and other than an occasional "woof", I was proud to see that my dog didn't seem to have any aversion to the noise.

That all changed about 2 years ago.  We were visiting my brother in Holland and staying overnight.  At about 10:00pm an extremely thin band of thundershowers moved over his house.  And it moved over his house for about 8 hours.  I don't remember ever being subjected to such a lenthy storm.  Initially, the Zipster was ok, but as the storm showed no signs of abating, he started panting.  And then he started shaking.  And then he started shuddering.  He was beside himself, and nothing could calm him or distract him. 

And that was the commencement of a new stage in our lives.  Zip's fear of thunderstorms, if evidenced in a human, would be a phsychiatrist's dream.  It has gotten to the point where he begins shaking and panting if he even senses rain.  A mere gentle rain, if he can hear or see it, causes the same reaction in my poor dog.  I have tried every tip given me by vets or by reading books and articles, all to no avail.  Here in Indiana, unfortunately, rain is relatively common.  Drugging him with Benadryl or melatonin have no effect whatsover.

Sometimes, when it's quiet at work; such as today (we are between the end of the spring semester and summer school, and it's a Friday), I'll bring Zip to my office with me.  I went home at lunch and had heard the afternoon forecast for thunderboomers.  So I collected the pup, who gets VERY excited to come to work with me, and brought him along with me.

After the second thunderboom, as Zip was going into full terror mode, my boss Joe came knocking on my door.  Before he fully entered my office, he was chiding me about being a bad dog owner, leaving my dog home alone in this storm (everyone knows of Zip's fear of thunderstorms).  Halfway through the sentence, he entered my office only to be assaulted by a terrified, yet excited terrier jumping all over him.  I was delighted to see that Joe was able to distract Zip from his fear, for all of two minutes, but when he departed, poor Zip was back to his shaking, panting (complete with drooling) and shuddering.  Another trait of his fear is that he keeps his little tail down.  It's not long enough to go between his legs.  In fact, it's so short that it seems it must take a lot of energy and strength for poor Zip to keep that little stub in that position.

The thunder has ceased.  The last sound was well over 45 minutes ago, but Zip isn't having any of it.  He's still panting and shaking, anticipating the next big noise.  I have to go to the bathroom, but there's no way to do it without him following me.  He is plastered to my leg...

The only upside of this is that it makes him extremely exhausted when it's all over.  Assuming there's no more thunder, he should sleep well tonight.  Bring on the sunshine!

My Love Affair with Lake Michigan

Michigan is known as "The Great Lakes State".  Automobile license plates often have their state mottos inscribed somewhere on them, and I grew up coveting the time when I would own a car with a plate that bragged about  Michigan's Great Lakes.  For a short year, I lived in New Jersey and was informed by the many plates on backs of cars zooming up and down the Parkway that Jersey is the "Garden State."  Somehow, I must have missed the garden part.  During my tenure in Louisiana, I learned that it was either the "Bayou State" or the "Sportsman's Paradise" depending on what year the plate was issued.  I love Louisiana, but "Mosquito Haven" is more appropriate.  Arizona is the "Grand Canyon State" although, lately they are considering changing their license plates to say "The Boycotted State."  Minnesota is "The Land of 10,000 Lakes" and I wish they would weigh down both the Twins and the Vikings and toss them in one of the deeper ones.  I now live in Indiana, and their plates say "Head North to Michigan".  They don't really say that.  In fact, I don't think they say anything, and really, who can blame them?  I'm sure that after years of being the "Hoosier State" and being subjected, time and time again to the question "What's a Hoosier", they just gave up.

But this blog is about the great lakes of Michigan.  I love Michigan, and, more specifically, I love Lake Michigan.  Having been raised a mere 30 minute drive away, I spent a good deal of time traversing up and down the shores of this beautiful lake, from New Buffalo up along the west side of the state, to Traverse City and then up to the Upper Peninsula where there is a gorgeous drive along the northern side of Lake Michigan, on Route 2.  The state of Michigan has the good fortune to have over 3,200 miles of shoreline--more than any other state save Alaska.  Michiganders are water people.  In middle school, Boater's Safety was a mandatory course.  Yes, many states have miles of shoreline, but Michigan is better than all of those other states, because we are surrounded by fresh water lakes; and everyone knows that fresh water lakes are better than salty oceans any day.

And let me tell you why...

I learned to swim from the age of 3 or 4.  On Sundays during the summer, my parents would pack us and a picnic lunch in the car and head to Holland State Park, on the shore of Great Lake Michigan, where we would spend an entire day there, swimming, eating, playing amongst the dunes and getting sunburned. When we arrived, I didn't wait for everyone to unload the car and set up blankets under trees.  I took off running to the water.  I couldn't wait to get in and start swimming and playing in the lake.  My mother was charged with watching me--interesting, that, in that mom never learned to swim despite all of our efforts to teach her.  But I don't remember a time when I didn't swim and, while I would never turn down the opportunity to paddle in someone's pool, nothing on earth was better than diving amongst the waves of the Big Lake. 

When I was able to drive, and finally owned a vehicle with "The Great Lakes State" plastered on my license plate, I often drove to the shores of Lake Michigan, whether to swim, wade, or walk the beach.  I love the State Parks, but they cost money.  So, I found many county parks up and down the southwest shoreline where I could enter for free, sometimes merely for the joy of watching the sun set over Wisconsin (America's Dairyland).   There is nothing more beautiful than watching that big orange fireball sink below the horizon of the water, or witnessing a menacing thunderstorm come rolling in across it. Sometimes, on a Saturday, or if I can escape work early enough on a summer afternoon, I throw Zip in the car and we head up to Hagar Shores, and I walk along the beach while Zip chases and bites at the waves.  At times, I have been fortunate to stay at a friends house near the lake, or more recently, at my brother's home which is just on the other side of a big dune.  The sound of the waves lulls you to sleep at night and gently wakes you in the morning.  Folks who live on or near the big lake are the most fortunate people in the world.

Despite the fact that the ocean can also offer these things, let me describe what else the ocean offers...

Back in high school, I went with a group to Florida (The Sunshine State) during spring break.  I treated the ocean much in the same way I treated Lake Michigan--it was my first time ever swimming in the ocean, and I couldn't wait to dive in.  On our second day there, as I was swimming amongst the waves, I felt a terrible, sharp pain on my back.  The pain was from the sting of a jellyfish, sinking it's little jellyfish things in me.  There are no jellyfish in Lake Michigan. 

That same week, I watched as paramedics drove onto the beach and tended to a man who had been swimming in the ocean and had a chunk of his calf taken out by what they claimed was a small "sandshark".  The blood was everywhere.  There are no sharks in Lake Michigan.

When I lived in Jersey (the Garden State) and it became intolerably hot and humid, I drove to the Jersey Shore, to cool off and swim in the ocean.  As I was driving back, I noticed that my skin was covered in white scaley stuff.  I started scratching my head and white stuff was coming off of my scalp.  No, it wasn't dandruff, but rather, a thick caking of salt that had dried all over my body.  There is no salt in Lake Michigan.

When I lived in New Orleans, there was no ocean.  We had to drive to Mississippi (no motto--they tend to have their counties' names on their plates), to the Gulf, in order to swim.  Note, I count the Gulf as the ocean because it's salty and it's connected to the ocean.  So, one day, swimming about in the shallow Gulf waters of Waveland, something lightly brushed against me, like a fine, feathery kiss, and when I looked down at the water, I saw a dark object that looked suspiciously like the Baby Ruth candy bar from Caddyshack.  There is no poop in Lake Michigan (at least, I've never seen any).

So, go on and brag about your oceans, but those of us from Michigan know that we have it so much better than all of you salt lovers.

I don't mean to slight the other great lakes either.  I am very familiar with two others; namely, Lake Superior and Lake Huron.  I don't know that I've been introduced to Lake Ontario--which doesn't really touch Michigan; and, after Ohio (the Buckeye State) killed Lake Erie, we decided to let them have it.

Superior is named that for a reason.  By surface area, it is the largest freshwater lake in the world.  It is certainly one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen (yes, yes, Tahoe is nice too).  I don't really remember if I had the privilege of visiting Lake Superior as a child.   I do, however, remember taking a summer vacation up in the Yooper, and driving my coveted vehicle through a dense, piney forest on a very bumpy, unpaved road.  Just as my teeth were about ready to rattle out of my head, I came out of the woods and was treated to a magnificent vista of Lake Superior from atop a cliff.  I drove along the cliff until I found a place where I could wind my way down, on foot, to the beach.  As I stood on the shore, I looked to my right, and to my left.  I saw not one person.  No footprints but my own had disturbed the sand.  I looked back up to the cliff and saw not a single house or man-made construction of any sort.  I began imagining that this was what the world looked like before man came along and messed with it.  My red vehicle, atop the cliff, seemed vulgar and intrusive in this setting.  Apart from the swishing of the waves and the cry of an occasional bird, there wasn't a sound. 

This was my chance to swim in Lake Superior.  I hesitated, and thought better of it, thinking that maybe I should start by wading.  Having removed my shoes, I tentatively moved towards the sapphire waters of this majestic lake.  I put a foot in, and felt the stinging sensation, not of a jellyfish, but rather, of needles of cold water flash freezing my skin.  Nope...too frigid for me.  This might explain the lack of development along this Great Lake.  The water temperature just never gets warm enough to swim without a bodysuit, and I didn't have one sitting in my car.  Still, it was a fabulous experience, to sit there on that unspoiled shore, and contemplate the lake.

I have, since then, made other trips up along the shore of Lake Superior.  I think my favorite place on this lake is Copper Harbor.  Copper Harbor, and Eagle River just to the west, are probably the northernmost points of Michigan with the exception of Isle Royal.  Copper Harbor is located at the tip of narrow Keeweenaw Peninsula, that juts out into Lake Superior.  It is a beautiful place, and neither words nor photos can do it justice.  You can go up Brockway Mountain and be treated to an amazing vista of Copper Harbor.  If you want to visit Isle Royal, Copper Harbor is where you can catch the ferry, for the long ride out (I think it's about six hours).  I haven't yet visited Isle Royal, but I plan on doing it someday.

If you visit the shores of Lake Superior, you need to visit Pictured Rock National Park--40 miles of pristine shoreline along the big lake.  Don't miss Au Sable Point, on the east end of Pictured Rock, featuring one of Michigan's many magnificent lighthouses.



It wasn't until last year that I really had any relationship with Lake Huron. Being from Southwestern Michigan (if you were here, I would point to my hand and show you where I'm from), Michigan was my lake.  However, Lake Huron is not to be scoffed at.  One of my all-time favorite places is Mackinac Island, and it is, indeed, situated on (or in?) Lake Huron.  Oh wait, I'm sure I have a photo of Zip wading in Lake Huron on the shores of Mackinac Island.  Note how CLEAN the water is (something else I didn't notice on the Jersey Shore).  So, yes, I've been to Lake Huron many times, but I never really thought about Lake Huron until last summer.

I decided to rent a small cabin up in Clear Lake, and one day, Zip and I traveled along the Au Sable River, beautiful in its own rite, to the eastern part of the state and walked the beaches and played in the waves of Lake Huron.  I particularly enjoyed the county park at Oscoda (where the Au Sable empties into the lake)--which is dog friendly,  and also Tawas City, a bit farther to the south.  We very much appreciated the numerous ice-cream shops in Tawas City.

So, I think I have made my case that the Great Lakes are far "superior" to any ocean.  Today, it was finally in the mid 70s and sunny and I had to restrain myself.  I was close to making up an excuse about coming down with scarlet fever, because I wanted so much to drive up to Hagar Shores and see how Lake Michigan has fared since I said goodbye to it last October.  I know it's there waiting for us.  I can barely contain myself and am anxiously anticipating the time when I can go back and visit my old friend.

Pardon Our Dust...

Eyjafjallajokull.  Has anyone tried to pronounce this???  I am grateful for the "cut and paste" options on my computer, although I note that most news reports and, in fact, many articles, do not use the actual name of the Icelandic volcano, but, instead, refer to it as "The Volcano in Iceland".   For a fun video on media folks actually trying to pronounce the name of the volcano, watch this one:
 

Well, this little geological wonder is causing my temperature to rise.  No, I have no travel plans; however, this Wednesday, 66 of my "tinies" are slated to leave for London from Chicago O'Hare or Washington Dulles airport for their six week summer program in London.  Since January, I have worked frantically on this program, from reading applications and selecting students from the hoardes that applied, to having various "pre-departure meetings" in order to answer the many questions that college students have about spending time abroad (such as:  "how late do pubs stay open" and "do cars really drive on the other side of the road?).  There is a tremendous amount of work that goes into successfully putting together such a huge program.  Part of my job, too, is to construct contingency plans in case of last minute changes:  students withdrawing the day before,, sicknesses or other family emergenices, flight delays...you name it.

How on earth can you can plan for a volcano???!!!  Airports in the UK were closed last night due to a big cloud of ash.  When I heard the news, I began spewing profanities, and nearly blew my top.  Eyjafjallajokull has already claimed it's first ND summer program victim, in that one of our professors from the main campus was due to fly to London yesterday, so that he would have a few days to get organized and prepare his class.  Alas, he is now stuck in Chicago (probably living it up at the Palmer House or some other hardship).  His is a small problem and can be easily dealt with.  Delaying 66 students for a program that is tightly planned and PAID FOR, is another matter.  A one or two day delay might be dealt with; however, anything more than that and we're cooked.  Accommodation has contracted for, professors have been hired, and who knows what other unrecoverable costs there are?  Without student tuition, there will be massive financial losses.

But, as long as it doesn't come out of my paycheck, I guess it's ok.  After all, it's out of my control.  I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens when the dust settles.  In the end, all of our hopes for a great summer program may very well go up in smoke.

A Tale of Two Cities, Part 2

I thought I would be able to detail my first trip to Cairo in "Part 1" but, in fact, I only succeeded in narrating the first day.  I promise not to spend so much time droning on about the rest of my trip.  It should be fairly easy to abridge the remainder of my wanderings there.


My second day in Cairo was a day of meetings with AUC officials.  I will skip that part, mostly because it would be incredibly boring to anyone not in my line of work, but also because I have learned that it is unwise to discuss one's work in a public forum.  It can often be the quickest route to the unemployment line.  

During the seemingly interminable drive to AUC (it's only 25 kilometers, but it is impossible to detail the traffic patterns--see part 1), I noted that we drove past the City of the Dead.  I had read a bit about this before arriving in Cairo and it's a very fascinating sociological phenomenon in Cairo.  The City of the Dead is a cemetery, but, in fact, it is where the dead meet the living.  Because of Cairo's poverty and their housing shortage, families actually live in these cemeteries.  The tombs are actually built like small houses.  The inhabitants have strung electrical wires into the cemetery.  It is difficult for us to imagine living in a cemetery but, in fact, thousands of Cairenes have taken over these sites.  Living in a cemetery isn't legal at all, but it's tolerated; most probably because officials wouldn't know what to do with the people living there, should they choose to evict them.


One other very fascinating aspect to Cairo is Medina Zabaleen or "Trash City".  Again, I only drove by Trash City, but it is very difficult to describe.  The Zabaleen people are mostly Coptic Christians and they live in this huge expanse of trash.  The Zabaleen are the garbage collectors in Cairo--they go door to door, collecting the trash, bringing it back to Trash City and then they sort it.  The plastics they recycle for money and the organic material was fed to their pigs.  Unfortunately, they were dealt a huge blow by the government last year when Egypt opted to cull all pigs during the outbreak of the H1N1 virus.  There was never any connection between this virus and swine, and so this move was seen, by some, as a direct attack on the minority Coptic Christians by the Islamic government.  This action hurt the Copts greatly, but it also hurt the community.  Since there were no longer any pigs to eat the garbage, the garbage is now piling up on the streets of Cairo.  For a very interesting video on this, check out this Youtube link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8l0r7gKrZkw.


Speaking of Copts, I was very interested to visit Coptic Cairo, or, as it's sometimes called, Old Cairo.  And so, one day, I braved it all on my own, and decided to take the Metro and spend a day visiting the Coptic Museum as well as some very, very old churches in that section of Cairo.


The Metro works surprisingly well and is a very clean and efficient system.  Unfortunately, it's routes are not yet elaborate enough to get you to many places in Cairo that one would like to visit; however, there was a stop right by my hotel and it was a direct route to Old Cairo.  Plus the Metro costs 1 Egyptian pound (maybe .20 American?)  Hard to beat.


I was told that there is a woman's only car in the front.  And so, I hopped on the first car when the train stopped.  It was packed solid--and clearly it was not the women's only car.  It may have very well been the men's only car, although I did spy one woman with a baby on the far end of the car.  I was the tallest, fattest, fairest person on the car and now I know what it feels like when the whole world is staring at you.  (I later learned that women's only car is now somewhere in the center--thanks for telling me).  Nobody spoke to me on the ride down, but everyone got a really good look.  I was relieved to exit!

What I can say about Coptic Cairo is that I loved it.  The Coptic Museum is, in my opinion, first rate, especially if you are interested in artifacts (many of which are religious) dating back to the origination of Christianity.  It is a fabulous building, dimly lit, but not so dark that you couldn't view items.  It was cool and mercifully quiet--an oasis of tranquility in the midst of perhaps the noisiest and most chaotic city in the world.  The Coptic Museum claims, probably correctly, to house the largest collection of Christian artifacts anywhere.  I spent a good long time going through it, looking at fabulous Byzantine art and other artifacts that date back to just past the time of Christ.


The other reason you travel to Coptic Cairo is to see the ancient churches.  The most famous is referred to as The Hanging Church, although it's real name is St. Virgin Mary's Church.  It was probably erected around the 7th century, although a church had been on that site much earlier, probably dating back to the 3rd century.  It is called the Hanging Church because the church and the upper nave are suspended over the Babylon fortress gatehouse, so you walk up quite a few stairs to get into the actual church.  The artwork inside is very impressive--from the marble pulpit to the iconography to the wooden barrel vaulted ceiling.  I'll post some photos below:

The oldest church in Coptic Cairo, and one that draws all Christians is St. Sergius and Bacchus Church.  It is built on the site that, legend has it, the Holy Family stayed when they fled from the Holy Land.  In fact, there are stairs leading down to a sort of crypt, and this is where Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus supposedly lived during their time there.  You can actually transcend into the small crypt, on MOST days.  Alas, it was roped off the day I was there.  When the Nile is high, the crypt is often flooded.  So I was left to stare longingly down the dark stairs, wondering what it was like for them to live there, in hiding.  The photo below is either St. Sergius or St. Barbara's--another old and fascinating church in the walls of Old Cairo.  I wish I had labeled all of my photos!

There is also a very old synagogue in Coptic Cairo.  Unfortunately, there are, literally, less than 100 Jews in Cairo anymore.  And so, regular services are probably not even held.  I was unable to enter into the synagogue that day.  The photo above shows the narrow, walled streets of Old Cairo.

Well, I thought I could abridge the details of my week in Cairo, but apparently I am a liar.  However I enjoyed reflecting on the day I spent in Coptic Cairo.  One of the joys of travel, in my opinion, is to visit places that are so much older than our own country.  It is impossible not to marvel over and be impressed by buildings that date from 400 AD and to look at artwork that details the faith of Christians in those early days. So, in the end, I'm afraid I can't predict how long this travelogue will continue.  

A Tale of Two Cities, Part I

I call this part one.  In truth, I have no idea how many parts this series will be.  Maybe 2, maybe 3, maybe 10.  Maybe the first part will be so dull, it will never make it to post.  Either way, you may think to yourself, "My, what a clever title for this article."  I cannot claim to have thought it up myself.  It was previously used by a lad named Charles Dickens, and I tip my hat to him (although I do not wear one, refusing to cover my beautiful hair at any time).  Thanks, Charles, for letting me plagarize.  At any rate, on with the blog, which will, if I don't end up being too loquacious (as a friend who likes to use big words would say), detail my experiences in two very different cities:  London, UK and Cairo, Egypt.  Call it a travelogue.  I find this all so ironic since I am often SOOOOO bored at having to look at photos and listen to the travelogues of friends and family.  Now it's my turn to bore someone to tears.  Yippee.  Here's hoping I succeed.

My job at Notre Dame is to coordinate study abroad programs for students.  Sometimes, we refer to ourselves as "student exporters."  At the beginning of the fall semester, I have the responsibility of marketing the programs for which I am responsible; namely, the London and Cairo study abroad programs.  I then use my god-like power and select those lucky few to participate and spend the rest of my time "preparing" them to go abroad.

When I was hired in, it was the London job for which I had applied.  Having lived there with students for two years and having spent seven or so summers there, for five weeks at a time there, I had quite a bit of local knowledge. However, in my interview, I was told I would probably be coordinating another program and I was asked what area of the world I was interested in.  I waxed eloquently about my love of European countries, and my knowledge of the history of Spain and Italy.  And so, you can imagine my surprise when I was told that, along with London, I would be coordinating the Cairo program.  Well, that certainly made sense.

My experience and knowledge of Cairo, Egypt, or North Africa was next to nothing.  I knew Cairo was in Egypt.  I knew the Nile was in Egypt and that the pyramids were in Egypt.  I don't speak Arabic and knew very little about any Middle Eastern cultures.  And, most importantly, I had never visited Cairo, and so I found it difficult to prepare students for their semester or year abroad in a place which I had never seen.  I'm sure you notice the foreshadowing.  Eventually, I was required to visit Cairo.  And, it was after my travel there that I coined the phrase about myself:  "I'm a first world kind of girl."  Yet, that is not to say that Cairo is not interesting or worthy of a visit.  But, it is certainly not an easy, nor relaxing place to be.  And so, part one of this blog will be to detail my first visit to Egypt.  I should note that I have since been back a second time, and, having been once, I found the second trip much easier, and therefore, a bit more enjoyable.  But this blog will detail my first adventure there.

We send students to the American University in Cairo.  Two years ago, when I was planning my trip, the University had just moved from it's rather centrally located, congested campus to "New Cairo", which, at that time was out in the desert about 25 kilometers, literally amidst nothing.  AUC's adjustment period to their new campus was, quite frankly, a disaster, and I could tell they were trying to get me to put off my visit. However, that was impossible.  I couldn't, with any sense of integrity, spend another semester preparing students to go abroad to a place I had never seen, and so, in a sense, I forced the issue with my colleagues at AUC.

Since I had never been, I thought it made sense to plan a good, long visit.  I not only needed to see the University, but I needed to see the city and get a sense of the areas around the student residences in Zamalek, and, of course, do some site seeing.  And so I booked my ticket for eight days.

I asked AUC to plan an agenda for me, so I would have the opportunity to meet with officials and colleagues there.  A week before departure, I received my itinerary of meetings  They took up exactly one half a day.  I had planned on taking our students to Alexandria on another day.  That left me a total of six other days to occupy my time.  I started feeling something very uncomfortable deep in the pit of my stomach.

Estimates put the population of Cairo at around 18 million.  To give you some comparisons, London is about 8 million.  LA is about 3.8 million, New York about 8 million.  Suffice to say, Cairo is very populated.  It is, in fact, unbelievably crowded--milling masses of humanity.  And, after spending a week there, I came to the conclusion that each of those 18 million people owns a vehicle.

There is a tremendous amount of vehicle traffic in Cairo and yet, during my trip there, I saw not one single working traffic light.  I saw a total of two intersections that were manned by traffic police.  I don't remember seeing one car that wasn't damaged, dinged, or dented.  The wide streets are four, five or six lanes across; however, using the word "lanes" is a misnomer, because it's not as if anyone actually stays in a lane.  There aren't really any traffic laws or rules or, if there are, it appears that most drivers tend to ignore them.

The biggest danger one will face in Cairo is, actually, crossing the street.  If you've ever played the video game Frogger, this will give you an idea of what it's like to traverse through traffic as a pedestrian.  There is no such thing as a pedestrian right of way, nor are there crosswalks.  Our students, after living in Cairo for a month or so, actually begin to enjoy the thrill of the risk that goes with crossing a street.  I, being much older and wiser, never felt good about it.  One literally has to find an open spot, walk out into the street and, while waiting for the next open spot to venture further, trust that the cars heading straight at you are going to actually stop or veer around you.  Guide books actually recommend crossing with locals the first few times, using them as shields against oncoming traffic.  I found that made perfect sense.

Another thing you will notice immediately upon arriving into Cairo is that you can see the air.  Cairo, at this point, has the worst air pollution in the world.  It's not a great place for folks who suffer asthma or other respiratory problems.  When you descend into the airport and look out, everything is brown.  My hotel was on the Nile.  Some nights you could see the hazy lights on the other side, but that was about it.  By the end of my week there (gross alert), black stuff was coming out of my nose.

So, a little bit about my trip.  I arrived late at night on a British Air flight from London.  I wasn't keen about getting in at 11:35 in the evening, as I was travelling alone into a foreign city with which I was unfamiliar.  In the Office of International Studies, we are very concerned about security--but only for our students.  When I expressed concerns about traveling there alone, my concerns were brushed off as insignificant (I took that to mean that nobody wanted to go with me).  Suffice to say, I have counseled my students against doing this very thing, at least initially, but I guess it was ok for me.  I had arranged for a driver from my hotel to meet me at the airport, so I didn't have to learn to navigate the local customs of bargaining with a taxi driver.  So I felt relatively ok about my late arrival.  Needless to say, there was no driver there to meet me.  There were; however, hoardes of taxi drives following me about at about the airport, wanting to take me to my hotel.  In Cairo, most taxis lack meters, or, if they have them, they don't work.  And so, as a foreigner, you have to negotiate a fare.  It helps, at this point, to speak the language.  (See above where I stated I don't speak Arabic).  Additionally, asking to be taken to a Western hotel is basically ruining any chance of negotiating a fair rate.  Westerners are thought to be wealthy (and compared to most Cairenes, we are) and therefore, it only makes sense that they will try to squeeze as much money out of a Westerner as they can.  There is the additional slight fear of safety.  A woman alone in Cairo, even one as fat, grey and old as I, is subject to harassment.  I quickly learned that they were not going to make any exceptions for me.

Needless to say, when I saw no driver to meet me, I started to freak out, but only internally.  The taxi folks were starting to smell blood when I walked up and down the concourse for the fifteenth time.  I had called the hotel twice, only to be cut off both times in mid sentence.  I finally found a counter with my hotel's name on it, and the gentlemen there called the hotel for a driver.  Murphy's Law--they had no record of my request for a car.

My first ride through Cairo was akin to my first ride on that massive roller coaster at Cedar Point, in that, somewhere along the route, my stomach departed from my body.  As it was late, the roads were freer, leaving my very nice driver freer to speed along at about 90 mph.  Needless to say, I didn't get much sightseeing in on that initial trip in from the airport.

When I arrived at my hotel, I breathed a sigh of relief.  It was a big, familiar, Western hotel with all of the amenities needed after a somewhat harrowing arrival.  By the time I checked in and my suitcases were brought up, it was well past 1:30am.  I went out on my balcony, looking over the haze atop of the Nile and drinking a vile Heineken from the mini-bar.  It was then I noticed the non-stop noise of honking horns. Cairenes honk continuously as they're driving.  I have asked about this practice and have received a variety of answers, such as: they want to let you know they're there, they want you to get out of their way, they want you to cut in front of them, they're about to run you over, they're angry, they're happy or...they feel like honking their horns.  Or maybe they're honking because they love Jesus, although I think those honkers are in the minority in Cairo.  Whatever it means, the sound of honking horns is a constant in Cairo.  Therefore, I needed to shut the door to the balcony in order to shut out the noise so that I could go to bed.

My first full day in Cairo was a free day.  I thought I would need time to adjust to the time difference and the surroundings, and so I planned nothing but to sleep in and then later, walk to the Egyptian Museum, which was quite close to my hotel.  I timidly ventured downstairs and had some breakfast, being careful to follow my own rules to the students:  don't eat fruits unless they're peeled and drink only bottled water.  I then walked out the door of the hotel and was immediately swarmed by gentlemen offering me a ride.  I found it interesting, most of them had large, nice cars, none of which had a taxi sign on the roof.  I politely uttered the one Arabic phrase I knew:  "La, shukran", which I think means "No thank you."  That didn't deter them, since a few followed me down the street and halfway to the the Museum.  Along with offering me a ride, they offered other things as well.  Needless to say, I wasn't feeling flattered, but rather, intimidated.

And so now I came to my first real challenge:  crossing the street.  It was terrifying.  I saw a spot, stepped out, but then saw a speeding car.  I jumped back to the relative safety of the curb.  I was honked at.  I don't know what it meant.  Should I go?  Should I stay?  I stayed.  I tried it again.  This time though, I was out farther and I was committed.  Cars were whizzing around me, leaving me plenty of room to not get hit, as long as I held in my stomach.  At one point, I heard a loud scream.  I didn't realize it was me until I finally made it across the street.  No sigh of relief here.  I had two more such streets to cross, and THEN, I had to come back!

At this point, I find that I am as exhausted reliving this experience as I was when it first happened.  Apparently, it has had more of a pyschological effect on me then I realized.

The Egyptian Museum was an amazing experience.  As actual museum buildings go, it's not that great, in that it's packed to the gills with items, some of which are labeled (I am NOT exaggerating) with lined paper and Arabic words scribbled in pencil).  It is dusty and, despite looking impressive from the outside, not maintained too well.  But the objects and artifacts contained inside are, quite frankly, impressive and mind boggling.

Obviously, most folks go to the see the artifacts from Tutankhamen's tomb, and this is worth more than the price of admission.  Granted, you have to wend your way through the throngs of tourists (mostly Germans by the way.  Am I the only one to notice that Germans really seem to get around?)  Not only is the death mask unbelievably gorgeous, but you will find yourself staring in amazement at the huge photos on the wall, taken of the inside of the tomb when it was discovered.  All of these amazing artifacts were just piled up in disarray.  And then you can actually see them firsthand and close up.  Until you see it, it is impossible to explain just how much stuff was in there with King Tut.  Who says that you can't take it with you when you die?  He surely tried.

Also of note is the mummy room.  OK, honestly, who, in their right mind, doesn't like mummies?  You have to pay extra, but what is the point of crossing half the world to get to Egypt and then not seeing the mummies?  You would be wasting your money, in my opinion.  They are very cool, and they are very creepy.  If you go to Cairo, see the mummies, OK?  There is also a section in the museum of animal mummies.  You don't have to pay extra to see those.  Not as creepy, but pretty cool nevertheless.

I spent almost 5 hours in the museum.  I may have seen it all.  Because some of the labels were on notebook paper and not translated, I didn't always know what I was looking at.  Nevertheless, I decided that civilization began in Egypt a very long, long time ago.  OK, I knew it before then, but it's nice to have your knowledge validated.  You could spend days in that place.  Actually, I had days to spend there, but I was getting tired. 

I would be remiss, especially for anyone reading this who is a female, to not insert here my first attempt at using a public restroom in Egypt.  The best advice I can give you is to carry toilet paper and hand sanitizer.  I don't care where you are, there will be a woman standing at the entrance to the restroom selling you toilet paper, and when you pay her, she will hand you, quite literally, one little square.  Usually single ply too.  I have done my daily good deed...

I left the museum reluctantly.  Yes, I was tired from all the walking and I was ready to call it a day.  But my reluctance stemmed from the knowledge that I had to go "out there".  I had to face the traffic, the masses of humanity and the guys who were constantly saying things to me.  One doesn't need to know the language in order to translate.  Suffice to say, this was the first time I felt as if I could have gotten lucky on a whim. 

Fortunately, I found a back way to the hotel.  I would still have to cross streets, but there was much less human traffic.   It also allowed me to walk through the Nile Hilton (the large hotel next to mine, which was the Semiramis Intercontinental).  And so I broke up my walk back by having a cup of tea and a croissant in the lobby cafe.  What I really wanted to do was go into their hookah bar and have a smoke, but I was too timid to try it alone.

I made it back to my hotel in one piece and then started to worry about dinner...

Why would dinner be a worry, you wonder?  Well, an uncertain Western female alone in Cairo is undertaking quite an adventure by walking the streets in search of a restaurant, and then, by sitting alone at a table eating.  The better guidebooks, however, told me that two of the most recommended restaurants were actually right in my hotel.  One was Thai and one was Lebanese.  I could go for a good mezze, so I decided that I needed to eat in, at least for my first night there.  I just didn't have the stamina to brave the outside world of Cairo any more that day.  I had a fabulous meal with hummus and pita, stuffed grape leaves, my favorite:  saganaki (which is a fantastic fried cheese...Oopa!) and other delicacies.  And then it was off to bed and watching the BBC. 

Wow, I'm tired having relived this day.  I'll end it here, saving the real Cairo excitement for another blog.

So Long to the Class of 2010

It's senior week here at Notre Dame.  What that means is that the pesky and pest-y underclassmen have departed for the summer (I try not to let my screams of joy echo down the corridors), leaving the seniors for one final week of fun and sun at Notre Dame prior to their commencement ceremonies.  Senior class officials plans all sorts of fabulous events for them during this week:  Senior Ball, trip to the Cubs game (most assuredly to watch them lose), jaunts to Lake Michigan (that's a laugher, since it hasn't been over 52 degrees all week and right now it's overcast and raining), and, of course, the famous "Last Visit to the Grotto."

The Last Visit is the big emotional moment which has been re-edited over the years, with, I believe, the deliberate intention of producing an emotional reaction in all present.  If a senior attends this event and doesn't shed buckets of tears during the service, it's considered a disgrace.  When I was here in my previous life, I loved this event.  It was a simple evening ceremony where seniors would visit the grotto, pray, sing and say goodbye.  Now, it has become such a huge production that, because of the large numbers of people,  it begins in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart and eventually migrates down to the grotto. It should, in fact, be called "Senior Last Visit to the Basilica, with a Side Trip to the Grotto."

The Grotto is, indeed, a very special place on this campus.  Modeled after the one in Lourdes, which commemorates the appearance of Our Lady to a 14 year old French girl named Bernadette Soubirous, the Notre Dame Grotto was erected in 1896 by Fr. Sorin, the French Holy Cross priest who founded Notre Dame.  Even though it is a fraction of the size of the original Grotto, it is a powerful place of prayer and reflection.  The rosary is said daily there in the evenings, and, on football weekends, you will find it impossible to locate an available candle to light.  It was always my hope that visiting alumni were lighting candles on those weekends for family and friends, but I suspect the candles were sent up as prayers for the Notre Dame Football team.  Somehow though, I never believed Our Lady bothered to take sides in a football match, even if one team bore her name.

If you ask Notre Dame students to name their favorite place on campus, many will point to the Grotto.  I know this for a fact, having been a Rector in the residence halls for 9 years.  Many fled there in times of stress; for example, if they were overwhelmed with exams or school work, or if there was trauma at home, or they were experiencing relationship difficulties, or if someone in the family was ill.  On the rare occasion when there is a student death here, the Grotto is ablaze with lit candles.  The Grotto is also the site of many senior proposals.  It is not uncommon for a couple to wend their way down to the Grotto during senior week and come back being engaged.

I can't help but reflect on the different tenor of the campus this week, as compared to last year at this time.  This year, Brian Williams, of NBC News, will be the featured commencement speaker and recipient of an honorary degree.  I hesitate to remind folks that last year, the recipient of this degree and featured speaker was the President of the United States, Barack Obama.  Obviously, there are no protestors here on campus this week.  Brian Williams seems a nice enough guy and not the type who is apt to cause any major controversy by his presence here.

I have very definite opinions regarding what the University did last year in inviting President Obama, but I am not going to get into the moral or political issues which were the cause of the controversy.  I have to say that I am very grateful that this year's senior class (many of whom I am quite fond), does not have to endure the same sorts of things that last year's class did.  I am loathe to reignite this controversy by even referring to the episode because I know that the five or six readers of this blog vary tremendously in their attitudes towards the event.  Some would gladly have attended, seating themselves in the front row and cheering on our President.  Others might have joined the 4,000 plus individuals, including graduates, at the "alternative" ceremony in South Quad.

My views about this event are simple and basic,and do not delve into deep moral beliefs, academic freedom, the need to dialog, or Church teaching.  At the time, I was stunned at the University's announcement. Graduation, quite simply, should be about graduates, but, I'm afraid, at Notre Dame, it has become about something entirely different.  So, regardless of what one believes about whether a Roman Catholic University should award an honorary doctorate of Laws to a politician who holds pro-abortion views, the real issue, in my opinion was more about the total lack of consideration the Board of Trustees held for the graduates in planning their graduation for them.  Of course, many of the graduates (and faculty and staff) were thrilled that the President was to be their commencement speaker.  But many were not, and some were forced to make a choice as to whether it was even morally acceptable to attend their own ceremony.  How could a University, who claims to be committed to her students, ever put individuals in such a position--ripping away the proudest moment of their young lives?  Planes pulling banners were flying overhead and protesters never left the gate.  It was, in fact, a circus, and not in any good sense of the word.  This was not the time nor was it the place to have a debate.  It was a time to honor seniors and other graduates, as well as parents and family members; and those that invited the President must have known that, by so doing, they were going to open the floodgates to protesters, the press, and all sorts of unwanted shenanigans.   I never understood why they did this.  It took absolutely no foresight at all to know what was going to happen after that announcement was made. Dimwit that I am, even I felt a sense of foreboding the instant I learned the news.  I realized immediately that the campus would become the focus of a tremendous amount of (unwanted) national attention. I turned out to be a prophet, in fact.  Now, if I was able to figure that out beforehand, I wonder, why didn't the Board of Trustees and the President of the University, who happens to be a bright, Thomistic scholar, foresee it?  It would have made oh so much more sense to invite the President here at another, much more appropriate time, instead of during commencement.  Then they could have held the true dialog that they claim so much to have wanted.  Unfortunately, the result of this event was nothing but divisive for our University.  It pitted the University against the Diocese, Holy Cross priest against Holy Cross priest, faculty and staff against each other, and, sadly, it divided the students. This was not merely an academic debate.  It caused a wound in this small community, and we have not yet recovered.

I am not trying to resurrect the arguments surrounding this situation at all, but it's nearly impossible to be here this week, and not reflect back on the turmoil of last year.  Graduation at Notre Dame is almost sacred.  Not many students would even consider not participating in it.  It is rare, indeed, when proud parents are not present for the event.  And so for seniors, law students and graduates--the Class of 2010, I am thrilled that there is no sort of controversy this year (at least to date) that will mar the ceremony in any way.  Excited graduates and proud parents can file into the stadium and participate in an event that they have anticipated since first setting foot on this campus.  Despite the rain and miserable weather, this is the way graduation should be--focused on the graduates and their achievements.

I wish the class of 2010 the very best.  God go with you.  We will miss you.

Is it Time for a Retirement Community?

For ten years, I resided in Sun City, Arizona.  Sun City, for those who may not know, is a retirement community.  And, as I was a Realtor in Sun City and the surrounding area, I can tell you the residential laws of said retirement community; namely, that one person in a household must be at least 55 years of age and no residents can be under 19 years of age.

There ought to be sociological studies done on places like Sun City or the many Florida retirement communities that our Michigan residents, and others in snow laden climates tend to flock to.  Imagine a community, and, in Sun City's case, a rather large community (population approximately 46,000) with absolutely no children.  Therefore,there are no schools, no playgrounds, and only the occasional crying baby in church when grandchildren are visiting. There are no teenagers (I will let readers decide if this is a bad thing).  Imagine, no loud bass music vibrating down the street when low riders drive by.  No noisy parties, no graffiti (sorry, but we know that teens tend to like to "decorate"), no cruising and no kids loitering about at the McDonald's parking lot.  And, Sun City is very, very quiet.  The first night I arrived there, I took a walk around the block at about 9:00pm.  I didn't see one person, or, in fact, one single moving vehicle.  Admittedly, it was in the middle of July, when Sun City is quieter for two reasons.  First, it was probably about 100 degrees Fahrenheit and only idiots are out walking in that sort of temperature, and, secondly, the smart ones and those with a few dollars in their pockets tended to head back to lovely summer homes in places like Michigan.

When Del Webb created Sun City in 1961, there was a lot of speculation that it would be a flop.  Well, I can report that Del laughed all the way to the bank.  People were literally lined up to purchase his little two bedroom, one bath tiny homes.  Over the years, I sold many of these little block constructed numbers--they look as if they were homes constructed for munch-kins.  But that first day Sun City opened, people were fighting over these homes.  Del's idea was to make a community where one would never want for activity.  Sun City is replete with golf courses, pools, huge activity centers and, best of all, very wide streets.  This allows not only for the erratic activities of some of our senior drivers, but for the plethora of golf carts that, in Sun City, are street legal.  Actually, I found the street planning in Sun City to be very bizarre, especially for a community of elder folks.  One would think that a grid would be the most logical way to lay out streets in such a place.  But in Sun City, the streets are actually circular (see photo on Amazon link below).  If you turn right onto a street, you may be heading north, but soon you will be heading east, then south, and then west and you'll end up back where you started. It's very confusing.  When I first took folks out to show them homes, I often got lost, and ended up literally going in circles.  It's all quite dizzying.

Sun City is a place where, if, in greeting someone, you ask "how are you", you need to be prepared for the real, somewhat lengthy answer, which often will detail various visits to doctors and specialists.  I learned a tremendous amount about various health issues during my time there, because health issues always dominated every conversation.  Smack in the center of Sun City is Boswell Memorial Hospital.  Because, of course, with age not only comes leisure time, but also health problems.  So, along with grocery stores in extremely convenient locales, every major street corner seems to contain a doctor's office, an optometrist, a dentist, or other specialists.  Oh, and, of course, a Walgreens or CVS pharmacy.  Del thought of it all, I guess.

When I first moved there, I found it all a little depressing.  I remember going out to dinner one evening to a local Sun City restaurant--they all close at 8:00, but that's no problem because you want to get there for the early bird special anyways.  I looked over at another table and spied a very elderly man, with his oxygen tank, sitting alone eating his meal.  Of course, my imagination went wild.  I envisioned he had lost his beloved wife of 60 years and that his children just didn't care, and left him to rot all on his own.  I almost went over and asked to join him.  However, I'm glad I didn't.  One other thing I learned during my time there--some older people can be really, really crotchety.

The truth is that there are all sorts in Sun City.  In selling real estate, I did come across some sad stories and very lonely people.  There were, definitely, situations where children had literally abandoned their elderly parents, and never showed up except when it was time to sell the house and collect the money.  There were also situations where unscrupulous people would take advantage of some naive and unsuspecting widow or widower.  That, unfortunately, is the way the world works. I spent a lot of time being angry at those situations.  Angry, but helpless.  But there were as many if not more great and heartwarming situations, such as witnessing those active retirees who flocked to Sun City to enjoy golfing and socializing; truly milking the most out of their retirement years and then, when the time came that they were not in a situation to keep up the household, their very devoted children would come and collect them and bring them home with them.  It was always difficult for them to leave, but most realized that it was time and were fortunate to have a loving family to take care of them.  And I witnessed many folks who are still as active as can be, and just decided...what the heck, let's get a different house in a different area of Sun City and spend some time fixing it up.  And, in the meantime, they had joined every club possible and rarely spent time at home because they were always out socializing.  Many Sun City residents have large families who love to come and visit on holidays, or during the winter when the snow in whatever state they live is piling up to the windowsill.  And so, despite the absence of children as residents, there were, in fact, children and younger people about, only it was nicer for the residents.  Because there were no schools, Sun City property taxes seemed to average from about $600-$900 per annum.  Woof.  Now tell me what you think about Sun City, huh?  In addition to being extremely affordable, the community is amazingly pristine.  Folks of that generation tend to have a lot of pride, and therefore, everything is kept up marvelously well.

It may seem that this blog subject has come out of nowhere.  Why, all of a sudden, did I think to write about Sun City.  Well, it was because I spent a half day today with doctors, lab assistants, and radiologists who are testing me for causes of a sudden onset of arthritis and searching for reasons behind the unremitting pain in my hips. I feel, at the relatively middle age of 48 as if my joints are giving out way too prematurely, and all of this just at the onset of summer and GOLF season.  "Not fair" I cry.   And so, when someone asked me "Judy, how are you?"  I started droning on with tales of my physical health problems.  And then I stopped and laughed and thought to myself: " I sound as if I live in Sun City!"  Maybe it's time to move back?

Zip's Pearly Whites

How is it that I could begin blogging and write a week's worth of articles and not one single one is about the great Zipster?  Anyone who knows me also knows that the center of my world, for good or for bad, is a 17 pound, almost 12 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Zippy.  The truth is that he was, in fact, 19 pounds at his last weighing, but that's just because he hasn't lost his winter chunk.  He is so much a part of my world, that I even lie about his weight as I do about mine when I go to renew my driver's license.  I admit to having gotten annoyed, almost to the point of being offended, when my veterinarian said that Zip was "overweight" by two pounds.  That's akin to her calling me fat, and, therefore, them's fightin' words.  Well, readers will be glad to know that we've been out exercising as weather permits, and I'm relatively sure that Zipster is closing in on his lean weight of 17 pounds again.  I, on the other hand, am more than likely approaching new records for the amount of cellulite one thigh can hold.

There are dog people and there are non-dog people, and the latter fail to comprehend how a four legged, shedding, drooling, barking creature can become so important as to achieve the status of "family member" in a household.  Conversely, those of us who are dog people have absolutely no understanding of those aliens from outer space who can actually mouth the words "I don't like dogs."  It is absolutely incomprehensible to me that someone could meet Zip and not like him, and yet, it happens...frequently.  OK, so maybe people don't like having their arms humped.  And I agree, I don't appreciate spending 30 minutes every morning with the tape brush, trying to remove the fine Zippy hairs from my black jacket and trousers.  And yes, there was that time he went out back, using his doggy door, stepped in his own poop and then came bouncing back on the bed, squirming his way under the covers.  And I suppose nobody likes cleaning up doggy ralph on a weekly basis?  But really, are these things his fault???

A few months back, the vet told me that it was time for dental work.  I looked at her stupidly and said "huh?" Growing up, we always had dogs in the family.  We had dogs who lived well into old age.  Never, at any time, did we have to take them in for a cleaning!  But, as in all things medical, veterinary medicine has also advanced.  I was asked if his breath was bad.  This is the understatement of a decade.  His breath smells as if he's been sucking on fish heads, and washing them down with raw sewage.  Well, apparently this is because of the black tartar building up on his teeth. And so I figured, how bad can this process be?  Well, I soon found out that it can be over $400 bad!  I thought MY dentist was a ripoff!!!   Apparently, it's not so much the actual cleaning as the massive tests that have to be performed prior to putting him under anesthesia (!!!!):  heart tests, blood tests, etc.  No, they don't put him in a little chair that leans back, and put the little towel around his neck.  They don't spray water in his mouth and then ask him to rinse.  They have to actually put him under, and the tests are to determine whether he is in sufficiently good enough health to undergo the anesthesia.  OK, so they want me to pony up all that money and risk my little doggy's life so that he can have sparkling whites?  I admit to not being so keen on this.  But then they scare you with:  "Well, if the teeth and gums become infected and there has to be an extraction, it will be much, much worse."  When I started to envision what was worse than $400, I started feeling nauseous.

Since I am a dog person and my dog is part of my family, I now stand out on the corner of Ironwood and Douglas next to the poor guy who is holding the sign about needing to feed his family.  My sign says "I need to have my dog's teeth cleaned."  I haven't been too successful in collecting money.  But I imagine this summer will see me taking Zip in for his first dental visit.  I couldn't envision not doing the right thing by him.  That's the thing with animals.  Once you take them in, you are beholden to a unilateral contract--one that requires time, money, and sacrificing going on trips.  However, unilateral though it may be, there is a return on this investment, and it's one that I find difficult to verbalize.  If I had to build a list of the top ten best things in my life; very near the top would be something about being greeted at the door by the Zipster when I came home from work.  Or maybe I would say how much I love having him snuggle next to me in bed (sans poop on paws of course), or hiking out in the woods with him and watching him pretend to ferociously chase a deer (after he pretended not to see it until it got very far ahead of him), or watching him dive in the pool after his rubber stick and then swim to the steps, or letting him loose to chase after a squirrel (but only after I was very sure the squirrel saw him and was near a tree), or witnessing how he manipulates my friends for treats--something at which he has become quite expert.  Dogs give joy, and it matters not that it is not intentional or conscious on their part.  I'm sure it was God's intention, in creating them.

So, stay tuned and I will update you as need be on Zippy's oral health proceedings.