Tunisian Turkey: A Feast to be Thankful For

I love this photo. A typical street in Kairouan, Tunisia, scene of my Thanksgiving, 1987.

My final Tunisian post…the Thanksgiving conclusion of a pilgrim in a new land.

We’ve all read books (or blog posts, or magazine stories), or seen movies about Americans in foreign lands feeling horribly homesick at Thanksgiving. They go to the local markets, search for turkey (settle for partridges), substitute breadfruit for potatoes and learn that they can be thankful even without cranberries. Right?

My Thanksgiving in Northern Africa didn’t even come close to such menu approximations.

And that was just fine.

I think of this as “Tunisian Blue”.

As we entered the hotel restaurant – a hotel which was far more Tunisian than Hilton – we harbored no expectations that there would be any reference to Thanksgiving. Five days in Tunisia had taught us that anything American was verboten.

A street in Sousse, Tunisia.

Having just come in from a stroll through town, where the inexplicable phrase, “between the sheets,” was shouted at us by giggling teenaged boys, we also harbored no expectations that the waiters would be overly sympathetic to our plight.

We chose to be away from home for Thanksgiving: our expectations had been changed the day we signed up.

“So,” I figured, “if I’m not even bothering to recreate the pilgrim’s meal, how about I go for something local? Something totally different; something unforgettable.”

I learned that when there is no roast turkey to be had, you opt for paella.

It came: a platter of aromatic saffron-colored rice, peppers, mysterious meats and vegetables, and several whole, baby octopus.

I wasn’t prepared for the octopus.

My traveling companions had ordered ordinary things, like French Onion Soup. I had ordered Northern Africa on a plate.

And I ate every bite.

There are many things in my life to be thankful for. Many experiences I wouldn’t trade for the world. Thanksgiving Paella in Tunisia is one of those things.

A Thanksgiving feast, indeed.

A friend of mine, along with her family, fixed a paella feast out on Orcas Island, Washington, last summer. I wish I’d been there! Isn’t her paella pan marvelous?!

In Which we Are Accosted by Scimitar-Wielding Melon-Salesmen

This is post #3 about my high school trip to Kairouan, Tunisia. See the previous two posts for the full story!

Our last day in Tunisia was our most exciting. But not necessarily for a good reason.

We headed out to the camel market on our final morning. No, we were not looking to buy a camel, but we were searching for an authentic experience in Tunisian life – for this market, or bazaar, was a place of vast proportions and numerous opportunities.

Picture dusty rugs on the desert ground – aisle after aisle of them – with vegetables, fruits, trinkets, pots, pans, pottery, spices, leather goods, and drinks for sale. There were animals, too: goats and sheep and, I suppose, camels, though I think they were in a different part of the bazaar. I bought a baggie of saffron for my mom. I knew it was supposed to be the most expensive spice in the world, but here it was dirt cheap! I wish I had such a good source of saffron now.

It was hot in the open-air market, and aromatic. Cinnamon and peppers and sweat filled the air. And it was full of noises. Bleats and baas, the sounds of goat milk streaming into metal cans. The call of merchants selling their wares, the din of old and wrinkled women gossiping, of young men jesting, of children laughing and crying and playing in the aisles.

We walked down row after row, being jostled and beckoned to, and then, almost as if we’d planned it, all of us stopped – after being persuaded to by the vendors – to admire something that looked like cantaloupe.

My best friend and I stood at one rug, talking with the vendors. I say “talking with” but really it was more “talking at” – they didn’t understand us and we didn’t understand them. I think the phrase “James Bond” might have arisen. Other than that our communication was by smiles and gestures and thumbs up.

The rest of our group stood not two feet away from us at the neighboring rug.

We watched as the vendors cut into a melon with a scimitar – using that long, curved blade to slice through the melon as smoothly as if it were butter. We laughed and they laughed and we did our bit to promote good will and international peace.

And then, suddenly, one of the laughing and smiling salesmen at our rug jumped up and grabbed my friend around the neck. He held his scimitar to her throat – the tip just millimeters from her skin – and, unbelievably, laughed.

No one in the souk looked up. No one worried or noticed or troubled about the gullible Americans and the scimitar-wielding melon-salesmen.

I stood, immobile, terrified, tongue-tied. The man smiled on and on, his gold-toothed grin so wide that I could see where his molars ought to have been. His friends, too, grinned and guffawed.

It felt like minutes passed but I suppose it was only seconds. Next to us, our traveling companions were unaware that anything was wrong, so mesmerized were they by a slick little melon-cutting exhibition going on at their rug. Bits of sweet, orange flesh flew in all directions.

And then, all of a sudden, the man released my friend. Spewing out words we did not understand, he pulled away his sword, still laughing, still flashing those golden teeth. So much laughter! So many broken melons.

It wasn’t until we headed back to the hotel, sometime later, that my friend’s aunt realized her wallet had been stolen.

It was all a diversion. And we fell into their trap perfectly.

But it makes for a great story.

Tomorrow: Thanksgiving on foreign soil…a pilgrim in a very unfamiliar land.

Caves, Colliseums, Indiana Jones…and Me!

This is my second post about my Thanksgiving experience in Tunisia many moons ago. Five American women in Tunisia…made for some interesting moments…

Every morning in Kairouan, Tunisia, we woke at approximately 5:00a.m. as the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed through the neighborhood. Turns out, the minaret in Kairouan is the oldest in the world. I neither knew nor appreciated that then, though the sound of it did add to the feeling that I was living in an Agatha Christie novel. Or a Mrs. Polifax, maybe.

A wee bit of the souk in Kairouan.

Our second day in Tunisia we chose to go to a souk. I didn’t know it at the time, but this bazaar was the exact same bazaar where Indiana Jones up and shoots that overly-zealous, black-clad, scimitar-wielding ninja-esque guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark.* When we were there, there were no ninja guys to be seen. Instead there were pottery merchants and food vendors and carpet sellers, who lured us into their shop with the promise of tea and who were rather cross with me when I chose not to buy a carpet because it would cost me all the money I had and then I wouldn’t be able to buy anything else for the rest of the week. Let me just say: I’d have been better off with the carpet. Far better. I could still be walking on it, or admiring it hanging on my wall. Instead I bought classy things like a clay camel bearing jugs of water and a tiny wall hanging and a tea set (okay, I still like the tea set). Live and learn, eh?

I bought this in Tunisia for my mom way back in 1987. Service for 6!

From the souk we went to El Jem, a Roman coliseum, complete with lion enclosures down beneath the floor of the arena. I shut my eyes and tried to picture the Christian martyrs, to hear their murmured prayers despite the roars of the lions in their ears. Mostly I just smelled hot, dry air and saw sand. In my memory there was hay on the floor of the crumbling lion stalls…but it’s possible that was only in my mind. Unless, of course, they brought some in to stimulate the imagination of gullible Christians like me.

The Roman coliseum at El Jem.

We kicked ourselves a couple days later when we found a brochure for Carthage in the hotel lobby. Apparently none of us had done our homework to realize that Carthage is in Tunisia. Oh, well. At least we saw one Roman ruin, albeit a lesser-known one. Perhaps it was for lesser-known Christians. The non-vocal martyrs of the Roman age. Either that or the ones who would produce less of a spectacle while being eaten by lions.

The next day we saw the fourth most holy Moslem place in the world, the Great Mosque of Kairouan (after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem). This is the oldest Moslem place of worship in Africa. Apparently seven trips to this mosque equals one hajj to Mecca. We walked around the courtyard, but we didn’t go inside. I mostly remember blue mosaics: beautiful color in that dusty land.

Tiles at the mosque.

Courtyard of the Great Mosque

Later we saw a “Camel Drawing Water from a Well” – which, in retrospect, I have no idea why it was a tourist-draw, I just know that it was a “must see” we were told. More like a “must-pay”.  (The picture in this link is an actual camel drawing water from a well in Kairouan!

We took a bus into the Sahara Desert one day for lunch at a Berber hotel. And when I say “hotel” I mean cave. Or, rather, series of caves. We walked through a dark and sloping tunnel to a coutyard, open to the sky. Surrounding us were cave openings, dark and doorless, each entered by way of a ladder propped against the walls of the cavern.**

Similar to the place we ate…

They led us to one of the biggest openings and we climbed the ladder to find a long table waiting for us. Lunch was ready. We ate meat – goat, I think. And flat bread and vegetables in a stew-like dish. I’m an adventurous eater, so I tried everything. I don’t think I left exactly full, but I left satisfied and intensely interested. I mostly remember how dark it was – such a contrast to the incandescent world I lived in. I remember looking out of the unlit cave into the bright, desert light. Everything I saw out that cave entrance was tan-colored. Everything. It was sandy. It was hot. It was far, far away from home.

No, I don’t think I was homesick…but I was intensely aware that the world I lived in, the world I knew and understood, the world I complained about and criticized like any other teenager, was actually far from the norm of all teenagers the world over. I’m not saying I realized I was blessed – for who’s to say that a Bedouin teenager living in a cave isn’t equally blessed (It’s not all about STUFF, right?) – but I’m saying I realized I needed to be more thankful.

And, in the season of Thanksgiving, to a self-centered 17 year old, that was realization indeed.

Next time: The Camel Market, where we learned that “working together” is not necessarily a good thing.

This is the land we drove through. The edge of the Sahara.

*Just to be totally clear: I’m actually not positive if the bazaar in Kairouan was the bazaar used, or if it was the bazaar in Sousse. I found references to both as being used in Raiders’ street scenes. Also, I know that “ninja” is not the right term for that guy in the movie, I just can’t think what the correct term should be!  Here’s one quote I found to be interesting on the topic of filming Raiders: “The Holy City of Kairouan in Tunisia was the Raiders of the Lost Ark filming location for Cairo. Appropriately the town’s name means “little Cairo”. For filming the scenes on Sallah’s terrace, 350 television antennas had to be removed from local buildings to present a 1930s skyline.”  It should also be noted that elsewhere I read that the lovely white and blue houses that are typical in Kairouan were not typical to Cairo, circo 1936.  I’m pretty certain that movie watchers didn’t mind…

**Picture Luke Skywalker’s aunt and uncle’s home in Star Wars: A New Hope. That’s kind of like the place I ate in, only our place was far more primitive. The actual location of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru’s house is in Tunisia and can be toured.

“Clementine, Mandarine!”

This is the first of a few posts about my African Thanksgiving, 1987. I hope you can smell the Sahara and taste the mandarins as I did…

Many moons ago, when I was 17 years old and still fondly dreamed that someday I’d be a famous opera singer, I took a trip to Tunisia with my best friend, her mother and aunt, and another friend. That’s right: five women (three of them still in high school) headed to Africa for Thanksgiving. Don’t you always think of Northern Africa when you think about Pilgrims and pumpkins? Okay, I didn’t either, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

Lest you’re imagining us on a many-hour journey across the world, I hasten to inform you that I was living in West Berlin at the time, so really it was just a small hop south.

We arrived, along with a German-speaking tour group, in Sousse, Tunisia. From there we drove to Kairouan, where we spent most of our time. I remember seeing a sign along the route: “Libya, 10 kilometers” – perhaps not that exact distance – and thinking, “Oy! That makes me a little nervous.” Quadafi was causing a bit of a ruckus in those days and I had one of those, “I’m not in Kansas anymore” moments.

Those moments continued as we began to explore the town. We ditched the tour group (as none of us spoke adequate German to understand anything anyway) and struck off on our own. I was not accustomed to shops that sold hookas as casually as if they were tea pots. Nor was my friend. “Are those lamps?” she asked, curious as to the purpose of the curvy pottery. “No,” our other friend replied. “They aren’t.” We left pretty quickly after that.

This is the Mediteranean Sea from Tunisia, though not the exact beach I was on. Photo from http://www.panoramio.com.

We walked past that shop and headed to the Mediterranean Sea, no more than a block away. It was beautiful and almost empty, that beach. Sometimes we were the only people there. We collected tiny shells that we left in our hotel room to dry and which, by morning, had a residue all around them and on the counter beside them. I couldn’t figure out what it was. “Salt,” my friend’s mother said, and sure enough, as I rubbed it with a finger there it was: the Mediterranean, condensed on our countertop.

The thing I remember most is not the scent of the sea or the feel of the sand or the temperature of the water. What I remember is the Clementine seller. His was a constant presence every time we went to the beach. “Clementine, mandarine!” he would call with a sing-song tone, making both words rhyme. You could hear him coming from way down the shore. He would come up to us with a basket of mandarins, their tangerine-colored skins warm from the sun, and for a few cents we would buy them from him, choosing our favorites from amongst the dozens. Then he would shuffle off, calling his song to whomever could hear.

Even now, 24 years later, when I buy tangerines from the grocery store, I think of that man and I sing his lilting song. I can hear it as clearly as if he were here beside me now. “Clementine, mandarine, clementine, mandarine!” I taught my kids his song and we sing it as we peel and pop the juicy segments into our mouths.

Minnesota is a long way from northern Africa. But even here the memory of the soft sand in my toes, the aroma of the shops, the desert heat, and the clementine-man’s song, all conspire together in my mind, leaving my mouth watering for more than just fruit.

Orcas Island Pottery

One of my favorite places to visit on Orcas Island is Orcas Island Pottery. This place is unique, creative, and truly fabulous. I remember coming here as a child with my mother. I would stand and watch Julia Crandall as she worked on her potter’s wheel. I loved the way she threw the clay onto the moving stone; the way her hands formed the lump into something recognizable and beautiful; the way she’d move her fingers to subtly change the pot; the way her fingers, wetted, orange, and dripping, lent validation to every mud pie I’d ever made.

A sign hanging inside one of the buildings.

Truly, she was a queen to children everywhere who had ever tried to form something – anything – worth keeping in the world of pliable playdough, clay, or sand. In my memory, at least, she was a small woman, her graying hair perpetually in a bun (I may be wrong about the bun, but that’s how I see her!) her hands always working. In a small town, everyone knows everyone else’s car…but hers was especially recognizable with her “Pots 4 U” license plate long before the days of abbreviated text messages.

It is her granddaughter now, who owns and runs Orcas Island Pottery. As her website describes it, she threw her first pot at age five, learning everything about the art of pottery from her mother and grandmother. She employs several permanent potters and guest potters from all over the country and world. The quality and beauty of their work is outstanding.

The woods are “Lovely, dark and deep”.

It is, however, their location – right on the ocean front – and their method of displaying their work that takes your breath away. Even the drive to the studio and store is magnificent – a meandering, shadowy journey through mossy old-growth evergreens and ferns. I used to walk part of this road every week on my way to piano lessons. I remember making the walk last as long as possible – whether trying to delay my lesson or enjoying the woods, I cannot say for certain.

There are many pottery places on Orcas Island, and I have not visited them all, but I freely admit that I am biased towards Orcas Island Pottery not just for my memories of the place, but also for the creativity which is evident all around you the moment you draw near. This originality is seen in their road signs, in their displays – both indoors and out – and in their encouragement of children – as seen in the whimsical and magical treehouse which everyone, old and young alike, are allowed to visit. Make no mistake, this treehouse is built to keep parents sane – and pottery safe, perhaps? – giving people of all ages something to do at the pottery store.

Orcas Island Pottery is, most definitely, one of the wonderfully unique things about Orcas Island. Now if I could just choose what pieces to buy…and not keep buying them to give as wedding presents…I would be a happy girl. Because truly, having a piece of this pottery is like having a wee bit of the island on your breakfast table.

And so I give you a journey through the woods and onto the glorious property that is Orcas Island Pottery!

A sign along the road…

We’re here!

Sighted along the path…

I remember this Native American whale from when I was a kid!

It seems as if fairies ought to live here…

Did I mention that there’s a treehouse on the premises to keep children (young ones and grown-up ones) occupied?! LOVE THIS.

How great is this place?!

The most lovely wee doggie you’ll ever meet. Patient, persistant (but not obnoxious) and quiet.

The island in the background is Waldron.

I simply adore the outdoor displays. And yes, in case you’re wondering, they’re outdoors year-round, regardless of the weather.

The “Sale Boat” was pretty well picked-over.

A huge variety of styles, colors, shapes.

Whimsies!

Yes, the kitty is real.

I’d like to eat rice out of these bowls!

Everywhere you look, amazing things await.

If ever you find yourself on Orcas Island…or in need of a wedding gift to buy on-line…or just in need of something marvelous for your very own, check out Orcas Island Pottery’s website. It has a nice write-up of the interesting history of the opperation as well – definitely worth reading!

How I Became a Cruise Director and Neglected to Bring my Camera

So I am learning that I ought never to trust my own memory. I was convinced – so convinced that I left my camera at home – that, when attending the Laura Ingalls Wilder Pageant in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, they do not allow cameras.

I was wrong.

They do allow still cameras…just not video cameras.

So, though I’d love to give you all a guided tour of the pageant, to show lovely photos of the actors and marvelous sets, I can’t.

However, I can at least explain a few things.

I, as most all American children born in the last half of the 20th century, grew up reading (and watching) Laura Ingalls Wilder. Laura’s “Little House on the Prairie” books, first published in the 1930’s, quickly became part of the American persona. The television show in the ‘70’s probably helped, but even so, they were loved from the start.

Laura, in case you’re not familiar, was born in Wisconsin, USA, in 1867 and wrote about her life – with many details and wonderful stories – in a series of children’s books. Her story is a fantastic picture of pioneer life in America.

Living as I do in Minnesota, I’m smack dab in the center of Laura’s world. Walnut Grove, a mere hour away, is just one of the several places one can find Laura Ingalls events. I have not toured her other sites – though my nieces have – but even the other places aren’t too far, as long as you’re willing to drive a bit.

Walnut Grove is the site of Plum Creek, Nellie Oleson, and the Ingalls’ dugout house. While Nellie isn’t around anymore, the creek and the dugout site is, though the dugout itself has long since fallen away. There’s a museum, and, during the pageant weekends, parades, look-alike contests, and other Ingalls-related activities.

A photo from their website. Laura and her family!

The pageant itself (located outdoors on a gentle hillside) is fun for the whole family, though know this: it will be a late night. Attendees are recommended to arrive early – 7:00ish – even though the show doesn’t begin until 9:00. This is wise. Though there will be a little “down time” as you wait, it gives ample time to get through the one-ticket-taker opening, to use the facilities, scope out your place and, if you choose “general seating” with your own chairs, to get set up and perhaps even eat a picnic dinner. General seating is great if you have young children, as they can run around the hillside a bit if they get antsy during the show.

The Souvenir Program is a well-written historical archive of the pageant itself but, more importantly, of the Ingalls’ story. It’s full of stories and photos about the Ingalls and their friends.

This was my third time attending the pageant and I was able to go this year courtesy of the Plum Creek Library Association which charters buses and brings – for free – busloads of people to the event. There were, at one person’s count, 36 buses at the event on Saturday and approximately ¾ of the people attending were there for free, courtesy of their local libraries! I think that is awesome. I was asked to be the “Cruise Director” for the Worthington and Adrian bus and I’m so glad!

One note of warning: Unless you A) bring your own porta-potty or B) don’t drink anything for approximately a day before attending or C) run willy-nilly at intermission, uncaring who you knock down in the process, you will have to resign yourself to either standing in line for far too long or to missing part of the program when you or your child is in need of the facilities. Just don’t miss the first two scenes of Act 2…skip out at the end of Act 1 instead, if you must, or wait until the fire has been put out…hint, hint.

There are still two remaining weekends in the three-weekend pageant schedule for this year, so if you’re interested, there’s still time! Visit www.walnutgrove.org or call (888)859-3102 for information.

Yes, There is a Fourth of July in Bangkok

You know that elementary school joke: “Is there a Fourth of July in England?” Of course there is! It’s just that it’s not Independence Day for them there the way it is for us in the US of A.

I’ve spent holidays in some unique places. Thanksgiving in Tunisia (let’s just say there was no turkey for dinner), several Christmases in West Berlin, Easter in Paris, and The Fourth of July in Thailand.

Spending your country’s independence day in a different country is bizarre. You feel patriotic and guilty, both at the same time. Kind of like when I traveled to the USSR in high school and all I wanted to do was chew gum…and I hate gum. It was this tenuous connection to the USA – something that made me feel American…as if I needed reminding when all around me was the Cyrillic alphabet, furry hats, and borscht.

When the Fourth of July rolled around in Bangkok the summer of 1989, all of the American ex-patriots were invited to the American Embassy’s front lawn for a down-home American picnic, complete with hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, and ice cream. There were games, too: three-legged races and tug-of-war. And, at the end of the day, fireworks.

Let’s just say that the American embassy in Thailand doesn’t have a very big fireworks budget.

But, that being said, that afternoon and evening stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable Independence Day celebrations I’ve ever had. Being away from home made home all that much more special.

But I think the best Fourth of Julys were spent on Orcas Island, growing up. Their budget – supplemented by tin donation cans at every island store all summer long – was a million times larger than the Thai embassy’s. Orcas Island had – and still has – the best fireworks I’ve ever seen.

When the sun goes down, round about 10:00 at that latitude, the people of the island – along with a gazillion tourists – line Eastsound Bay and wait patiently for the show to start. Out on tiny Indian Island (only slightly less unpolitically correct than its former name, “Jap Island”) – with fireboats floating at the ready – the pyrotechnics are about to begin.

Now, Orcas Island is an upside-down horse-shoe shape, and Eastsound Bay is at the top of the inner part of the “U”. All around the bay, then, is island and hills – big hills – hills which would be called mountains around here in Minnesota.

Indian Island is an itsy-bitsy island just at the head of the bay, which can be reached at low-tide if you’re booted up and keep a wary eye on the rising tide so that you don’t get stranded. It’s the perfect spot for fireworks, as any accidental fire is contained on the island, and you have this amphitheater surrounding it with space for hundreds of viewers, both on land and by sea.

So, picture this: you’ve shimmied across a narrow rock path to get to your favorite place on the beach. In the dark, no less. And now you’re sitting on a promontory, hearing the local YMCA campers singing campfire songs at the top of their lungs (the sound traveling across the water), hearing waves lapping a few feet away, and watching the star-strewn sky for the explosion of fireworks.

There are probably 25 boats out on the bay, sitting quietly at anchor. Occasionally the sound of laughter or popping of champagne corks comes faintly toward you, but nothing too obnoxious.

Then comes the first burst of color, the BOOM of powder, and the echo of it all ricocheting off the mountains.

Explosion after explosion, reflected on the water, in our eyes, in our hearts.

Now THAT, my friends, is how to spend the Fourth of July.

Happy Birthday, America.

Oh, the irony! 23 years after I spent the summer in Thailand, my husband went there for a few days and took the next several shots. Needless to say, the hotel across the river had a much larger fireworks budget than the US embassy…

Friends, Photos, and Fine Days

Everyone is busy right about now. Busy gardening, busy vacationing, busy running kids from place to place, busy relaxing.

Between the running around and the rehearsing (more on that in days to come) I’ve been busy reading. And washing my windows (thanks, Norwex) and throwing birthday parties that are only six months late. “Happy birthday,” Meep’s friends said to her, and she, very properly, replied, “Thanks”…rather than saying, “Acutally I’ve been ten for half a year already, it’s just that my mom is kinda behind the times.”

I’ve also been busy taking photos…and realizing that I really ought to read my camera’s instruction book…but that’s boring, so I haven’t yet.

So I give you today some photos and the memories that go with them from the past few weeks. The days have indeed been fine…though the epiphanies mostly center around the all-important question: “What’s for dinner?” as opposed to deeper things.

But that’s okay. It’s all good.

Most of the photos are self-explanatory, but let me explain the first two.

I may be wrong when I say this, but as far as I can remember, I’ve never made a point of meeting a “virtual friend” in the bright lights of reality…as opposed to the muted tones of the on-line world. All that changed early this month when I e-mailed my blogging friend, Audrey, at Minnesota Prairie Roots that I’d be visiting her town for a play and could we possibly meet up like at a park or something where the kids could play and she’d have ample oppotunity to cut our visit as short as she wanted…if she wanted!

Instead we got a warm invitation to their home, a delicious dinner, and made some “real-life” friends as opposed to merely virtual ones. Audrey and her husband Randy were lovely hosts. And, happily, our husbands hit it off and had plenty of things to talk about as opposed to standing around awkwardly and wishing that their wives would be a little less verbose.

Audrey’s hospitality extended to having games and sidewalk chalk ready for the kids, bandaides available for skinned knees, wild black raspberries ready for watering mouths, and freshly-picked strawberries and angel food cake for dessert. Does it get any better than that?!

How good it is to make a new friend.

PS – Audrey was recently “Freshly Pressed” (for the second time in her blogging life) here on WordPress – isn’t that cool? Please check out her blog if you haven’t before. (Being “Freshly Pressed” means that she was chosen out of thousands of bloggers to be featured on WordPress’s homepage. Neat, eh?!)

Randy and Audrey! Such gracious hosts and lovely friends.

The two bloggers – I’m the one in pink! So glad that I thought to myself last fall, “I need to look up some other Minnesota bloggers.” Serendipity for sure.

My house is hiding in there somewhere.

What is wrong with this picture?!

A typical view around here…

Cormorants and cranes…

So on our way to Audrey’s house we passed The Blue Angels!!

My neighborly “vulture”.

A small dish of deliciousness!

How random is this?

…a little closer! See her friends behind her?

…and here she is, a few days later!

Toilets I Have Known: Part Two

I spent nine weeks during the summer of 1989 in Thailand with a group of about 100 college students. Most of the summer was spent in Bangkok, hanging out at Ramkhamhaeng University. Then, at least, it was the largest university in the world, boasting over 500,000 students. We met with students, debated God vs. Buddha (though most of them knew very little about him) and we talked about America. It was a challenging and sweaty summer, full of pop-in-a-bag (in the interests of reusing their pop bottles the venders poured pop into ice-filled bags and gave you a straw), bargaining over trinkets (actually I’m a horrible bargainer – I’d way rather just pay the money they’re asking and be done with it), and salmonella due to an unpalatable “dessert” of an egg poached in coconut milk complete with tiny rice balls floating around in the bowl. I had two bites and could stomach no more but it was enough to keep me indoors for the next several days…and then led to more fun later on back at home. Oy, vey.

Don’t you just love this? Taken in Krabi – a strong wind blew the umbrella away from the fruit stand and this boy was sent after it. I have loved this photo for 23 years!

We also spent some time in northern Thailand in Chang Mai and Khao Yai National Park, which was a lesson in identifying land leaches and in what not to do when you see a small hole in the ground right outside your cabin door.

We visited a waterfall at some point, driving down a heart-stopping, narrow, curving, hilly road. The fact that I survived that drive is a miracle, as we swerved past busses, trucks, and other wide loads that almost gave us heart-attacks, let alone almost sent us careening over the edge of the road into land-leach-filled tropical jungles.

We also took a train to see the actual bridge at the River Kwai…which broke our hearts and caused me to quote Rupert Brookes “The Soldier”, which famously says, “There is a corner in a foreign field which is forever England” as we saw the rows upon rows of white wooden crosses marking the British cemetery. Still makes my heart ache to think of it.

But then, at the end of the summer, we went to Phuket Island for a few days. (Yes, you’re remembering right: it’s one of the scenes of the Tsunami in 2004. It’s just one of the places I’ve been that afterwards has suffered incredible loss…I need to blog about that whole topic sometime.) We also spent a week in Krabi nearby, which I’m sure also suffered beyond belief from the tidal wave, though I’ve never heard details.

Some of my fellow teammates. I have a feeling all of this was destroyed in the tsunami, though as I don’t know the exact name of the beach I haven’t been able to confirm this.

Krabi is a nice, small, southern city on the coast of Thailand. We spent most of our time there in a jungle village outside of Krabi proper. It was there that I saw my first lightning bugs, incidentally.

While we were there we visited some homes located on the Andaman Sea.

Yes, ON the Andaman sea.

On stilts, over the water, with the tides coming and going not far below their floorboards.

We visited with the familes, talked, ate a little something, and then – SHOOT! – I had to use the facilities.

Now, virtually all of the potties in Thailand were “squatty potties” – non-flushable bowls with a handy water source nearby which, after you “went” you cleaned by filling a pan (or two) with water, pouring the water down the bowl, and hopefully sending all the nastiness far away so as to not offend the next person.

Way better than what I faced. These squatty potties seem to even flush!

Not so with a house-on-stilts over the sea.

I told our interpreter of my need and he, knowing what I would be facing, asked me just how badly I needed it. I told him I was rather desperate. (This memory gives me a little more patience with my children on long car trips.)

He then relayed my need to the man of the house who, with an agreeable smile, motioned for me to follow him. There was another girl who needed the same thing so the two of us followed him into the house. (We had been sitting on the deck outside.) There was, of course, no electricity, no hallway lined with school photos, no recycling bins, couches, or TV guides on over-laden coffee tables.

There was one windowless room, the bare grass-woven walls leaving chinks of light on the smooth floor. There was a cooking corner, some sleeping mats rolled up for the daylight hours, and a walled-off area smack in the center to which he led us. He gestured inside, picked up a door (with both hands) which was leaning against the wall, and, with a few incoherent words, indicated that by strategically placing the door over the opening, we could shut ourselves in. Smiling and unabashed, he turned to go.

My friend and I looked at each other, our eyes wide. The door, which was made of uneven sea-worn boards held together by a board or two nailed across them, was heavy. I entered the room, which is surprisingly large in my memory, and there, in the far corner, was a hole.

Below the hole was the sea…which, at low tide, was simply a beach. I was glad the tide was high just then.

Gotta admit, though, they had a good flushing system!

Yes, this is the actual house – I took this 23 years ago in a slide and my dad has the capability to turn the slide into a digital image – thanks, Dad!

The hole was bordered on both sides by bricks, to elevate the feet (often bare or possibly in flip flops) in case of misses, I suppose.

I heard kids playing outside, and voices floated in from the deck. I shrugged my shoulders and proceeded with the task at hand.

And that, my friends, is why I am so thankful for my life. For the blessings I enjoy. For the bills that get paid and the firm roof over my head. For the food in my cupboards. For my lovely kids and patient husband.

For toilets that flush.

And the tides that wash away our iniquities.

P.S. – I’ve heard, though haven’t been able to confirm, that military cemeteries in foreign lands have been deeded over to that country. So the military cemetery for England, for example, there at the Bridge of the River Kwai, is officially on British land. I think that’s very cool.

Toilets I Have Known: Part One

So there are certain topics that I tend to avoid, whether in blogging or conversation or thought. I don’t talk about sports. (The only team I care about is the University of Oregon Ducks football team and as we won the Rose Bowl over New Years, what more is there to say?) I don’t talk about politics. (I have opinions but I keep them to myself: far too risky a topic for a person who hates conflict.) And, most of all, I don’t talk about sex. (I turn scarlet and involuntarily hiccup.)

I also do not talk about bodily functions.

Today is no exception.

I am, however, going to talk about something which skirts on the edge of second-grade humor.

TOILETS.

No, not the mundane throne sitting in my upstairs bathroom, but rather the exceptional porcelain gods that I have experienced in my traveling life.

Well, none of them were porcelain, actually.

For at least 20 years I have wanted to write about the Toilets I Have Known.

Now’s my chance.

There really are only two which stand out in my mind. There used to be more but I’ve forgotten their details. These two, however, will never be forgotten. Especially now that I’m immortalizing them in blog-land. I’ll tell you about the first one today, and the second, even more exciting one, on Thursday.

EXCEPTIONAL POTTY #1: Location: The Soviet Union, February 1988.

When I was in 12th grade, I went on a school field trip to Russia. Living in West Berlin at the time, this wasn’t that big of a deal. We drove to Schoenefeld Airport (putting up with scrutinizing East German check-point guards as we did so) and boarded a lovely Aeroflot jet. (Okay, “lovely” is not true. Though they did have real silverware, as I recall, none of this decadent Western plastic stuff.) I remember – though this was the return flight – that someone’s balalaika slid back and forth the entire flight in the open overhead compartment with a slightly musical crunch every time it hit the end.

But that has nothing to do with toilets.

We spent several days in Moscow, where, from our historic hotel across from Red Square we shopped at the famous GUM department store, photographed St. Basils Cathedral more times than traditional film cameras deserved, and avoided Lenin’s tomb (crazy-long lines). We saw dancing bears at the circus, watched a newly-wedded couple be photographed in front of the 1980 Olympic ski jump and wondered, constantly, if we were important enough to be followed.

We weren’t.

Though they did tell us that our hotel rooms were likely bugged and we reveled in making cryptic comments and writing notes about items of national security just in case.

We then moved on to a small town – its name now lost to my memory – where they make the famous Russian black lacquer painted boxes. After a long bus ride, we arrived and were told that we could use the facilities if we needed to before entering the factory.

An example of Russian lacquerwork.

Thankful for the opportunity, I walked eagerly into the barn where they told us to go.

Yes, the barn. As in BARN.

I walked through the OPEN barn door. No, it did not close. I’m fairly certain it was frozen open.

I stopped in horror. HORROR, I tell you.

Before I proceed allow me to remind you that it was February. In Russia. No, not Siberia, but it was frigid, just the same. Frigid and frozen and icy.

There, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but barn stalls, doorless, each with a hole in the ground.

And the stench!!!!

I cannot begin to describe it. Suffice it to say that that was the day I learned that even frozen waste can smell.

Despite my discomfort, I didn’t go. I just couldn’t.

Not THE barn, but still, it gives you the idea.

And that is all I remember about that particular town; the entire tour of the lacquer plant was lost in my discomfort and decadent western standards.

I wonder, sometimes, if the political changes in Russia have brought hygienic changes as well. I shall probably never know.

Thursday: EXCEPTIONAL POTTY #2: Location: The Andaman Sea, Thailand

PS – I found these two frozen barn pictures at http://www.pbase.com/lindasolan/barns – there are a lot more neat barn pictures there.