weeding

My garden does not make sense. I plant perennials too close together, because I don't always trust time. The next season, I get mad when they elbow each other. I prune when I should sit on my hands and sit on my hands when I should prune. I alternate where I should mass, and I plant penstemons where they will stretch and flop for the south leaning sun.

I argued for depaving and doubled our permeable "land" a few years ago. I've got lots of nice pictures and memories of the back yard. Still, I never did get around to watering the astilbes until last summer. Finally, I am seeing some blooms. . . .on  one of them.

When I think about how interested I am in gardening, and how many resources I have for gardening, and how much I think about our little plot o land  and how many talented tenders o land  I know, I think my garden should be further along. The problem is that when I have a chance to got outside, I just poke around. I have a big  conceptual picture (such as a tall, colorful, undulating linear prairie type garden along the east fence we share with the Head Start), but no real strategy for implementing it.

Coming home in mid-June, I am confronted with the fact that I have few perennials that bloom in early summer, and that once again we will loose this year's apples. The front and back are lush with weeds. A few blue purple tips of sage, some straggling blue columbine flowers, and dozens of rose hips make me wish I had pictures from spring. The pic above is from late in June last year; this year, the rose and penstemon must have bloomed much earlier.


While gone, I was surprised by how little I stressed out about the building or the garden. What will be will be. But as our return approached , I did start getting anxious--more about the garden than the home.

Thankfully, Karen--who rocks her garden, and who has given me many plants that thrive despite my willy nilly approach--did some work in our yard during a spring heat snap when we were still out of town. Her report prepared me for the weeds, but also affirmed that other plants were doing their thing.

Last year, I dismantled much of our back garden in an effort to fight the rats. I relocated many of my happy perennials, including a lot of coneflowers, from the west side of the yard to the east, in soil I have been carefully amending for a few years. But one of our  tenants accidentally planted a cover crop there last fall, not aware of my relocation efforts.

I came home to a lovely sweep of rye (?) shading and asphyxiating the coneflower transplants and many other plants I had forgotten about, including raspberry canes from Karen.  In the front yard, violets have swallowed the coral bells I transplanted  (more rat refugees) and the hydrangeas I bought with a gift certificate from my mom.

Today my dad helped me weed while I pulled out the cover crop. I found that many plants survived, probably thrived, with my six months of neglect. But the coneflowers are tiny, shadows of how they grew last year.  I hope they will now be happier with  more breathing room.

I still want to reorganize some of the perennials the way I might move furniture around, but I can hear the voices of more patient gardeners telling me to wait until fall.   Even if all I do is weed this summer to uncover and encourage my efforts of years past, I should be in good shape to be strategic (right??) this fall.

Bogota--Streets for People, and Art (part 1)

I was thinking of saying, out of habit, that the best way to see a city is by bike, but really maybe the best way to see any place is just to go.

Michael and I had been eager to visit Bogota ever since its former mayor, Enrique Penalosa, came to Chicago to keynote a Break the Gridlock conference in the early aughts.  He rode in Critical Mass with us and, at the conference, shared inspiring stories of initiating Bus Rapid Transit corridors, wresting street space from cars for bikes, and organizing ciclovias on Sundays--all in a city 3 times as large as Chicago. Visions of this transportation paradise enticed us to pick Bogota as a place to visit after our time in Ecuador.

We took a long cab ride from the airport, grinding across town in heaps of traffic, along a road under construction.  The driver grumbled about the new bus and bike facilities; we expressed our enthusiasm for them and explained that we were not in a hurry, despite the fact that Miguel was in full melt down mode.  The driver attempted to lighten the mood by going deep into the 80's music catalog. When Michael reminisced about delivering newspapers by bike with a transistor radio blaring "My Sharona," the driver insisted on giving us a copy of one of his mixes.

After Miguel took a very long nap, we went for our first walk around our hostel. Like in Quito and many other truly old cities, the streets and sidewalks are narrow, with colorful, sturdy buildings facing each other--close enough to toss a bag of sugar from one across the street to another.  There tend to be few parkways or tree lined streets; instead, the open spaces are in secret courtyards and expansive plazas and parks.

We quickly stumbled into one of the plazas and Miguel chased pigeons around for a while, a great way to stretch his legs. He kept disrupting? adding to? other people's photo shoots. We then wandered around looking for a cash machine, which afforded us the opportunity to cross many streets, sometimes more than once, as we followed false leads and backtracked.

It was rush hour, and a surprising number of roads were closed to cars. People were everywhere, filling the space between buildings, paying no heed to where curbs normally separate legs from machines. Miguel quickly got used to the freedom, and we had to keep grabbing his hand at intersections: "Honey, careful, this street *does* have cars."

As the sun was setting on the vast urban valley below, we found a cajero (after I finally asked some store keepers on hat row where we might find "una maquina que dar dinero. . ." Horrible Spanish but it did the trick.) The streets also reopened to cars, which zipped around like angry bees. I grabbed Miguel's hand a little tighter, and took the curb side of our now limited to sidewalks journey.

We ate tamales on the 2nd floor of a tiny cafe that has been open since the early 1800's. Ten diners chowed elbow to elbow in a space much smaller than standard restaurant bathrooms in the US.

The next morning, as we left our hostel, we were intercepted by a small parade, maybe 20-30 people including girls dancing in bare feet. They were accompanied by what appeared to be city workers wearing uniforms that read something along the lines of "Bogota Positivo." Penalosa and another progressive mayor, Mockus (now in a run-off election for the Colombian presidency), both did a lot to promote the arts and public performance to bolster civic pride. Watching this jaunty parade taming the streets and teasing out smiles from sleepy residents made me think about how easy it can be to spread a little joy.

I then saw a bunch of wheatpaste posters, urging "no mas falsos positivos." 

"Oh no!" I thought, "Some folks are not pleased with the efforts at public pep!" Turns out these posters actually decry the internal war in Colombia, where the "military" gets rewards for killing "guerrillas," and sometimes just takes peasants from villages as victims--ie, "false positives.". . .The poster means no more killing of innocent civilians, and presumably no more killing in general.

Sometimes I am disgusted by how easy it is for us to stay in the cozy  tourist slipstream. I have been in South America for nearly half a year, and yet remain horribly illiterate about local politics, economic issues and cultures. Maybe, for me, travel is not so much about learning as wonder and then going back home with a stronger desire to learn more.

Back to the slip stream. . . Michael reported on much of our day already, so I will skip to Sunday, the eagerly anticipated Ciclovia.

Our morning again began with some surprising street art. Local police officers blocked intersections so that groups of people could use colored sawdust to create religious  mosaics carpeting the streets. We saw one group consulting with a priest (?) in full black robes. He must have been seven feet tall. At first I thought he was on stilts and just part of the overall spectacle.

We had breakfast at a french pastry shop with Margaret, who then gamely accompanied us to the military museum. Miguel wanted to see the planes and canons. . . we try to balance this with much talk of non-violence. "Sweet pea, please remember to use words, not hitting,  if you are angry."  I have been thinking lately that it's also important for him to learn to sometimes keep words in his head.

She, Michael and Miguel managed to dodge the longwinded explanation of the uniforms display, leaving me behind to nod and smile at the earnest young man trying to explain in quick Spanish the differences between the eras. I think I did catch that at some point large posters were used to ask Colombians to donate money to clothe and equip soldiers. He also made a point of showing me the lone female mannequin.

At the end of his speech, I thanked him and excused myself to look for my family. He would have talked more,  but I explained that Miguel really just wanted to see the planes again. Michael laughed at my politeness, but hey, I can be a monologuer too.

Speaking of, this is getting long, as usual, so I will save the ciclovia report for my next post, which I hope will be before we get back to Chicago where all my memories will start to melt and seep into remembrances  of other trips to old, bustling cities.

Cartagena--Our Last Days in South America

After breathing the high mountain, Andean air for most of the past 5-1/2 months, we decided to spend our last week in South America at the Colombian beach.

First on the docket was a few days of exploring the old walled city of Cartagena. We then had hoped to find a quiet stretch of beach to laze around and reflect on our last days in South America, before embarking on a circuitous, 2-day flight itinerary back to Chicago (via Bogota, Quito, and Houston).

In Cartagena, we hunkered down in a colonial house for a few days that had been converted to a basic hotel, with the central courtyard dug out to make way for a swimming pool. While preservationists would undoubtedly wring their hands over the anachronistic swimming hole, it offered the perfect respite from the blazing hot sun and stifling humidity. We typically spent half the day wandering the colonial city and the other half splashing in the pool with Miguel.

The Cartagena walled old town is lovely, with surprises around every corner that defy modern urban planning grids. Unfortunately, though 3-year-olds enjoy chasing pigeons through plazas, they don't typically appreciate history or architectural flourishes. Miguel has been a trooper, but Cartagena's cultural treasures don't do much for him. Gin aptly observed that Cartagena would be a lovely place for a romantic (child-free) getaway.

To escape the hot sun one afternoon, we made an unplanned visit to the Palace of the Inquisition. I was congratulating myself because kids are admitted for free. Then, we came upon the displays of the guillotine, hangman's noose and various implements of torture the Christians used on suspected witches. Luckily, we were spared having to explain the ghoulish displays as Miguel effectively distracted himself running about the palace's courtyards.

We also made a few excursions around and near Cartagena. Our first trip was a city tour in a Chiva (open air) bus around town. The tour bus was full of friendly Colombian families and we made lots of stops for photos, including a couple of places we hadn't previously visited.

Our next trip was to the mud volcano about an hour north of Cartagena. This tour consisted of climbing to the top of a 50-foot 'volcano' and bathing in a big mud pool (sort of like quick sand except our bodies were buoyant) and then cleaning the mud off in a nearby lake. It was a fun and very strange experience. Miguel particularly enjoyed himself-- playing in the mud is much better than roaming through hot, old cities.

While exploring Cartagena, we learned that our plans to find a nearby tranquil stretch of beach were ill-conceived. Aside from a few very high end resorts, we heard from other travelers that the towns within a few hours of Cartagena didn't have nice beaches. And perhaps due to the history of military conflict, Colombia hasn't developed much infrastructure for international travelers.

We toyed with the idea of spending a couple of nights at a posh resort, but our last minute booking efforts weren't successful. So instead, we decided to spend our beach days in a section of Cartagena on the Caribbean that caters mostly to Colombians.

We booked a room in the Hotel Caribe for five nights, a place reminiscent of an old Miami Beach or Hollywood resort. The hotel has a sprawling complex of amenities (mini-golf!) and greenery that is centered around a lovely pool where lounging movie stars wouldn't seem out of place.

The proud peach walls of the Hotel Caribe are about 100 yards from the sea. It's an urban beachfront that compares favorably to our own neighborhood Diaper Beach back in Chicago--dirty, but full of life. Here, roving cumbia bands serenade bathers and ever-present touts peddle everything from cold beer to jewelery and boat trips.

Although our beach unwinding time has been different than planned, it has allowed us to reflect on our time in South America before heading back home.

We feel fortunate to have had so much family time and glad that we haven't driven each other too crazy. We feel good about taking on new challenges and projects, such as improving our spanish, Miguel having his first school experience, helping our friends start a microbrewery, and Gin expanding her consulting work. We've also enjoyed many adventures and spending time with old and new friends.

We feel refreshed for resuming our lives back in Chicago. And we're optimistic for the challenges that lie ahead, except for the next two days of air travel detention.

Post-Banos Travelogue

I love to travel. But raising a 3-year old can be an adventure enough without the challenges of life on the road. So, when Gin and I first planned our 8-month sabbatical, we knew that we would need stability. We established our 2nd home in the lovely mountain town of Banos, Ecuador for the first 5 months.

Last week we pulled up stakes from Banos (coincidentally, just as the local volcano began to erupt), for a 2-1/2 week jaunt to the Ecuadorian coast and Colombia before heading back to Chicago and stateside adventures. Other than a few relatively short trips that we took from Banos, this would be our first real taste of 'hard core' travel.

We started by flying to the Ecuadorian coast town of Esmeraldas and spending 4 nights on an isolated stretch of beach. Traveling during the low season meant we got the nicest cabana at our rustic resort, close to the crashing surf. Miguel enjoyed playing in the waves, and Gin and I enjoyed our barefoot beach runs.

After the beach, we flew back to Quito and spent a sleepless night (was it the abrupt sea level to 10,000 feet altitude change?) before flying to Bogota. By the time we got to Bogota yesterday, we were all exhausted, but managed to stroll around the historic La Candaleria district before collapsing in our hostel, which was converted from a 400 year-old home.

One of our main reasons for coming to Bogota was to check out the bike facilities. Bogota is birthplace of the ciclovia, where streets are closed to cars every Sunday to make way for bikes and other non-motorized users. We rented bikes today from the gringo bike tour company in the historic area in preparation for tomorrow's ciclovia, though we're a bit concerned about their road-worthiness.

After a trip up the teleferico (a huge cable car) to the Montserrate chapel overlooking the sprawling Bogota valley (see picture at top), we visited the Botero Museum. Miguel didn't seem very taken with the chubby subjects of Ferdinando Botero's paintings. Instead, an abstract work by another painter entitled "Exploding Cathedral" (see below) caught his fancy.

Tomorrow, we meet Margaret (Miguel's former nanny) for breakfast to catch up and debrief on her week around Cartagena. After breakfast, we'll ride the ciclovia and maybe visit the military museum to feed Miguel's fascination with cannons.

On Monday, we fly to Cartagena for a week on the Carribean Coast before embarking on the epic journey back home. Meanwhile, we'll try to walk the fine line between adventure and exhaustion of life on the road with a three year old.

Playa Freewrites

I recently started coaching a woman on her writing (thank you email and Skype!) and the process has been making me think about how I can be better about quick, daily, unconstrained writing. While we were on the Northern coast of Ecuador, at the beach, we had no internet access. I was surprised (not really) by how much better able I was to just sit and write. I am not saying what I wrote was "good" but the process certainly felt good.

Playa Freewite #1 (June 1, 2010, 10:46am, 15 minutes)

Being here, on a fine pale stretch of sand, remarkably soft given the pounding of the surf (I guess that's what daily pulverizing does), makes me think of St. Pete Beach, Florida.

That beach of my childhood had the promise of Don Ceasar's ice cream sundaes a long mile to the left.  The pink behemoth of a building anchored that side of the beach, pulling my short legs along with the promise of a cool sticky treat. A shorter mile to the right, the beach petered out into a rocky outcropping and mundane condominiums.

My grandparent's building was in the psychological middle.

Being here, on the fine, pale, clean stretch of beach also makes me think of the Gulf Coast. St Pete Beach was on the gulf side, although maybe what side you're on doesn't matter anymore. Even here, in another ocean, I feel the oil seeping.  I feel helpless and guilty; all our hands have some of the black stain. No amount of walking and biking can make up for all my air travel over the years.

My Spanish teachers, Marco grande y Marco pequeno, explained that Banos' culture of tourism is only a few decades old; before, it was a small farming village like the ones on the other side of the mounatin, the ones that get washed away every few years when Mama Tungurahua clears her throat. But Banos has always been beautiful and perfect. What happened a few decades ago? Ah, cheap oil. . . more mobility accessible to more people.

Yes, my hands are dripping with black stuff too, as I explore the world, type on plastic letters, and read through plastic frames.

I guess I could stop writing, but silence isn't helping much, and I wonder, is this fake guilt?  Guilt for show? No, I don't think so.

God, I dread the label of the hand wringing, overly self aware, consumer who bemoans the draining of resources even as her own straw is in the  tank. But I think the real problem for me is the dreading of labels, true or false. What does it matter what others think, as Karen reminds me. There are much worse things to be dreading.

I am pissed and heartbroken about the oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico. I could wish for it to be another wake up call to, if not end, then at least seriously temper and taper our addiction to cheap oil. Maybe that's happening, and an ocean away we are not feeling the shifts in discourse. I can hope.

Free write #2 (6/1/2010 2:44pm, 20 minutes)
The ocean waves are scrambling my brain; before I can complete a thought in the sucking back stillness, another curl, roar and crash unsettles me. For the past two nights, my dreams have been vivid, but my sleep unsatisfactory--plunged up and down like laundry in a bucket, dangling from strong, impatient hands.

High tide has been early in the morning. The waves march all the way to the bottom of the bluff this house creaks on. The first morning, I thought for sure they were eating away at the foundation and the house was going to fall.

It reminded me of when my  bedroom looked over the blue line tracks, approaching North, Damen and MIlwaukee.  I was able to relegate to the background every train but the 3am one. I woke up each night, fearful of "Armageddon" which is silly as I don't really know what that word means. Ah, Christian? literacy via cultural osmosis.

These ocean waves seem serious and strong like a train on schedule. I am impressed, but a little sleepy. I never imagined there would be anything not to love about sleeping right by the beach. Perhaps I am more of a Great Lake person--you get the broad expanse with more of a slurp and glug. Big lake waves are saved for big weather.

The waves here are louder and more relentless than the volcano's rumble we left behind, which is right and good, I guess, as the waves are behaving as they should, whereas if  the volcano erupted every 3 seconds, there would be serious trouble. And that's a ridiculous comparison anyway; we are meters from the shore here and were kilometers from the crater in Banos. I can't imagine having my ears much closer to Tungurahua's mouth.

Spoke to Mayra this morning. She thanked us for leaving the DVD player and new kitchen equipment upstairs. School was canceled today in Banos and tourists have emptied the town. Tungurhua keeps shaking her shoulders and clearing her throat. I asked about Jim and Marshia. Tranquilo. Patient.


Playa Freewrite #3 (June 2, 2010, 15 minutes)

How many moths can a frog smaller than my hand eat in one sitting?

We've spent the last 15 minutes watching a frog cling up our window. We are the only guests in this sprawling bluff-top complex. When we turn the lights on, all the moths come our way. Like a lonely diner in the middle of a 2nd tier highway.

This little frog, whose underbelly I have studied for two nights now, also follows the light.

Her body is about about as long and wide as two of my fingers. Her limbs, iridescent, small and strong, remind me of new growth on a tree. No, no. She is all animal, even if her fingers and toes make me think of a climbing plant. How does she hold herself up for so long on this very unnatural pane of glass?? Her belly, bulging with at least 5 months now, must do some of the work. She makes me think of child's pose, core muscles, chickens, lizards, Kermit, Gollum and us.

Another one down the gullet.

When we came home tonight, she was on our outside windowsill, as if she was waiting for us to turn the light on. We obliged and exclaimed. Miguel climbed to the top of the table to watch. She did nothing much but adjust her pupils, oblivious or indifferent to our tapping on the glass.  A few  minutes later, she lept a foot into the air, grabbed the window and gulped down a moth. Just as easy and fast as blinking.  All three of us were amazed; I don't know if that says more about nature or our lack of exposure to it. She proceeded to slowly explore the window, angling for more treats. We could see the moths working their way down into her belly.

As I wrote this, she fell down.  She was going for another moth and slipped. I was confident she landed on the ground just fine, anchored by a very full belly. Then, in a blink, she was back. On the bottom pane, carrying some dirt on the belly, ready for more. Wow.

Walking in Miguel's Shoes for a Long Day

Many of the books we consult during "parenting crises" remind us to be empathetic. At the end of the day (especially after the end of a long travel day), Miguel is a small child, with different needs and global understandings. This can be easy to forget, especially when he holds his own in conversations with, admittedly, generous adults.

The trip from the mountains to the coast was a little rough. He and I were at each other's throats much of the day.  I knew most of his "misbehavior" and my shorter than usual fuse were related to all the changes, and the fact that we were cooped up most of the day in various forms of transport. Still, my empathy tank kept running low.  If Miguel could write, here is what his journal entry from May 30th might look like, if, er, he wrote with my voice. I can't wait to read his own pieces.
****
Woke up in a strange, but comfortable bed, in a room with my parents. Mom and I goofed around with all the pillows while Dad showered. She tossed the pillows from one bed into the other so I could catch them. I built a baseball stadium and invited her over for a White Sox game. When she came to my bed and gave me her ticket, I thanked her and  told her it was now a church. She helped me build a little steeple, but it kept falling down.

We tried to go to breakfast, but nobody was up yet at our hotel. I was mad because firewood was stacked in what I usually use as a pretend canoe. Mom suggested I try the sofa instead. She just doesn't get it. (Mom defends herself: "Hey, I was still recovering from having poured myself a cup of coffee, only to discover it was the cold, leftovers from the day before.)

I ran around with Dad while Mom continued "repacking." I think she was just hiding from us. Breakfast eventually came as other guests woke up at more reasonable times. I ate my crepe and demanded more. Mom gave me hers. Thanks, Mom! The best part was that she had also given me her old cell phone from Chicago that had been unearthed during the move from Banos. She let me have it!!!! There was a crying baby at breakfast and Mom suggested I let him see it for a few minutes. He smiled. Maybe sharing has some upsides.

While Mom and Dad settled up the bill, I hung out downstairs with Luis, our taxi driver. He let me sit in the truck and then the driver's seat. Whenever Mom would poke her head downstairs to see if I was making trouble (way to show your trust, Mom), I would tell to go back upstairs in Spanish. Luis thought was was pretty funny. After I started hoking the horn, she came storming down the stairs again and told me to stop. Why does she always show up just when I am starting to have a really good time? Luis didn't seem to mind. Everyone else was laughing. She said something about other guests sleeping. Always thinking about "other people" instead of me.

We started off on the long ride to Quito. When Mom and Dad realized the seatbelts actually worked in the taxi, they insisted I use one. We have been in Ecuador for months, and we hardly ever use seatbelts. Sometimes we sit in truck beds and on top of busses. So why were they all of a sudden telling me to buckle up??? Make up your mind, people. I like to be on my knees; I can't see out the window when I am sitting.

They asked Luis to stop so we could have a little time out, my first one in a long time, really. (This is true and I feel guilty that during these last few days of travel, we have had more need for cooling off than in the last few months.) After we all settled down, I agreed to a compromise--that I would sit on Mom's lap with the buckle around both of our hips. She taught  me to watch big drops of rain fall down the window.  I asked if I would ever see Simon again, and we talked about being sad to leave Banos and our friends. Then I conked out and slept for a few hours, waking up as we rolled into Quito, which has houses climbing up the mountain sides.

We stopped by a hotel to drop off some of our bags that we didn't want to bring with us to the beach.  It turns out that some of my toys didn't even make it out of Banos. When I asked Mom where my sword was she made up some story about not being able to bring swords on planes. Couldn't we put it in the checked bags, like Daddy did with his pocketknife?  Why do *they* get to decide what *I* bring?? How would she feel if I decided to just leave some of her clothes behind? (Mom's defense: I did ask Miguel 's input for books and toys to give away to friends in Banos. He was willing to part with a few, but I did make some other executive decisions. I gave away a lot of my clothes too. . .Kiddo, when you can carry your own luggage, we can talk again about what gets to come along.)

My day started looking up when we got to the airport. Planes!!!! We got some lunch and Mom and Dad let me pick out a small treat for dessert. My meal came with Coke too, but they said  no to that at first, and Daddy started drinking it.  Hypocrite.  Then they let me have a sip, and told me I could choose to have the last few sips of the drink, or have  a dessert. They have this think about pop being like a dessert. I don't get it--they let us drink Coca Cola at school! (This is one of my few complaints about Miguel's school--so many sweets in so many forms. The sugar barrier has been broken in a big way!)

For dessert, I picked a marshmallow bear on a stick. As we walked outside to get to the domestic terminals, I saw a man with a huge shotgun standing in front of a truck. I told my mom I was going to go talk to him, and she clutched my hand and got all tense. "No. Way." I asked and asked why I couldn't go talk to him, and she mumbled something about him being very focused and us not wanting to bother him. Mom and Dad get weird whenever I bring up guns and killing and hunting.

We went through security and did a great job staying close. Mom rubbed my hair and gave me a compliment. Finally--I did something right today! When we got to our gate I saw some planes.  I got permission to run to the window and they even let me use one of the cameras. I saw people walking outside and a yellow brick road leading to the planes. When it was our turn, we followed the road.  I skipped ahead. Mom kept reminding me to stay on the path. Duh, I know!!

On the plane, we fought some more about me having to wear a seat belt.  I squirmed and yelled while she glared and sighed.  She thinks that if she doesn't yell, she gets credit for being calm. Ha! I know every little face twitch.  On the upside, the flight attendants gave us boxes of juice before take-off.

After a too short plane ride, we walked down to a steaming hot tarmac.  When they said we were going to the beach, they failed to mention it would be hot. They *know* I like to be cold.   When I tried to take my shirt off, Mom said--you guessed it--no. 

I killed a moth while we were waiting for our bags. Dad got upset. I don't see the big deal. They kills flies all the time.

It was so hot in the taxi, and we had another fight about the seat belt. She won, again. We were stopped right outside by a bunch of police in gray uniforms, with guns (not like I can talk to Mom about that), and Dad made up something about them checking for seatbelts. Whatever. (They needed to see all of our papers.. . something  about issues related to being so close to the Columbia border.)

Mom was right that once we got going, the wind from the windows would cool us off.  She even changed seats with me, so that I could be by the window that worked.  We joked about our hair dancing, and I gave her a kiss. But then we started bickering about something. I think it was that I got upset when I spilled half the bottle of our water. Mom wanted me to just Get. Over. It and stop complaining. She even suggested it might help cool me down. She wasn't  the one sitting in a puddle of water.   She and Dad changed seats shortly after that. Dad found a piece of card board for me to sit on. Thanks, Dad.

When we finally pulled into our hotel, no one was around. Cerrado. But someone finally showed up, and after he let us pick out a room (we had our choice, being the only guests), he TOOK ME ON  A SHORT RIDE ON HIS MOTORCYCLE!!!! I can't believe my nervous-nelly parents let me do that (me neither--maybe we were overcompensating for the seatbelt struggles? Come on, the kid's got to have *some* fun.) I wanted to drive it myself but, again and again: NO.

Then, Dad and I walked down to the beach. I ice skated on the sand (his words) and played in the warm waves. Ah. . . . this day was turning out to be all right. But just as I was starting to get comfortable, once again the BOSSES intervened. They think giving me a two minute warning somehow makes up for the fact that THEY CONTROL MY DAY!! What if Mom was working on the computer and I just decided her time was up? Sure, a two minute warning would help her finish her sentence but she'd still be pissed.

When we got to my pile of clothes, I sat down in a pile of sand. Dad lost it, grabbed my arms  and yelled something about "Now you have to take a shower to get all the sand off" while Mom looked horrified and came to my defense: "It was an accident--he didn't know that would happen!!" I liked that she understood, and helped Dad understand, but I don't like it when they start to bicker too.

The highlight of dinner was that they let me have a little ice cream for dessert. I was in a grand mood throughout the meal, but they just kind of sat there like lumps, piping up every now again with an annoying reminder to be careful. Do they think I knock glasses over on purpose?

I saw a frog outside and Dad let me chase her around, but he wouldn't let me catch her due to the earlier moth incident.

After dinner, we returned to our rustic cabin. Another night in a strange bed.  Thankfully, my bunnies (and my parents) were  close. I don't buy Mom's story about ghosts living in Antarctica.