Taxi-ing

I waited. At the airport for a taxi. I was told to wait for Conn’s Taxi. Which I expected to be Conn. You know, short for Conn – ecticut. Up drives. Khan’s Taxi. As in the Wrath of. We climbed into the back seat. Plush with leather. I didn’t put my seatbelt on. It reminded me of leaving the airport in underdeveloped countries. No seat belt. Hot. The wind blowing my hair. The ride was blessedly uneventful. And then, when we got to the hotel, the driver popped the lighted taxi sign off the top of the car and threw it in, and what I saw was some family’s luxury car. That was used now and then. As a meterless airport taxi.

Travel Daze

I'll be moving. Fast. For the next couple of days.

First to Hartford. To visit Aid to Artisans. And then on to DC. To visit The Crafts Center.

I'll be back so soon, you'll hardly notice I'm gone.

It’s In The Bag

My friend came to lunch. Toting a fabulous pink Salvatore Ferragamo handbag. It’s in the photo. Near the back on the right. That’s her. In the store. Of fabulous handbags.

In Kuwait.

And out poured a story.

The store. Is named Spring Flowers. She called it “an Islamic Thrift Store, equivalent to the Salvation Army.” In a culture. Flush with cash. And not showing too much. The dinar are spent on bags and shoes. Very expensive bags and shoes. That are flashed around for maybe a month. Until they’re out of date. And are replaced. While she was there, she says a small harem came in and snapped up five bags in five minutes. Five for five.

The owner is a sweet woman and all the profits go to charity. She can spot a fake Fendi a mile away. Sharp. But sweet. Like cheddar and chocolate.

And then, with the all the finesse of a good storyteller, my friend says, “Have I told you that we ate at the Burger King on the Highway of Death near the Iraq border? Hmm?” Leaving me salivating for more. Stories.

Infidel

This is a very powerful book. By an extraordinary woman. If you haven't read it yet. Read it. Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

I've been pondering. Lately. How none of us. No matter how frequently we visit other countries. And have the privilege of being in villages or refugee camps. Really know what it's like to BE in that place. With its challenges. And nowhere else to go.

I do not know what it's like to not know if there will be food for my family. I do not know what it is like to live behind closed doors or invisible in a burqa. I do not know what it is like to leave everything I have behind.

I do not know.

Traveler

Some days. Unexpected beauty. Takes me by surprise. In my email inbox. Was this poem. From a friend. Who has recently undergone a couple of brain surgeries for what she deems in good humor her "bloody brain." She says there are changes. Chief among them, she says, is CRS (can't remember shit). On the up side she has the urge to write poems. Curious. And here is her gift. To me. And I am grateful. Because it captures. Who. I. Am.

Stories of traveling the globe.
Kindred spirits. All over the world.

Starry eyed. High ideals.
An open mind.
Eagerly anticipating. What lies ahead?

A strong woman. Needing space.
Needing friends.

Living life to the fullest.

Another Day in the Neighborhood

One day of the year. Brings out the essence of the east side of Madison. The bubble car. (With soap suds flooding out of some very fine sousaphones.) An art car I wish I had created myself. Hula hoops. Mermaids. Drag queens. Protesters. Kids. All on Willy Street.



I didn't take the photos...the marido did.

C: Copacabana, Bolivia

We arrived just after dark. Off the boat from Lake Titicaca. On the Bolivian side. When crossing, the bus is on one ferry. The riders on another. When I ask why, I am told that sometimes the buses are blown on their sides. And sink in the lake. It’s safer not to let anyone stay on the bus.

Copacabana. A dull town. Of closed doors. Big. Wooden. Closed. Doors. I doubted we could find a place to stay for night. But we did.

The next morning, we went to the Basilica of Our Lady of Copacabana. My pilgrimage. To see the blessing of the cars. Riotous, brightly decorated draped cars and trucks. Plastic flowers. Garlands. The priest that day. Came from the basilica. In a brown robe and sandals. And proceeded with the blessing of the vehicles. It doesn’t seem like a bad idea. To me.

Hip

I wanna hang with the hip. In their pockets. But the hip are folding laundry now.

If

If I were a writer, and doing a reading at a bookstore, could I wear a sequined tank with a retro skirt and cowboy boots?

Dreaming of West Africa

I'd recommend reading A Long Way Gone: Memories of a Boy Soldier.

When I finished the book. I thought about the earth. West African dirt. Under my feet. And started to string some trade beads from Ghana. Recycled glass. That a co-worker brought back at my request. Around and around they curled. Until they circled my wrist.

I like these beads. And that women acquire beads throughout their lives. And pass them to their daughters. It's said that the Adangme people of Krobo may be the most skilled bead-makers in Africa. Beads are central to rituals. Birth. Coming of age. Marriage. Death. A round cycle. Like a bracelet.

I like to believe. They are imbued. With magical. And medicinal. Powers.