tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92224286684329686952024-02-21T11:08:37.581-05:00Penned LinesA travel journal for destinations worldwideTravelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-1030487843828187832016-06-28T13:11:00.000-04:002016-06-28T13:11:53.487-04:00Winter 2014-2015Winter in the Boston area last year set new records for cold and snowfall. Over 110 inches of snow fell in Boston. And in the nearby suburbs, the amount of snow that piled up likely exceeded even that total.<br />
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When I was just a lad some 60 years ago, I remember a number of major snow storms coming one right after the other. Snow sometimes piled up to the window sill of our house. In corners of the yard, the wind created drifts that were taller than me. Such a bounty of snow created a winter playground for kids like me. There were forts to be built and tunnels that could be dug through the drifts. Yet even these wonderful white storms of the past paled in comparison to those of last year's winter.<br />
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My wife and I had wisely decided to visit her family in Malaysia in the fall of 2014. As our day of returning to Boston approached in January, our son recommended that if we could, we should postpone our return until most of the winter had passed because of the record snowfall. While we agreed that there was no reason to rush back to Boston, I had a hard time believing that the amount of snow was as serious as our son described. So he sent me a picture of our favorite roadside ice cream stand to give us a clearer picture of what we would face if we returned.<br />
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This one picture made clear that not only was snow up to the window sills, it even climbed up to rooftop level! While I've never shied away from shoveling out my walk and driveway, we agreed that over 7 feet of snow should be left for the skiers rather than the shovelers.</div>
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This is one winter that I was glad to have missed.</div>
<br />Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-2371458037500423382016-06-20T14:57:00.000-04:002016-06-28T12:43:12.763-04:00Sonoma, CA May 2016<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0DrjdcJZhS1fU2NKM4Ks7JCnznePzSpBeyR1FezQNJGM2PaLpw7nPa-w0ewiSTRR4XjJ_QT0nuXwG50cE3Er1jjpJr94fvOhspDeVlZKELvQz2WOqCamzwAx-58jz-8n0EVs3MrJ7ks/s1600/_DSC0181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0DrjdcJZhS1fU2NKM4Ks7JCnznePzSpBeyR1FezQNJGM2PaLpw7nPa-w0ewiSTRR4XjJ_QT0nuXwG50cE3Er1jjpJr94fvOhspDeVlZKELvQz2WOqCamzwAx-58jz-8n0EVs3MrJ7ks/s320/_DSC0181.jpg" width="320" /></a>Last month, we had the opportunity to revisit Sonoma, California. Like most who come to this region, we intended to visit several wineries. In the end, however, we only had time to stop at Korbel. Established in 1882, Korbel has been America’s favorite Champagne for over a century. The tour offered at the winery provides an overview of the company’s history as well as an introduction to the process of making champagne. While Korbel is best known for its Brut and Extra Dry Champagne, a variety of other sparkling and still wines is available only at the winery. The sparkling Chardonnay, and sparkling Riesling that we tried were quite enjoyable. What we enjoyed best was Korbel’s Natural Champagne. has been served And where most wineries now charge for a tasting, Korbel still offers a free sample for up to four of their wines.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Hxi_224j9sZFvmtbEgQtGM2hRxU-G96BScCL1KudDUSDbl2glL51lV1AoWZl2FRYlOikBXBDDyxF5BhxSPDRb8zTTjcVJdHM4As-yWPbjaCcjvKrXtxlodBAK3I5MD4R_HrwaNnqCCw/s1600/_DSC0206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Hxi_224j9sZFvmtbEgQtGM2hRxU-G96BScCL1KudDUSDbl2glL51lV1AoWZl2FRYlOikBXBDDyxF5BhxSPDRb8zTTjcVJdHM4As-yWPbjaCcjvKrXtxlodBAK3I5MD4R_HrwaNnqCCw/s320/_DSC0206.jpg" width="213" /></a>After our leisurely visit to Korbel we drove to the town that gives this county its name, Sonoma. While the region is famous for its many award winning wineries, the town of Sonoma should not be overlooked. Founded by Mexico as part of its Alta California empire, Sonoma is designed classically around a central plaza. Within the tree-shaded square a statue now marks the spot where California’s Bear Flag was first raised in a declaration of independence from Mexico in 1848 just before California’s gold rush. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehwp6wRFFnZ_iofE8YTqNCuABjcH1wc5PkHx0w_d1P8GMprmsQGyO2mrprL8thyphenhyphent-LQlGnXCwsQqgGlpuahihrI_bwTqkaOJsgEkV28cFCrOtFZ3IDxnNoTiWk6k0Q-AY5dNg5zN8nz0/s1600/_DSC0203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehwp6wRFFnZ_iofE8YTqNCuABjcH1wc5PkHx0w_d1P8GMprmsQGyO2mrprL8thyphenhyphent-LQlGnXCwsQqgGlpuahihrI_bwTqkaOJsgEkV28cFCrOtFZ3IDxnNoTiWk6k0Q-AY5dNg5zN8nz0/s320/_DSC0203.jpg" width="320" /></a>Opposite the Northeast corner of the plaza is the Mission San Francisco Solano. Built in 1823, this was the 21st and last of the Franciscan Missions that still give California one of the strongest links to its history as part of Mexico. A visit to the Mission with the gracefulness of its traditional design, is both educational and a great opportunity for some memorable photos.<br />
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Elsewhere around the perimeter of the plaza are examples of Gold Rush era buildings and a wide range of home-town shops and restaurants. You can spend an interesting afternoon just strolling and exploring with breaks to enjoy a meal or a drink at one of the many restaurants and cafes that surround the square.<br />
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While Sonoma is most often associated with some of California’s best wineries, another famous product also comes from this region, Jack Cheese. In supermarkets across the country it’s easy to find a product labeled Jack Cheese. But such cellophane wrapped, soft textured, and bland products are pale imitators of the various varieties of Jack Cheese to be found here, particularly Dry Jack Cheese. Perhaps the best example of Dry Jack Cheese can be purchased at the famous Vella Cheese Factory. Here wheels of Jack Cheese are aged for 1, 2, 3 years or longer. These are as different in taste and texture as mozzarella cheese is from Parmesan. If you are a fan of aged Gouda, you will undoubtedly love Dry Jack cheese.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPsT7zRDZiuMK4jTRt9ch_jciMtzMkONqqoi3f4IvxUx_BbtrJQyjId4eN42fmaZPMWmCo1GCwJeIIzgfqQhaTlsu1K8Q75LxoTm0TlKkMCj0-LGmIAxzDjj8h6dGRhdIW97OEVFQf-E/s1600/IMG_1212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPsT7zRDZiuMK4jTRt9ch_jciMtzMkONqqoi3f4IvxUx_BbtrJQyjId4eN42fmaZPMWmCo1GCwJeIIzgfqQhaTlsu1K8Q75LxoTm0TlKkMCj0-LGmIAxzDjj8h6dGRhdIW97OEVFQf-E/s320/IMG_1212.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Ending an afternoon of exploring downtown Sonoma, it’s nice to sit across from the Plaza at one of the Sunflower Cafe’s sidewalk tables enjoying a glass of wine and perhaps having a grilled cheese sandwich made with the local Dry Jack cheese.<br />
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Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-8966969399401834302016-06-18T12:59:00.000-04:002016-06-21T13:48:26.774-04:00Multnomah Falls May 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This past May my wife and I were able to enjoy a mini-reunion with a couple friends from Cornell in Vancouver, Washington. One of the highlights of our visit was a trip along the Columbia River Gorge. The scenery there is as spectacular as we had imagined. It is not only the expanse of the Columbia River and its history that holds your imagination but also the setting where rocky heights provide a magnificent overlook to see up and down the stream until it vanishes around a bend or into the mist.<br />
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One of the best known sights in the region is Multnomah Falls. This is a double waterfall which has a scenic pedestrian bridge between the upper and lower falls. While it is an easy walk from the parking lot to the bridge with its view to the upper falls, getting to the top of the waterfall is a much more difficult hike.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSJ4r96VMEcRwbmq9wnY4Fu89gPbJcLFCQD9hNhle1_BvInzD96B0JTX9BrSobRZ1B-kLktAd1GMxtkrL2JesQqeoobsPHuPJupi5UXR1-kTbRJw63WiR9Yoaveb_GyZHeDC8Qbzdnfo/s1600/_DSC0064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSJ4r96VMEcRwbmq9wnY4Fu89gPbJcLFCQD9hNhle1_BvInzD96B0JTX9BrSobRZ1B-kLktAd1GMxtkrL2JesQqeoobsPHuPJupi5UXR1-kTbRJw63WiR9Yoaveb_GyZHeDC8Qbzdnfo/s320/_DSC0064.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
Walking past the bridge, the path weaves steeply upwards through the woods over numerous switchbacks. As you continue ever higher along the path you get even closer to the falls. Now rather than viewing the waterfall from the bottom, you begin to see the where the flow crests over the ridge and can then follow it with your eyes from the heights into the pool below. Fortunately, there are several rest stops along the pathway to the top where you can catch your breath while taking in a view from falls and across to the Columbia River. As the climb to the top of the falls can take over an hour I was only able to reach the halfway mark before my phone rang to remind me that the rest of the group was waiting at the base of the falls as it was time to move on to see other sights.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkuIR-3o-uG_PNwzHvYnvgZ4V-xwNNfN5q76NetF62bYTuA1JEAj1VsboalBbtbknQ_v60ka0vo5UlR8Ulg-SeCQYwyCaPRTBrpCerERwkBCKGpGXUdotpI7WXIHa5jVFXTFpqdMsMGc/s1600/_DSC0073.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkuIR-3o-uG_PNwzHvYnvgZ4V-xwNNfN5q76NetF62bYTuA1JEAj1VsboalBbtbknQ_v60ka0vo5UlR8Ulg-SeCQYwyCaPRTBrpCerERwkBCKGpGXUdotpI7WXIHa5jVFXTFpqdMsMGc/s320/_DSC0073.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
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I guess my climb to the top of Multnomah Falls will just have to wait for our next trip to the Northwest.<br />
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<img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NMUQiW4ktIHGXhccD9hJXk2zw-VJxvCJJzskBxydVn0M9_kQoJPlPU4SATaWpDCWUlcgSXgnXr_8t1MNwU8kHVNvibp9KKkVr1XaupuJ8jVzsD-yY38oVgPydwSOyptVWS3MpYu0yLc/s320/_DSC0068.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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<br />Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-14747749840711059122013-08-14T11:52:00.001-04:002013-08-14T20:19:26.785-04:00Singapore Metamorphosis<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To understand the visual transformation of Singapore from a colonial entrepôt to a global financial center and a tourist destination, compare these photos taken from the top of Circular Road. The first is from the late 1970s while the image at the bottom is current via Google Maps. What had been a busy commercial street of shop-houses that were part of Singapore's import-export trade close to the <i>godowns </i>along Boat Quay, has given way to a tree-lined walk where tourists stroll past cafes and boutiques. Back in the 1970s, the only skyscraper downtown was the OCBC bank building. Now there many office towers competing for space throughout the downtown financial district.</span><br />
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<img src="webkit-fake-url://7B6EA5A3-A8E6-416B-9C4C-1A4622FED656/image.tiff" />Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0Circular Road, Singapore1.2868647 103.849004599999941.2848802 103.84648309999994 1.2888492 103.85152609999994tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-27693887866225889992011-04-01T22:09:00.014-04:002021-10-18T15:13:24.959-04:00Dar El-Hajar January 2011<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2TZtIy12G1ZNSo7urZEtkpOWyki5YtKHV-HH2N37eSgekBn5Ga8umDG5QK4VvEXKXFUUSiNjhmH3F4rELnJbdZW9Q7Ng370GEOEeD58pAHrFIXqhvIoewkHmUds116Jr6sKVNjR9KCTI/s1600/IMG00152-20110114-0649.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591009578852982418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2TZtIy12G1ZNSo7urZEtkpOWyki5YtKHV-HH2N37eSgekBn5Ga8umDG5QK4VvEXKXFUUSiNjhmH3F4rELnJbdZW9Q7Ng370GEOEeD58pAHrFIXqhvIoewkHmUds116Jr6sKVNjR9KCTI/s400/IMG00152-20110114-0649.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9fsbKWYEU0Mzecv2aCCJT9VfT4-aK0m7z23Qg-jtrQhShvupbCbiAtKy-lm98g6pZG9LWYYnB0a9xx0OWnTcKpoxzee-Rh3vBmjPnLXXDiyHaYNYkSkjM5FK5zlbRA-mYE3JHCwxLyI/s1600/IMG00151-20110114-0647.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4Mco9Kbs8xi0YHa96_fPRqOH2M_Dy7iDoOm_Wd-fzeklY32Mv9t-1XasoZY49wbyImuRzHBSyy7sg0LyVEwQo3z4OvRcJSmUqUzIquYiZV5RhVRmdDN5rNFftyaSdm3xWhhyphenhyphen_xEoOO8/s1600/IMG00151-20110114-0647.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div>In January 2011 I traveled to Sana'a Yemen on a work assignment. On the weekend, however, I was able to drive outside the capital to Dar El-Hajar, the famous summer palace of Iman Yahia (1911-1948). Dal El-Hajar is also known as the Rock Palace because it rises 5 stories from a base atop a rock outcropping. <div>
</div><div>The palace is located in a lush valley called Wadi Dhar. From the palace's upper stories there are wonderful views of the valley and the steep cliffs of the surrounding mountains.</div><div>
</div><div>The interior of the palace has been maintained with much of the original artwork and furnishings of Iman Yahia. There are many photos from the 1930s and 1940s showing scenes from the life of the last traditional ruler of Yemen.</div><div>
</div><div>In contrast to Sana'a with its bustling streets and markets, the palace in Wadi Dhar and the nearby village are quiet. Here there are no political demonstrations attracting global headlines. From the palace rooftop, you look out over a scene hardly changed since the early years of the last century. At Dar El-Hajar, it is still easy to imagine a Yemen from years gone by, remaining in spendid and peaceful isolation from the rest of the world.</div></div><div>
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</span></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-36806020189837886132009-08-30T06:58:00.009-04:002009-09-03T19:44:44.263-04:00JFK House August 27 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1G_oHI1HecSHVRXS0X-PkTp9fJ0PG-5kjG1AMCmh_OkBi2QTUnPofzLrfcO2feq5lQPWriIUm1Z9VBmfEljb_WtG9-VVnV3OvLdLewF3P3hQBxedAJZ-cR-a8GSALnZLinxYhNHf2Ngw/s1600-h/JFK+House+8-27-09.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1G_oHI1HecSHVRXS0X-PkTp9fJ0PG-5kjG1AMCmh_OkBi2QTUnPofzLrfcO2feq5lQPWriIUm1Z9VBmfEljb_WtG9-VVnV3OvLdLewF3P3hQBxedAJZ-cR-a8GSALnZLinxYhNHf2Ngw/s400/JFK+House+8-27-09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375709828136855554" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">"He was a man with, among other things, a great gift for friendship. He was a guy born with a lot of advantages, and then maximized his ability to use them on behalf of other people. He was a very powerful, wealthy guy who would reach out to help others in ways that are really very unusual in politics — politics tends to be a kind of jealous business — and Sen. Kennedy really was above that in ways that almost nobody else was." Representative Barney Frank</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:medium;">On my way back from work last week I decided to stop by the house in Brookline, Massachusetts where President Kennedy was born. Even though it was about 7:00 PM and this national historic site had closed at 4:30, a National Park Ranger was still there to greet people who had come to leave flowers and sign a condolence book for the family of Senator Ted Kennedy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:medium;">I spent some minutes talking with the Ranger about the Kennedy family. I was somewhat surprised that a family which touched the world started their journey from a small house in a modest residential area. The Ranger noted that this was the first home for President Kennedy's parents. They lived here until 1920 but moved to a larger house after four of the children were born. John Kennedy was born in the house in 1917. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:medium;">Although, Ted Kennedy had never lived in the Beals Street house, this was a place where neighbors from near and far came when they learned that Senator Kennedy had died after his year-long battle with cancer. Like many others who arrived here after hearing the news, I was drawn by a sense of both sadness for the loss of a great man and gratitude for a family who never looked on their wealth as way to wall themselves away from others. Instead they offered a life of service for the nation and the world. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica;font-size:medium;">As I stood on the porch, I wrote down my thoughts in the condolence book about our favorite senator and what he's meant to me over the years. Here at the Kennedy house on Beals Street there were no crowds; it was a peaceful way to remember Ted and the family that has given so much for our country.</span></div></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-68365912258823369662009-04-21T08:07:00.016-04:002009-04-23T23:08:02.131-04:00Hawaii 1981<div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#551A8B;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPt32KkItTkYx3nUC3icN2FCA4c3QKkXO3jhtOs41lY756iG8LVG7TnegIH4iAgNVeo_tWYhQRlyrq-tjs0WmTR44_YxWyS7hRI2-YFysbHpKEvyVOFkw0tLuXqdIz9om2TGcvBOaZ4ic/s1600-h/Honolulu+1981.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPt32KkItTkYx3nUC3icN2FCA4c3QKkXO3jhtOs41lY756iG8LVG7TnegIH4iAgNVeo_tWYhQRlyrq-tjs0WmTR44_YxWyS7hRI2-YFysbHpKEvyVOFkw0tLuXqdIz9om2TGcvBOaZ4ic/s400/Honolulu+1981.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327122600647075314" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Honolulu View of Diamond Head</div><div><br /></div><div>Hawaii was a place that I had known in my imagination long before I arrived there. During WWII, both my father and my uncle were stationed in the Hawaiian Islands. While my father returned to Massachusetts after completing his service, his brother settled in Honolulu, married a lovely Filipina and raised a family there. Over the years we received pictures of my cousins playing on beaches framed by palm trees, gift packages of tropical food items and colorful flower arrangements of sweet-smelling plumeria and bird of paradise. <div><br /></div><div>In the years before statehood, Hawaii seemed more like a distant foreign land than part of the United States. It wasn't often that we heard from the Hawaiian side of our family as phone calls were too expensive and letters would take a week or so to arrive. In those days before commercial jetliners and budget travel, the idea of visiting our Hawaiian relatives hardly seemed possible.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was not until the spring of 1981 that, together with my wife and son, I finally got to Hawaii during a short leave taken while we were relocating from Indonesia to Cameroon. After so many years of seeing their photos and hearing about them, I was finally able to meet my aunt and my cousins. As my uncle had passed away some years before, my aunt had struggled to raise their three boys on her own. She soon remarried and the family now included a daughter. My cousin Mackie and his wife Annie picked us up at the airport and gave us a traditional Hawaiian welcome with garlands of fragrant leis. The few days we were able to spend with them were memorable. Mackie and Annie and their three children had a home in Wahiawa which was near where Mackie worked at Schofield Barracks. Like my father, Mackie was a carpenter. Also like my father, his building projects made his house a "work in progress." So I felt right at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Annie showed us around Oahu. Although we soon found it was possible to make a circuit of the island within a few hours, our trips around Oahu always took longer. Everywhere we went there was something new to see and experience—from looking over fields of ripening pineapples alongside the Kamehameha Highway, to enjoying shave ice with sweet azuki beans at a roadside stand in Haleiwa, to swimming in the cool, clear water at Waimea Bay, to standing on the Pali Overlook where we could lean against the wind while viewing the valley below and the ocean in the distance. While we did visit some tourist destinations, we found the daily pleasures of "talking story" and making family outings to local markets, parks and quiet beaches far from Waikiki much more enjoyable. </div><div><br /></div><div>All too soon it was time to leave but we knew we would be returning again. In Hawaii, my wife and I found a multi-cultural lifestyle rich in Asian tradition where we felt at home. Within a couple years we became Hawaiian residents and before the decade was out we had bought our first home there.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDXlJotHTm5S4AYr-7SQrl0WkPmHWK_RIcHCAufW43MVmaLI-1kJbOl0eHrioQZMWXyiGGW_qbzTKGVMv9r-Srt9woeS6D2g-Yxu_emsA26tloAVxxoUzQbaEAHxLilkudug6Q5GTyVw/s1600-h/Hamauma+Bay+1981_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDXlJotHTm5S4AYr-7SQrl0WkPmHWK_RIcHCAufW43MVmaLI-1kJbOl0eHrioQZMWXyiGGW_qbzTKGVMv9r-Srt9woeS6D2g-Yxu_emsA26tloAVxxoUzQbaEAHxLilkudug6Q5GTyVw/s400/Hamauma+Bay+1981_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327226431666831266" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Hanauma Bay</div></div></div></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-87189198720454882832009-04-19T15:41:00.021-04:002016-06-18T16:57:08.582-04:00Concord Massachusetts — Patriot's Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh-hmztEBWeQlhLPKUU4DZE9Ds4RlGqy6C4w70O-aQOhWM0wYdq40b46e0Eda0bkCj21zqHHkHPt-pKSNsFQ1j2YPdMAGW2EQuVuoocs2ujP4bIllm4JFZwV0-FWuMsWAvdwNioW_dwZM/s1600-h/Dawn+Minuteman+(1).jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326518816371078018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh-hmztEBWeQlhLPKUU4DZE9Ds4RlGqy6C4w70O-aQOhWM0wYdq40b46e0Eda0bkCj21zqHHkHPt-pKSNsFQ1j2YPdMAGW2EQuVuoocs2ujP4bIllm4JFZwV0-FWuMsWAvdwNioW_dwZM/s400/Dawn+Minuteman+(1).jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 265px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Minuteman Statue 1968</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In Concord, where the first shots of the American Revolution rang out, Patriot's Day is always celebrated on April 19th. While the official state holiday may now fall on the third Monday of the month, residents of Concord and neighboring towns keep with tradition in commemorating that particular day in 1775 when Minutemen engaged the Redcoats in Concord and Lexington. Today, as residents play the role of local militia and British soldiers to re-create the fight by the bridge, crowds of onlookers will once again thrill to the crack of muskets and the smell of blackpowder smoke.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Growing up in a town that neighbored Concord, on Patriot's Day I often went to the Old North Bridge to witness the re-enactment of the battle. Sometimes, I would walk with local Minutemen as they made their way from Acton to Concord. On those early spring mornings, the weather was typically cold but everyone's spirit was high as we followed the militia on their 7 mile march to Concord. Wearing tri-corner hats and shouldering muskets, our neighbors tried to act the part of 18th century farmers called to war. Accompanied by fife and drum, they gave the appearance of being a determined if not a disciplined lot.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During my youth in the 1950s, the Old North Bridge was not yet part of the national park system. Although world famous for the fight that took place there, the park itself was small. From Monument Street you walked down a short, tree-lined path to the bridge. Across the bridge stood the famous Minuteman statue by Daniel Chester French. Here, a hedge marked the park's limit. You could take it all in within the few minutes it took to walk from the street to the statue. Or you could spend a quiet afternoon pondering what happened here while sitting on a bench overlooking the scene. Except in the summer, the park was seldom busy. Most of those who came by were, like me, local visitors who enjoyed the park's tranquility and natural beauty. If you looked across the river, the Buttrick estate dominated the view. The Buttrick mansion stood on a rise overlooking the river. During spring and summer, flowers on the hillside created a tapestry of color flowing from the grand house down to the riverbank. Today, the flowers are mostly gone as the National Park Service has tried to restore the landscape of 1775. The Buttrick mansion itself has become a visitor center where you can see exhibits describing the Concord and Lexington battles. The Old North Bridge is now just a small part of Minute Man National Park which covers all of the battleground from Concord to Lexington.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With Patriot's Day transformed into another Monday holiday in Massachusetts, for most residents of the Bay State Patriot's Day now means being able to enjoy the first long weekend of spring—a harbinger of the carefree summer days to come. For many, Patriot's Day has become synonymous with the Boston Marathon, a wonderful event celebrated by runners and sports fans around the world. For me, however, Patriot's Day will always be the 19th of April. Wherever I am, this holiday always brings me back to thoughts of Concord and my many visits to the Old North Bridge.</span></span></span></div>
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Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-27331419690349181092009-04-04T12:05:00.019-04:002009-05-23T12:46:45.894-04:00Bangkok and Chiang Mai Summer 1971As the summer of 1971 approached, some friends in my Malaysia Peace Corps group suggested that we should use our annual leave to visit Thailand. It sounded like a great adventure. None of us had ever been to Thailand or even had much information on what we could do there. But Thailand promised to be a great change from Malaysia, a country that was becoming very familiar.<br /><br />At the Peace Corps office in Kuala Lumpur, we were able to read information sheets written by PCVs in Bangkok and beyond. These brief reports provided us with a lot of local information about Thailand: where to stay, where to shop, what to see and how to do it all on a PCV allowance. Armed with this intelligence, we coordinated our vacation schedules and prepared for our holiday.<br /><br />We began our vacation in Kota Bharu in the Northeast corner of Malaysia. To cross into Thailand, we had to walk on a railway trestle over the river that marked the border between Malaysia and Thailand. After passing through Thai immigration and customs— a fairly impromptu set up— we boarded pedicabs for the short trip to the train station. Here we faced our first problem. None of us spoke Thai and nobody we met spoke English or Malay. While the train schedule was prominently posted, we couldn’t read it because it was written in Thai, a script that gave us not even a clue as to which of the many stations listed was Bangkok. All we could decipher were the departure and arrival times. Knowing that the trip took about one day from the border to Bangkok, we made a guess concerning which station should be our destination and, with a bit of trepidation, bought our tickets. We rationalized that, after all, we were traveling up the length of the Thai peninsula. There was no place for the train line to go but to Bangkok. At least, we hoped so.<div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Train to Bangkok?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIL7IwippN1YQRH7cOkpuz8e3gZ3am04k-cV1VTcfcangNUOF0fJkpBxUd3P0uynpuqA3I7FB5oQ3v3Q0kMwgCoFTfGwNen4IJQGcLcdsmSu53FqdfOCFPQSaYym4vgmnPYinDMkhyphenhyphenW4/s1600-h/Train+to+BKK.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIL7IwippN1YQRH7cOkpuz8e3gZ3am04k-cV1VTcfcangNUOF0fJkpBxUd3P0uynpuqA3I7FB5oQ3v3Q0kMwgCoFTfGwNen4IJQGcLcdsmSu53FqdfOCFPQSaYym4vgmnPYinDMkhyphenhyphenW4/s320/Train+to+BKK.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320974149587341202" /></a><br /><br />When at last the train ended its journey at a major terminal, we disembarked and walked out into the sunlight still not quite knowing where we were. “Bangkok?” we asked a taxi driver standing outside the train station. He gave us a quick look and said, “Thirty dollars.” As our train tickets all the way from Malaysia had cost only a fraction of this amount we began to grow concerned that we perhaps had missed our mark by some distance. An attempt to negotiate a lower fare did not reduce the requested tariff by much. In his own way, the taximan indicated that Bangkok was a long drive. But as thirty dollars was more than any of us were willing to pay, we sought another solution.<br /><br />We soon realized that few people leaving the train station were getting into taxis. Most headed across the street to the river and were boarding long, narrow boats powered by big engines fitted with a long-shaft to the propeller. We picked up our bags and followed the crowd down to the river. When we got to the pier, we again asked, “Bangkok?” The boatman pointed at the city skyline across the river. We quickly piled into the river taxi and within a few minutes arrived in Bangkok. The cost? Half a baht: about three cents!<br /><br />We found Bangkok fascinating. With its <em>klongs</em> and temples, crowded markets and jumping nightlife, we enjoyed exploring the city day and night.<br /><br /><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Erawan Prayers</span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2n3rvzw_78Zo_qf0WE5LlpVmMoHVb7vTpgF3brSLXUCbI_7IkdJb34SKvNk2M268-U37jSd9MZZG1-6FnHJoTjDCHj10ggW8NYAw_muyvUEq6bESFipqFh0-d73qsWRF1SCvU19I3-M/s1600-h/Erawan+Prayers+1971.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sQO16zSA8HqP4PR8ovb6SaC_U8z-763zWlGE_ekdtphO8kF-fn1hQui7QmWwUjo1veUUhiymEV3G9KQOVRvBCCr0pkRzLnQw1EJRuq23mdsvd3Ds3FFqun17pP6P5z_YTOYNKE8UF1A/" alt="Erawan%2BPrayers%2B1971.XZYuMCyXSwgt.jpg" width="307" height="320" /></a><br /><br />After several days of seeing the sights in Bangkok, we talked about where else we might go. Some suggested we ought to cross over into Cambodia to see Angkor Wat. Others recommended we travel north to see Thailand’s hill towns. In the end, we agreed to visit Chiang Mai which we thought would be a comfortable change from Bangkok’s heat. We put Angkor Wat on our destination list for next year. As it turned out, however, the war that soon came to Cambodia closed the country for many years. It was not until 2005 that I was finally able to see the wonders of Angkor Wat.<br /><br />An overnight night bus took us on the 700km journey (about 435 miles) from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. I called this the Thai Gourmet Tour as our bus seemed to stop every few hours at another all-night eatery where every passenger took the opportunity to feast on grilled Thai chicken, fried noodles and other delights.<br /><br />Our first view of Chiang Mai was memorable. The rooftops of Chiang Mai glimmered half hidden in the shadows of early morning. As dawn turned to daylight and the mist dissipated, Chiang Mai’s houses and temples gradually came into view, as mystically as Brigadoon, framed against a mountain backdrop. Instead of Bangkok’s din we heard cocks crowing and the quiet sounds of Chiang Mai—spirit house bells tinkling in the breeze like wind chimes.<br /><br /><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lovely Chiang Mai</span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqS9sd2pG5zrMU_jTwiUnhi0sYLk0c_yXgwIJj_Joh28GgWp7EOOVquUIsTPvEsirceVU7rWqmYL6BLZcXWhbyuSbn1COTdxNtkhOIkC9QNENhSpu7CSdP4Ce8L9pQOD3w35PedFQ9pu8/s1600-h/Chiangmai+3.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrYlixl2TKnVnrZSu6GftWp8cshUv91FEgp5IKS0sUVuCghS9lLc-thfVacxY_TEFB_GMeP-QF6dcsEw9LjqMZhUBJpwKSy4xkjMQBpMHST4r9gSCSA-ttZ_rCGxip-kwxvjM_OldKA8/" alt="Chiangmai%2B3.yt6XyxhCoCnb.qFz0QriVEJYO.jpg" width="304" height="320" /></a><br /><br />Chiang Mai, although the provincial capital, had a small town feel. It was easy to get around and meet residents, particularly students who just wanted the chance to practice their English. One student was kind enough to act as our guide in Chiang Mai and tell us something of its history.<br /><br />As much as we enjoyed visiting many of Chiang Mai’s temples, there was much more to see in and around the city. We had a lot of fun going into various shops selling everything from Thai silk to carved furniture. Each shop seemed to employ a former Miss Chiang Mai as a sales girl to attract customers into buying their goods such as these hand-painted umbrellas.<br /><br /><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Chiang Mai Umbrella Shop</span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EzYbwem2i9Hxt0_rW-rn6LF73tcNKF3dk_e4nNalogynRc8gZc72mpm0PBkgVlagwCHLCtSNKxNiLKWKnglr8DmVPe5a5KxGnQ64UShNrZi5FTvzUJ24Vbtmeb2-FL5ABTQiOoUKZd4/s1600-h/Chiangmai+2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTW2gs3uRiJIPLiD9lt7KUthWMS7QdTSbvRPVagQUnkl6Eo9fQr75zKAFwOgwAEzBVSaMSUw1_CYfBI-3LEsmdxMSheAMKQ-IJsErXOVU3FgMTMoi4z6RtOtQ149Xw9Muh1oye4qZu9q8/" alt="Chiangmai%2B2.jI7p3a1K6Ux5.Zk59U8JUWlN2.jpg" width="306" height="320" /></a><br /><br />I think the highlight of our visit was our trek to Wat Doi Suthep high in the mountains overlooking the Chiang Mai valley. The temple was built in the 14th century on a spot chosen by a sacred white elephant. For the people of Thailand, this temple is an important pilgrimage site on major Buddhist feasts. There was a spectacular view from the temple down to the fields of rice covering the valley floor. On seeing the endless irrigated padi fields stretching to the horizon, I had to remind myself that each of the millions of rice stalks had been planted individually by hand. Thailand’s bounty of rice is truly a miracle of man and nature.<br /><br /><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Peace Corps Volunteers at Wat Doi Suthep</span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9SR7eKPM-1fxKzR9CYyayr2oMgw14YfWnAg_HRIzIWJ8gU1pPYHR2v55sr2AkfrlMtRcML-FCmvTHhfIusj0pZNnhgQbotY0NrrjbQgYS6-8UwezD4-Msge2Gho6ywPzUN8wbkWGpmg/s1600-h/Chiangmai+1.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyED_OjcP-ge9Cl7NHUrO2Rzqalc5qUQzVqIbAHSmD5UvBXepUEQulvtnCAjf0WuWyeMgFNgP4mw9VksIWIZxxSokMqcIdhQYiW4O8GCgQEAdU_NyP5KfMjjW4IScNiklHTfaO61VRi3M/" alt="Chiangmai1.Yssk53Ij2IsG.pQHult4irQST.jpg" width="254" height="320" /></a><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-86993795955386914282009-03-07T14:25:00.029-05:002009-05-27T21:01:51.268-04:00Singapore Old and NewOver the years I’ve often traveled to Singapore. My first visit was in late 1970 when I was serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malaysia. At that time, Singapore had only been independent for five years. There was still something of a colonial atmosphere about the place. In part it was the architecture and in part it was the presence of longtime expats at the old pubs and other British hangouts. The pace of life was definitely slower then as there was no reason to hurry and air conditioning was far from universal.<br /><br />While Orchard and Tanglin Roads had already become the main destination of foreign visitors, there were relatively few tourists. Most visitors were businessmen looking for an opportunity in Singapore’s newly independent economy. Unlike today, there were no broad walkways and megamalls in this part of town. As pedestrians ambled along the crowded sidewalks, they had to edge past snake charmers and other touts trying to cage a few tourist dollars. During the monsoon season, Orchard Road regularly flooded and visitors moved between the hotels and shops in <i>trishaws</i> pushed by men walking through the water. Most of the city at that time consisted of two story shophouses. The few skyscrapers that existed were found along Shenton Way.<br /><br />The heart of the old city, around the intersection of Temple and Trengganu, was still an area where a visitor felt alien. This traditional Chinatown center remained a world apart. Nearby Sago Lane was still remembered for its houses where the dying were brought. Such traditional death houses had only been banned a decade earlier. The area’s many shops catered to the traditional needs of the local community and not to tourists seeking Singapore kitsch. For a visitor interested in exploring the crowded markets along Singapore's back streets, an ability to speak Hokkien or Malay was more useful than English or even Mandarin.<br /><br />In the years immediately following independence, an important link with Singapore’s past remained an economy driven by shipping and trade, dominated by a few old established firms. Ships, anchored in the roads just off the coast, could be seen offloading their cargo into lighters tied up alongside. As soon as one lighter would fill, another would take its place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdtg8L_7djOEAdL_i0j4l2F2oqR-gxFGPtxPNlL0w9pKX3fkYZqI6XemwD7S9sNjp4p3ou4xIZNQciK4sxnvRv3CrYRZrVWluKJJ_7s97AVBLeo9hIKLgjAM8G2wjTXtHYXDOqKFxQ6o/s1600-h/Offloading.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdtg8L_7djOEAdL_i0j4l2F2oqR-gxFGPtxPNlL0w9pKX3fkYZqI6XemwD7S9sNjp4p3ou4xIZNQciK4sxnvRv3CrYRZrVWluKJJ_7s97AVBLeo9hIKLgjAM8G2wjTXtHYXDOqKFxQ6o/s320/Offloading.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311730621613671058" /></a><div><br /><br />Lighters not only had a strong engine below deck but also had eyes painted on their bow to guide them as they chugged their way from the outer harbor past the Merlion to <em>godowns </em>lining the Singapore River. There was a constant procession of lighters entering and leaving the river's boat basin. Along Boat Quay, lighters could be seen three and four deep as they jockied for a berth. Night and day, coolies unloaded everything that Singapore traded. Whether the cargo was precious or common, much of it was carried ashore on the backs of men. With practiced effort they balanced their loads across rickety planks laid from the lighters to the roadway. The shift to containerized shipping was still some years ahead. Today’s diversified economy of electronics production, investment banking and international tourism remained a dream yet to be created by Singapore’s leaders.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGatjUcZPvOOibBTDHbSQYOPfn61OzkHxheVwWW76nWQ1xf2Cx0zFeJUD3aAUp4RzaAKTKfT0bstWVYG4S-HGbGkr0eb2L4f7thbsGHdrn2gglIw10nIZrgs8QzsiCDdfBim9DXZQNJs/s1600-h/Singapore+River+(2)+1971.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGatjUcZPvOOibBTDHbSQYOPfn61OzkHxheVwWW76nWQ1xf2Cx0zFeJUD3aAUp4RzaAKTKfT0bstWVYG4S-HGbGkr0eb2L4f7thbsGHdrn2gglIw10nIZrgs8QzsiCDdfBim9DXZQNJs/s320/Singapore+River+(2)+1971.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311730616489070034" /></a><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIuMOjSjSQMn3BS2g0u5GhTZL3VvYQ-VnK_dbVvj3uyg7jfo-Quq-katkN1U_0FUaElQTo3NG9Ckq-b7fhaYcruPfMzG4cNzoOUcKrwuOgA9a00V2f7BuB_5Ir3NoDqLHgR_L-xtqk5o/s1600-h/Singapore+River3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIuMOjSjSQMn3BS2g0u5GhTZL3VvYQ-VnK_dbVvj3uyg7jfo-Quq-katkN1U_0FUaElQTo3NG9Ckq-b7fhaYcruPfMzG4cNzoOUcKrwuOgA9a00V2f7BuB_5Ir3NoDqLHgR_L-xtqk5o/s320/Singapore+River3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311734282790699906" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9FkNEtPrSTv0Nys0On0TMYBF7ktC-5r7eg-_LAksYIv7FXD0Mbm4qerNjcLZWykxWsGDiPIphb10cOhmH755A0YoFIEuP_SvFkr9RyyVTymJMa5abeYIvoz-ulQAY-AmmmoU6ysmXx8/s1600-h/Singapore+River6.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9FkNEtPrSTv0Nys0On0TMYBF7ktC-5r7eg-_LAksYIv7FXD0Mbm4qerNjcLZWykxWsGDiPIphb10cOhmH755A0YoFIEuP_SvFkr9RyyVTymJMa5abeYIvoz-ulQAY-AmmmoU6ysmXx8/s320/Singapore+River6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311730616481570018" /></a><div><br /><br />When the sun set, Singapore was transformed as the city’s car parks became impromptu dining emporiums with dozens of hawkers setting up their push carts to prepare an amazing variety of local food favorites. Whether you were looking for <em>satay, mee goreng, murtabah</em> or even more elaborate dishes, there were many choices. For expats and local elites wanting to enjoy typically British fare, dinner at the Raffles Hotel promised an atmosphere of raffish charm along with its signature cocktail, the Singapore Sling. Many visitors and expats completed their evening by wandering over to Bugis Street to gawk at the nightly parade of transvestites known for their remarkable beauty. The opportunity of sharing a drink, a dance or something more with one of these "girls" made Bugis Street one of Singapore’s more notorious nightspots.<br /><br />Singapore is a very different place today.<br /><br />Singapore today is as shiny and up-to-date as the brightest capitals of Europe and North America. Singapore’s growing economy has brought prosperity to its population. The country’s education and healthcare systems are second to none. Crime is low. Employment is high. On Singapore’s Metro you can move comfortably and swiftly to almost any destination in the city. New construction continually updates Singapore’s skyline. To best London, Singapore now has its own giant ferris wheel, the Singapore Flyer—the world’s tallest at 165 meters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHaixPtVJwt2dtrrLb8_w_WV3ignzyPtw5x58yV1ztCDQeJxI3nYGKYrAGGiNb5mH_w-VHHAgjhgIptzYSQCHlLrNrZzkV_Xf_V4aJLARNJ6278JE6k7vYw5mn8o8uXp4DaHaCeOUxX4/s1600-h/Singapore+Skyline.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHaixPtVJwt2dtrrLb8_w_WV3ignzyPtw5x58yV1ztCDQeJxI3nYGKYrAGGiNb5mH_w-VHHAgjhgIptzYSQCHlLrNrZzkV_Xf_V4aJLARNJ6278JE6k7vYw5mn8o8uXp4DaHaCeOUxX4/s320/Singapore+Skyline.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311730608268405522" /></a><div><br /><br />From Benetton to KFC, from Starbucks to Versace, international logos are highly visible throughout the city. And yet, in this rush to a future closely intertwined with other world capitals, a sense of Singapore’s unique and storied history is vanishing as the country reinvents itself for the modern world.<br /><br />Images from the past remain and yet they’re different somehow. You can, for example, still spend a pleasant, if expensive, afternoon over drinks in the Raffles Long Bar. But with the Raffles transformation into an international tropical resort a decade ago, a great deal of its earlier charm has been lost along with the polished patina of the old woodwork and fixtures. Bugis Street, once infamous as a licentious entertainment district, has now become the site for yet another shopping mall. And at night along Boat Quay, the waterside is bright with neon as visitors and young Singaporeans while away the evening in restaurants and shops unaware that this area used to be a working river where coolies humped sacks of copra and spices from lighters to <em>godowns</em>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTWrqftS_U23GCHufPcOvc-F7HNSZDfGrwKofsUTLXm-tuunprKiflSywyUnq5xWvHEj1VobRtAAqJKnhaHsHJt95PEO5Kfv16AAGRhqeAap94UaIVpMvNqKIvzL7G4hI6zV-MnhKrfk/s1600-h/Clarke+Quay.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTWrqftS_U23GCHufPcOvc-F7HNSZDfGrwKofsUTLXm-tuunprKiflSywyUnq5xWvHEj1VobRtAAqJKnhaHsHJt95PEO5Kfv16AAGRhqeAap94UaIVpMvNqKIvzL7G4hI6zV-MnhKrfk/s320/Clarke+Quay.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311730606818554706" /></a><div><br /><br />I enjoy the efficient and entertaining city that Singapore has become. I feel at home there. With its modern facilities, Asian hospitality and wonderful <em>Peranakan</em> cuisine, Singapore remains a destination worth traveling halfway around the world to visit. But I also miss the Singapore I have known: comfortably colonial, mysteriously oriental, gritty, tawdry and vibrantly on the cusp of a new age.<br /><br />When I think of all these changes—not only what has improved but also what has been lost—I take comfort from the wisdom of Buddha who teaches us that all of life is impermanent. </div></div></div></div></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-53157673647216223082009-02-27T17:19:00.018-05:002009-03-01T14:17:19.070-05:00Durian February 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DnIYmCAK6PJ8Wt1YTHNnbzxBifz4g89PZgNP0LuWa5ec6yrhvWYNQKWENDI8mmaiSfX8QZ796Jw8bf0deHh4_vgOo4G8hl0J3RPZz1X_H9zWh2tWzTwOIW9m7i75urlaPOOE7_CT-xo/s1600-h/DSC_2550.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DnIYmCAK6PJ8Wt1YTHNnbzxBifz4g89PZgNP0LuWa5ec6yrhvWYNQKWENDI8mmaiSfX8QZ796Jw8bf0deHh4_vgOo4G8hl0J3RPZz1X_H9zWh2tWzTwOIW9m7i75urlaPOOE7_CT-xo/s320/DSC_2550.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307936131020218978" /></a><br /><br />Earlier this month Jee and I were in Singapore and Malaysia to celebrate Chinese New Year. This was the first time we had been back for the holiday since our marriage in 1972. While we’ve always celebrated Chinese New Year wherever we happened to be, being distant from Jee’s extended family of brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews, our reunion dinners have been tasty but fairly quiet affairs. So it was wonderful to be together again with so many of our relatives during this special family-centered holiday.<br /><br />Coming in late January—early February, Chinese New Year coincides with one of the year’s two durian seasons. While the “King of Fruits” is not as plentiful during Chinese New Year as it is during the major season six months later, we were able to enjoy this wonderful and unique fruit throughout our travels from Alor Star near Malaysia’s border with Thailand all the way down to Singapore.<br /><br />Durian originated in Malaysia and remains a fruit unique to the region. Efforts to transplant durian to other tropical areas have not been successful. And while you can find durian in Thailand and some other Southeast Asian countries, most agree that durian from Malaysia tastes the best.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yDYm4243us7uAz0v-Z15u48DVeRVY9XhAlCA5UXlKNnXbyHfdIFwJZXxqv8iVrRC3hAoc3PqoIvQ365TxF4BUOFd6U7gvLheAvRCjyqRf0SJYYpRZqnKuv60yMjVDwKjAnJYLSgFJE0/s1600-h/DSC_2555.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yDYm4243us7uAz0v-Z15u48DVeRVY9XhAlCA5UXlKNnXbyHfdIFwJZXxqv8iVrRC3hAoc3PqoIvQ365TxF4BUOFd6U7gvLheAvRCjyqRf0SJYYpRZqnKuv60yMjVDwKjAnJYLSgFJE0/s320/DSC_2555.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307937701926239026" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4160sf_WbJd4YBGM0jAiSgAJ8KCRlPSiArBJum8Zt_YOAexGcjoO3VpbK2WPj7DzkxM6NkBwT9MSmf4P-EVVtykXyQLpobN-poYzrgt0ZQwXmujd332A-Ie6Z4-1UwjLamKhchf0izhw/s1600-h/DSC_2557.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4160sf_WbJd4YBGM0jAiSgAJ8KCRlPSiArBJum8Zt_YOAexGcjoO3VpbK2WPj7DzkxM6NkBwT9MSmf4P-EVVtykXyQLpobN-poYzrgt0ZQwXmujd332A-Ie6Z4-1UwjLamKhchf0izhw/s320/DSC_2557.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307936135312022530" /></a><br /><br />About the size of a pineapple, a single durian can weigh from two to five pounds. Most of this weight comes from durian’s thick shell which is covered with sharp pointy projections that give the fruit its name: in Malay, durian mean thorny fruit. Once opened, there are five fleshy segments of fruit within the durian. The pulp inside a durian varies in color from ivory to yellow-orange. The texture of this flesh is soft. Eaten by hand, durian sticks to your fingers like a custard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjC2C5472TV-vuQekXw2mJ41KORAzUovktHn8isOJWlI6YQQ_9ASXAs1YX3DgHEISmmXLD_PtRQJLil2gkIS-LzBorC50qv1l97j2PGLsDVzYZNhpze1pawTtg6OOxbBqNAMQuwZpD31k/s1600-h/DSC_2591.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjC2C5472TV-vuQekXw2mJ41KORAzUovktHn8isOJWlI6YQQ_9ASXAs1YX3DgHEISmmXLD_PtRQJLil2gkIS-LzBorC50qv1l97j2PGLsDVzYZNhpze1pawTtg6OOxbBqNAMQuwZpD31k/s320/DSC_2591.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307943599200395378" /></a><br /><br />Much has been written about the offensive smell of durians. The fruit is not allowed in hotels because the smell will travel through the airconditioning and permeate the building. When most visitors to Malaysia are introduced to durian they are repelled by its rank odor. Some compare the fruit’s pungent aroma to rotting garbage and worse.<br /><br />Durian’s fragrance is both powerful and penetrating. During the season, the smell of durian hangs in the air. Coming to Malaysia as a Peace Corps Volunteer in 1970, nobody had told me about durian. When we landed in Penang I thought the horrible odor I smelled was coming from roadside drains that I imagined must be open sewers. It was not until the next day that piles of durian being sold in the market were pointed out to me as the source of the stench. I couldn’t believe that anyone would want to eat something that smelled so bad. Yet, I was told, durian was the most highly prized fruit in the country. People eagerly awaited the season and would spend large sums for the best durian. I chalked this up as being another cultural mystery I would probably never understand.<br /><br />Six months later when I had been assigned to an agricultural program in the state of Pahang, I was visiting the home of a Malay colleague. Being an honored guest, I was presented with a whole durian to enjoy. As my host would have lost face had I refused his generosity, I tried to ignore the overpowering odor and managed to eat a few pieces before quickly passing the durian to others gathered around the table. They happily finished the fruit.<br /><br />I had survived my first taste of durian. And while I found the flavor interesting if difficult to describe, I still didn’t understand why Malaysians talked about durian as if it were ambrosia fit for the gods. I just couldn’t stomach the smell. I’d rather have a good mango any day.<br /><br />But the strangest thing happened to me when durian season came around again. Once more, the odor of durian was in the air wherever I went. However, instead of finding the smell offensive, it now seemed fragrant—as if the air were perfumed with wonderfully sweet aromas. I couldn’t account for the change in my perception but was now sensing a complexity in durian’s scent that I had not previously imagined. Unlike anything else, the scent of durian could be perceived as foul or fragrant or one that shifted intriguingly from rank to wonderful as I inhaled. Now when I ate durian, I understood the mystery of the fruit’s attraction. Eating durian is like tasting truffles or a ripe camembert. You are either attracted or repelled by an indescribable earthiness woven into durian’s complex sweet flavors. Thank God that most who encounter durian never get past its aroma. The tourists are happy to eat mangoes instead and willingly leave durian to the aficionados. As for me, enjoying durian has become one of life’s great pleasures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAk4ycSoFVvyEfK8PtAGAwiTJYs6xu2f-F6KM5yudqV98eGERsZfdEcJsvE-YZ77k7Z83AHameQxFxYVd5c_X_6IXDYZb6kXnpPvlHgfZehpiZSO9qABWy7jJXZ-PF_DnRe5qNBShV7ho/s1600-h/DSC_2588.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAk4ycSoFVvyEfK8PtAGAwiTJYs6xu2f-F6KM5yudqV98eGERsZfdEcJsvE-YZ77k7Z83AHameQxFxYVd5c_X_6IXDYZb6kXnpPvlHgfZehpiZSO9qABWy7jJXZ-PF_DnRe5qNBShV7ho/s320/DSC_2588.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307936122194455778" /></a>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-4263619946014629972009-02-18T08:31:00.016-05:002009-03-19T15:24:42.930-04:00Leaving for Malaysia Summer 1970In the summer of 1970, together with my Peace Corps Volunteer group, I left the United States and headed to Malaysia. I didn’t really know what I was getting into but was enthusiastic to begin the adventure.<div><br />Even though we traveled by jet, flights in those days took a bit longer than they do today. The first leg of our journey was aboard a brand new PanAm 747. While jumbo jets are common today, this was one of the first Boeing 747s put into service. None of us had ever seen a plane this size; it dwarfed all other aircraft around the terminal. It was a thrill just walking on board and marveling at the space in the passenger cabin. </div><div><br /></div><div>PanAm took us from San Francisco to Tokyo by way of Alaska. I remember getting off the plane in Anchorage and being surprised that even in July Alaska was cold and grey. The mountains that ringed the city were still covered in snow. In the days before tight airport security, while the plane was being serviced we were free to get off and walk around the terminal and even onto the tarmac. Our brief refueling stop in Alaska was to be our last view of a familiar world.<br /><br /></div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbkeLqBgWjWfsjD7auodF9omlGJzPiQHiwkKiXB-DVaLmKZViOPcWa9dMACD_-5UrQuDKcuFJnpGiDwMFIfMB8WTa89vkkRi3PHPcCxfdOx7us-kUAiWt-4lidTKUvjYW7ndCw_GyFGSo/s320/PanAM+in+Anchorage.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305482385775934274" /><br /><br />From Alaska we traveled to Tokyo. As we got off the plane at the Haneda airport that evening, I remember how warm and moist the air seemed. While not in the tropics, Tokyo in summer had a very tropical feel. Our group stayed overnight at the Haneda airport hotel. A few of the volunteers decided to take a cab into downtown Tokyo. Most of our group, however, quietly went to our rooms and got some rest before continuing our flight early the next morning to Malaysia. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our night at the Haneda airport hotel gave me my first sense of being in a foreign land. Unable to understand Japanese, it was the first time I felt isolated from everyone around me other than the group I came with. Even much of the food offered the next morning at the breakfast buffet seemed strange. I stuck with eggs and toast.<br /><br />From Tokyo we boarded a Boeing 707 for Hong Kong, landing just ahead of a tropical storm. As we approached the British colony, the flying was anything but smooth. Our plane was clearly struggling against strong winds, shaking violently and bouncing the passengers around like we were on a thrill ride. As the plane's flaps lowered and I heard the landing gear doors open, I could look out the windows and see Hong Kong harbor and the city that climbed the surrounding hills. Our plane dropped lower and lower until the Chinese junks in the harbor were seemingly at eye level. It appeared as if our plane was about to ditch into the ocean. When I suddenly felt the plane touchdown on solid ground I realized with relief that the runway extended far out into the water.<br /><br />The final leg of our flight took us to Penang. By the time we landed, gathered all our luggage, cleared immigration and customs, and then boarded the bus waiting for us, the sun was setting. If Tokyo and Hong Kong had given me a hint of the Asian tropics, in Penang I finally experienced the heat and high humidity of the true tropics. Without the ubiquitous airconditioning available today, my clothes were soon soaked with sweat. I felt enervated and somewhat disoriented. It wasn’t just the tropical heat, however, that I found disconcerting. There were also unaccustomed pungent smells in the air. As we were driven from the airport to our temporary housing for the weekend, I could see concrete drains on either side of the road. From the rank odor, I imagined these must be open sewers. I began to wonder what type of country I had committed myself to. In the growing darkness, as we headed towards town, Malaysia remained very much a place unknown.<br /><br />We soon arrived at the quarters rented for us near the university. There was a welcoming party ready and plenty of cold beer to beat the heat. After two days of travel I was finally in a country that was to become my home for the next three years. As I wondered in those first hours whether I would be able to cope with the climate and the culture, I could never imagine how my Peace Corps experience in Malaysia would profoundly change my life. Although in the years since completing my Peace Corps service I've lived in a number of countries and have traveled to many more, Malaysia is a place I’ve never really left.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyBBCK1X2l6r7oPEQR_2BvEBugyeckzUvp9IzXUGeTYkc-vlqtfMViYJRK2-w2I5sWjQmzhUYgMsI2OPZRAhfK955S4QyhPmESsUDpSWPH_iAAXzWm2JMnbSB9CEk7iTHsqC_IVgOAD0/s1600-h/PC+House.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyBBCK1X2l6r7oPEQR_2BvEBugyeckzUvp9IzXUGeTYkc-vlqtfMViYJRK2-w2I5sWjQmzhUYgMsI2OPZRAhfK955S4QyhPmESsUDpSWPH_iAAXzWm2JMnbSB9CEk7iTHsqC_IVgOAD0/s320/PC+House.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305488839752818034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUGNhtJCnqiEmMrkJMmp2ZTfs894WxSC5HrFOSS22AspjGDn3YNc-lfeF4H6l7t04s6W1tui4-nfg3ZTqsxs_FsLz62GVLedOPXPIV0ZBeS95cwT0bcCgZONjLpz7X_4PPhrvFqux0xM/s1600-h/PC+House+View.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUGNhtJCnqiEmMrkJMmp2ZTfs894WxSC5HrFOSS22AspjGDn3YNc-lfeF4H6l7t04s6W1tui4-nfg3ZTqsxs_FsLz62GVLedOPXPIV0ZBeS95cwT0bcCgZONjLpz7X_4PPhrvFqux0xM/s320/PC+House+View.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305488833503983746" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-30816682671939518462009-01-14T18:49:00.004-05:002009-01-15T08:42:04.642-05:00Victoria British Columbia September 2008<div><br /></div><div>Commuter Flight Arriving in Victoria</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsEdKOXuZxAW9FHjapXUcm9sU1ULUMcQmRPHhbcEKDNnj9se1wZHpoAteE_YaagPk8V0BB8ZiuHl78fIZQKNJuW2toUr9dsvdecdsoEOLOf5PW1Z3oVmZ3Cfp4WPY46D15tKxo73uNmw/s1600-h/Victoria03.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsEdKOXuZxAW9FHjapXUcm9sU1ULUMcQmRPHhbcEKDNnj9se1wZHpoAteE_YaagPk8V0BB8ZiuHl78fIZQKNJuW2toUr9dsvdecdsoEOLOf5PW1Z3oVmZ3Cfp4WPY46D15tKxo73uNmw/s320/Victoria03.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291303094523146034" /></a><div><br /></div><div>The Parliament <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHuApbDRcDP-dUL6pwPP9p_oi344WLHkyJ92oj1U2p-WC00bHbYVYZtTCiNp5hQ92OK0tDQBsREGKnIF4BezRvmeG6VnbqaFChNUg693CKrzSGf2SeY-mNy2cbrvaCsCFUQu6-RrNFhY/s1600-h/Victoria02.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHuApbDRcDP-dUL6pwPP9p_oi344WLHkyJ92oj1U2p-WC00bHbYVYZtTCiNp5hQ92OK0tDQBsREGKnIF4BezRvmeG6VnbqaFChNUg693CKrzSGf2SeY-mNy2cbrvaCsCFUQu6-RrNFhY/s320/Victoria02.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291303091628418482" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The Empress Hotel<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw8E-TM1z-ijqy1fGs5XywogVvJK1PNVnp53ql7ha1wBP1uFpoa64de14g3KMrtSTK6gSOYqibhrHqUFzWWL9cTPQ1ckr4plFzuTL_9n6SjJ6ieJB8geHw7JU8S0cG20F61khXgWin9I/s1600-h/Victoria01.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw8E-TM1z-ijqy1fGs5XywogVvJK1PNVnp53ql7ha1wBP1uFpoa64de14g3KMrtSTK6gSOYqibhrHqUFzWWL9cTPQ1ckr4plFzuTL_9n6SjJ6ieJB8geHw7JU8S0cG20F61khXgWin9I/s320/Victoria01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291303086368183714" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Dockside in Victoria Harbor<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQCnTQdAGZm0EPByhxRDjpmbI8NJFaRUjLlPMfRB-eqLRMNdUbgjmZKmCgDoyL52MzbY_uc0g8bA4oQgTifInGhHhZ02dg_TiNLbithJxV8VODUhodPqBjFzSY4FwlZxoxfhuk7pTBM8/s1600-h/Victoria05.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQCnTQdAGZm0EPByhxRDjpmbI8NJFaRUjLlPMfRB-eqLRMNdUbgjmZKmCgDoyL52MzbY_uc0g8bA4oQgTifInGhHhZ02dg_TiNLbithJxV8VODUhodPqBjFzSY4FwlZxoxfhuk7pTBM8/s320/Victoria05.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291303081004475538" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Leaving Victoria<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUB5bn_z5_Xg67pQZ_QT214C-dqEGkm1icqBvgNzOJsATDUcTojh6reMY2mapUAYHMHVJQNDqlfqSO_KjOOOQHkGQ5gCyOSepGwXwXWoswlRs3H490qLRAUdEfnS4dCLZLRpM3HjSL1w/s1600-h/Victoria04.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUB5bn_z5_Xg67pQZ_QT214C-dqEGkm1icqBvgNzOJsATDUcTojh6reMY2mapUAYHMHVJQNDqlfqSO_KjOOOQHkGQ5gCyOSepGwXwXWoswlRs3H490qLRAUdEfnS4dCLZLRpM3HjSL1w/s320/Victoria04.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291303079520380546" /></a><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-6070871710412703972009-01-07T06:46:00.016-05:002009-02-22T11:58:42.864-05:00Marshfield Massachusetts July 3, 2006Here in New England, we suffer through cold and snowy winters just waiting for the glorious warmth of the summer. While Memorial Day marks the start of the season, summer truly hits its stride on the Fourth of July in celebration of our Independence. In 2006, July 4th fell on Tuesday. This gave many vacationers a long four day weekend to relax at the beach.<br /><br /><br />Growing up, all my summers were spent in the seaside town of Marshfield. Marshfield is on the Massachusetts south shore just a few miles north of Plymouth where the pilgrims landed. This has long been a vacation area favored by residents of Boston. While Marshfield has many historical connections, for most summer residents Marshfield is loved for its quiet beaches and relaxed atmosphere.<br /><br /><br />There are several villages along Marshfield's shore. In Ocean Bluff where my parents have a cottage, sunbathers tan on a sandy beach that extends for several miles in a broad arc. Just out of sight across the water is the tip of Cape Cod: Provincetown. From the Ocean Bluff beach, on a clear night you can see a beam from the Wood End lighthouse marking the entrance to Provincetown harbor.<br /><br /><br />Just south of Ocean Bluff is the village of Brant Rock. Here there's a small grocery, several shops and a number of eating spots including Arthur & Pat's, a favorite for breakfast. While summer residents find this cul-de-sac of commerce convenient, the shops provide essential goods and services for the fishermen and other residents year-round.<br /><br /><br />With one of the best protected anchorages in the Northeast, most of the local fishing and lobster fleet can be found in Green Harbor, a short walk from Brant Rock's shops.<br /><br /><br />Here are some pictures that I hope capture the spirit of summer in Marshfield.<br /><br /><br />Proud Father<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCZmgPShmkxAQQeJ5BDoN0tDmdaWNwZ8mfwIeq5AeaRLP14OQLR2B_OSwjm_0sbffPRsQsQQMv4r843AUyOwBQEGDa8PRsqgqSQVL139vH2NzlGCUkARLe0EuXZNX0zhnXlfXedSFaGI/s1600-h/Proud+Dad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288517837764050434" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCZmgPShmkxAQQeJ5BDoN0tDmdaWNwZ8mfwIeq5AeaRLP14OQLR2B_OSwjm_0sbffPRsQsQQMv4r843AUyOwBQEGDa8PRsqgqSQVL139vH2NzlGCUkARLe0EuXZNX0zhnXlfXedSFaGI/s320/Proud+Dad.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Independence Day Colors<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO29KY8zyzQA9DMoGp79SDYVCWbZu1YqmdkO5v-v1-HDcjSS4bSkef9r45gRh0GHK07ovVurRAv62baJQf5k0V3c9NER0__2tgDpbdSShwnJ4dtFOiqAKzK2dXzZokS9kyhdR95OPj0bE/s1600-h/Independence+Day+Colors.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288517829689034354" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO29KY8zyzQA9DMoGp79SDYVCWbZu1YqmdkO5v-v1-HDcjSS4bSkef9r45gRh0GHK07ovVurRAv62baJQf5k0V3c9NER0__2tgDpbdSShwnJ4dtFOiqAKzK2dXzZokS9kyhdR95OPj0bE/s320/Independence+Day+Colors.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Lobster Boats in Green Harbor<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdU9xxIA_TslL3iUyOWoTbi5XJcrAA8NMRvdFK1hGyixpm28RrZpHoqK0XTh5MIGgENkIE3FpH8LZGsoal8SCAyJiViEkeZ-kT8UMpxueZ6CgaJo-A-7TJzxrbv9ZckUPGSKR4iZFjzFI/s1600-h/Green+Harbor+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288517824500551570" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdU9xxIA_TslL3iUyOWoTbi5XJcrAA8NMRvdFK1hGyixpm28RrZpHoqK0XTh5MIGgENkIE3FpH8LZGsoal8SCAyJiViEkeZ-kT8UMpxueZ6CgaJo-A-7TJzxrbv9ZckUPGSKR4iZFjzFI/s320/Green+Harbor+3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Arthur & Pat's<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wODqkhI6-Xft9CpNLJ2bzIx6gi3LI6y7rHmGcrgmxzQDIuYXry1Wzz9K91oJ6jzr1w7N-MvBC3wCtqboiQv8UOhEOEJSPcffGyARW-vJEWTrf9T8n7KmiiEXiu5G0sVUk7XQwnNtaIk/s1600-h/Arthur&Pat's.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288517819954683058" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wODqkhI6-Xft9CpNLJ2bzIx6gi3LI6y7rHmGcrgmxzQDIuYXry1Wzz9K91oJ6jzr1w7N-MvBC3wCtqboiQv8UOhEOEJSPcffGyARW-vJEWTrf9T8n7KmiiEXiu5G0sVUk7XQwnNtaIk/s320/Arthur&Pat's.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Dad<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZY0wzit6G6qEhQ4uI3nuBV1twi2sRfJ9bBN_Ihq4MTumWifgqhAzp7lELngUDD1eYyu4-PVRY6jE_IT_naeUQnAPY1McaZNFWg7wLMnl7hd-iUXehLQ6YZZliV2_3-VQ_J87wlqXWZo/s1600-h/The+Marine.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288517817181624210" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 256px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZY0wzit6G6qEhQ4uI3nuBV1twi2sRfJ9bBN_Ihq4MTumWifgqhAzp7lELngUDD1eYyu4-PVRY6jE_IT_naeUQnAPY1McaZNFWg7wLMnl7hd-iUXehLQ6YZZliV2_3-VQ_J87wlqXWZo/s320/The+Marine.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Some people spend their entire lives wondering if they made a difference in the world. But, the Marines don't have that problem." —Ronald Reagan 1985Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-57196909697773660332008-12-31T12:46:00.019-05:002009-01-06T11:16:04.779-05:00Former Yugoslavia 1992-1997<div>By the spring of 1992, the conflicts that had fractured Yugoslavia created what became Europe's largest population of refugees since World War II. Over four million people were uprooted by the conflict, nearly three-quarters of whom were from Bosnia. A large number of these refugees sought safety along the Croatian coast. However, the war followed them. From the mountain range only a couple miles inland, artillery targeted coastal towns. Refugees were crowded into collective centers and other shelters with little prospect of relief from the shooting and the shelling. Under these conditions tensions within the multi-ethnic refugee population became a serious concern—as each group blamed the other for their situation.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sent Jim Nuttall to Croatia to establish a presence for Save the Children. His task was to determine how we could best assist the many families affected by the war. At the time, there was little public awareness of the conflict's brutality and the need to support relief assistance. With little available in Save's own budget for mounting a major relief operation, it was important not only to determine critical needs but also to find essential donor support.</div><div><br /></div><div>From a base in Split, Jim developed relationships with NGOs, UN organizations and local government. By meeting with refugees, a dual problem was observed: tensions and wartime trauma among adult refugees living in crowded conditions and the psychological impact that these conditions created for the children. Through individual discussions and community meetings, an idea for addressing both sets of issues began to develop—creating playgroups and community kindergartens. Addressing the well-being of their children appeared to be one of the few issues that each mother—Croat, Bosniac or Serb—felt transcended their differences and mutual distrust.</div><div><br /></div><div>With initial support from the UN, Jim and his staff began working with the refugees to find and prepare spaces for playgroups. A prime consideration was that children should not have to cross open areas that might be subject to gunfire. As refugees already occupyed the available rooms in each collective center, ways needed to be found to open up space within each center for safe playrooms. Areas previously overlooked such as storage spaces were cleaned out and rehabilitated. With community effort, spaces that had been filled with junk were soon transformed into bright and cheerful nurseries. Volunteers were trained in child care and early childhood education. And in a relatively short time, a new programming idea for emergency education began to take shape. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the Community Preschools </div><div>Developed by Save the Children</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaEHpnVlJQ29zxnZN4MKRZxe_CuQjQv9NrO-diSXT3xgA7OUeFfVLIiiBddOFkjZV36s03cgLNG-z9C2gMC7zPr9gxEztAtPX6p95TzsJFyRYwkkNzROmvINZF7wkemIWEixbsuPtmqQ/s1600-h/BH+School+1996-2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaEHpnVlJQ29zxnZN4MKRZxe_CuQjQv9NrO-diSXT3xgA7OUeFfVLIiiBddOFkjZV36s03cgLNG-z9C2gMC7zPr9gxEztAtPX6p95TzsJFyRYwkkNzROmvINZF7wkemIWEixbsuPtmqQ/s320/BH+School+1996-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286012269483609906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignPdPDaR79wlnwFx1fGPwGUI4F2srY_G3UjTwWYYP4s1eL7hFxq-KAs_XOgxgA6-amW2DsXIhOlOiMbub0RBRIebuHChLchvV-jY9elx2CjLy-j7EiJqvAfcGDOL0yBJ1hWryOAhQd6Y/s1600-h/BH+School+1996-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignPdPDaR79wlnwFx1fGPwGUI4F2srY_G3UjTwWYYP4s1eL7hFxq-KAs_XOgxgA6-amW2DsXIhOlOiMbub0RBRIebuHChLchvV-jY9elx2CjLy-j7EiJqvAfcGDOL0yBJ1hWryOAhQd6Y/s320/BH+School+1996-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286012270755145234" /></a><div><br /></div><div>The emergency education model that we pioneered in the Former Yugoslavia, not only offered young children three hours of supportive, supervised group activities daily but also provided their caregivers with the same amount of time each day to deal with life's necessities without having to be worried about their children's well-being. The daily routine created by the playgroups and preschools brought a degree of normalcy to the lives of refugees. The need for finding ways to maintain these children's groups brought refugees, previously at odds with one another, together—something that none would have believed possible before the project got underway.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the years, this project garnered growing support from both donors and from local government. Through our work, we demonstrated how centers of stability within refugee communities could be created by focusing on meeting basic needs for children. In time, the emergency preschool model would come to be implemented not only in Croatia but throughout Bosnia-Herzegovina. Before the end of 1996, nearly 500 sites had been created and more than 18,000 children had participated in the program. </div><div><br /></div><div>While many of the original playgroups eventually dissolved as refugees returned home following the Dayton Accords, within Bosnia-Herzegovina community support for these groups ensured that a large number continued to operate after the war. Over the years, by involving the Ministry of Education in this approach, appreciation within the government grew concerning the value of supporting low-cost community preschools and playgroups, particularly in rural areas. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jim and his team did pioneering work on what was initially considered an emergency solution for providing education under conflict conditions. Much of the work they did, however, has evolved into what today is considered more mainstream development activities in child protection by creating safe play areas. My involvement in supporting and encouraging the staff behind this program was very rewarding.</div><div><br /></div><div>Save the Children Staff in Split, Croatia<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89ELHewywv-RRVg9k0OE3pH7uu5ITcueDr9EH9qGIzFzfZtpZeix8md9Gl8Il0zYli_irHhxMEt6U6m9Lo9-MuW4lROpr6W9gUCbL0nilxPHfelAh5W17hveEOKFO3JkoxojT_IZ2uzg/s1600-h/BH+Staff+1996-3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89ELHewywv-RRVg9k0OE3pH7uu5ITcueDr9EH9qGIzFzfZtpZeix8md9Gl8Il0zYli_irHhxMEt6U6m9Lo9-MuW4lROpr6W9gUCbL0nilxPHfelAh5W17hveEOKFO3JkoxojT_IZ2uzg/s320/BH+Staff+1996-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286012267578580994" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-36453101337415749692008-12-27T21:36:00.003-05:002008-12-27T22:57:59.706-05:00Scenes from Kenya 1986<div>On the trail in Masai Mara</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUEDpV_eh-WPqZ2_rjH4wvS7bQ4U-YjdKZFy4X5-2bbGWQNfMZ2-A85pf-mdNz92Rw3yzDhkbXlxmofTd-n7Z5HhIhOjIm9yCwkPCeky8y3MjNAxj37RCWKLrZMkIJm0CF_M0lAmw8ss/s1600-h/Masai+Mara.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUEDpV_eh-WPqZ2_rjH4wvS7bQ4U-YjdKZFy4X5-2bbGWQNfMZ2-A85pf-mdNz92Rw3yzDhkbXlxmofTd-n7Z5HhIhOjIm9yCwkPCeky8y3MjNAxj37RCWKLrZMkIJm0CF_M0lAmw8ss/s320/Masai+Mara.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284684979157647346" /></a><div><br /><div>Visiting a Masai Village</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBxNK_024AYuIZXXTnHBUFmYM0puar_nc7HZLyiWryQyPXSIRbxesh_HtDSZBuJatTcjDtqkybNCdQ2j7JU8PtfFBxRujeMzVfJIBhFFQ21AE23JR0B_RaityXz0Np61gDEPNewV_9EU/s1600-h/Masai+%26+Family4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBxNK_024AYuIZXXTnHBUFmYM0puar_nc7HZLyiWryQyPXSIRbxesh_HtDSZBuJatTcjDtqkybNCdQ2j7JU8PtfFBxRujeMzVfJIBhFFQ21AE23JR0B_RaityXz0Np61gDEPNewV_9EU/s320/Masai+%26+Family4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284664586445729746" /></a><div><br /></div><div>Elephants in Amboseli Park<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ak20Dpa3Xs4OpKxk5kziFWwWRVBIEM48UrBkYECAq80UovKhGIMB4WOIkjl8XJtPfUCoxqKCwPfBC5_L7Hz6i5dh8_cjESBpL5pFeRUWkkUPmJy55PL4-EyrBfeukipDEy_VSTt-eE4/s1600-h/Kilamanjaro5.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ak20Dpa3Xs4OpKxk5kziFWwWRVBIEM48UrBkYECAq80UovKhGIMB4WOIkjl8XJtPfUCoxqKCwPfBC5_L7Hz6i5dh8_cjESBpL5pFeRUWkkUPmJy55PL4-EyrBfeukipDEy_VSTt-eE4/s320/Kilamanjaro5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284664587176583410" /></a><br /></div></div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-71256699528823805572008-12-25T15:11:00.038-05:002009-05-28T14:00:14.842-04:00Uncle Khoo Eng Kim<div>Courting Days</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW3J2oT-54EQq8uJW30Z3GeFNdAB2-riipeZcl8-zWyKvV7O_47zdsK2UQtHrIe_gns0bSBDNme_49knL8-SpZPkoon3ochKtH4uDotmMtwBLUu33zsdBh4lQmBC9s9SfOIZEk7Vq_GE/s1600-h/Frank+%26+Jee+1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW3J2oT-54EQq8uJW30Z3GeFNdAB2-riipeZcl8-zWyKvV7O_47zdsK2UQtHrIe_gns0bSBDNme_49knL8-SpZPkoon3ochKtH4uDotmMtwBLUu33zsdBh4lQmBC9s9SfOIZEk7Vq_GE/s320/Frank+%26+Jee+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284200863390270482" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>When I first began seeing Jee, her parents were strongly opposed to the idea of their youngest daughter going out with someone who was not Chinese and not even from Malaysia. Theirs was an understandable position taken to protect their daughter. Back then (early 1970s), the reputation earned by Australian soldiers stationed at the RAAF base in Butterworth ensured that families in Penang looked down on girls who dated foreigners. For some time we had to see each other surreptitiously. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jee lived in Bukit Mertajam but I couldn't meet her there. So, on the weekends when I came, Jee would tell her parents that she was going over to Penang Island shopping with her girlfriends. We then would meet in Penang where we could join our friends going to the beach and visiting local sites.</div><div><br /></div><div>After several months of meeting like this, we faced a dilemma. We didn't want to keep our love secret but Jee felt it was too difficult to raise the subject with her family. We needed an intermediary. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jee had told me about her "uncle" Eng Kim whose daughter had married a Englishman. As I thought he might be sympathetic to our situation, I decided to approach him. At the time, Khoo Eng Kim was a hospital administrator in Kuala Lipis which was close to where I was living in Bentong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although Kuala Lipis was only 60 miles from Bentong, the trip took nearly two hours on my Honda. Timber lorries slowed all traffic on the hills as the road twisted and climbed its way past one rubber plantation and then another. In those days, the road ended at Kuala Lipis. Beyond the town was just the jungle. Kuala Lipis, with its combination of British and Chinese architecture, was one of those quiet colonial hill towns that had once enjoyed a period of fame and importance but was now well past its days of glory. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I arrived at the Kuala Lipis District Hospital, I asked for Mr Khoo and was quickly directed to an office. Somewhat nervously, I knocked at his door. Lifting up his head, he smiled and motioned for me to come in and take the chair next to his desk. What I noticed about him right away was his calm, pleasant manner. Although he didn't know me, he was happy to take time from his work to talk with me. He seemed neither surprised nor concerned when I explained who I was and why I had come to see him. In fact, there was a twinkle in his eyes when he began asking me questions to determine how serious I was about Jee. During our conversation he asked me my thoughts on many things from work to religion to relationships and especially how I saw my future with Jee. After an hour or so, much to my relief, he shook my hand and said he would be happy to speak to Jee's parents about me.</div><div><br /></div><div>About a month later, I received an invitation from Jee to come meet her family. Three months later, in September 1972, we were married.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the years, we didn't hear much news about uncle Eng Kim. Then in 1980 he surprised everyone by renouncing the world to become a monk. We had all known of his devotion to Buddhism and his desire to take up the saffron robes. But none of us expected that at age 60 he would leave his wife, his children and his home to enter a monastery. Although he had provided for his wife so that she could live comfortably, his decision made many wonder whether he was truly aware of what he was doing.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a monk, uncle Eng Kim became Bhante Suvanno. Over the years, his reputation in Buddhist circles throughout Southeast Asia grew. He was cherished for his knowledge of Buddhism and his ability to present Buddhist teachings in a way that all could understand. Preaching to audiences in both Hokkien and in English, recordings of his lectures became very popular. People were attracted to him not only because of his message but because in his life as a monk he truly embodied the simplicity that he preached. Always approachable, he listened carefully to the many problems that the faithful brought to him and in return he offered them words of wisdom, comfort and hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>We always tried to visit Bhante Suvanno whenever we came to Penang. But he was often traveling, bringing his Dhamma teachings to others. We felt fortunate when we were able to see him. In August 2000, we were brought to a Penang Hill temple where he was preaching. While there were many who had come just to be near and to hear what he had to say, we were able to sit in front and speak with him for some time. We last saw him six years later when he was at the Bukit Mertajam Meditation Center. Once again the room was filled with those who had become devoted to his message. And once again we enjoyed reminiscing with him about family, friends and daily concerns. On each occasion when we met, he was full of life and merriment with that same twinkle in his eye that I had seen so many years ago in Kuala Lipis. While he took his responsibilities very seriously, he always conveyed a sense of fun and joy when anyone was with him. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bhante Suvanno, our uncle Eng Kim, passed away on Sunday March 11, 2007. He was 86.</div><div><br /></div>Bhante Suvanno. August 2000<br /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl03wjf9E9aVqivFB5ZUV4dC9fmQmlu7-hmj90IW6w-KOKIXtoIeBGmgYWP1OIuB7yFMnBQcy0tZbtlA4sVVFPWMQVLkFaV3Ur9r9x16mMsXOMcOA824Vemvhf2115rptC-DDNrzmGrJA/s320/Uncle+Eng+Kim2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283846982995637666" /><div>Bhante Suvanno with Jee. August 2006</div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHxxRSwGgBXUydhVexJNOhXEEz0o1SqxuAel_FpxXxXYAGEM9roBrr0C9Cne3rh-hOGPWGMWCwn93ySevwPyxyKV6gnxb2z83MV7ccjX_cvW_A9MM2esLZIqYqTdtj0x9Eg89A0riMLU/s320/Jee+and+Bhante+Suvanno.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283846988579823778" /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-66714800398444280372008-12-20T12:53:00.018-05:002008-12-21T20:58:59.029-05:00Christmas in Hawaii 2004<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEYH_-smRmU00ZmLBzUHMeU7ccXrbH7M2Kr1aG1WobdGRjguHyl11WCiQdYF5f_kDojTbRFfcRvHkFRGVDrOOT9VlzpvLQpe-FyRie7GA3-99Za-d8RLBGoIq8dwUG0pRfscXZjopKU0/s1600-h/Xmas+in+Hawaii.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEYH_-smRmU00ZmLBzUHMeU7ccXrbH7M2Kr1aG1WobdGRjguHyl11WCiQdYF5f_kDojTbRFfcRvHkFRGVDrOOT9VlzpvLQpe-FyRie7GA3-99Za-d8RLBGoIq8dwUG0pRfscXZjopKU0/s400/Xmas+in+Hawaii.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281932091416035954" /></a><div><br /></div><div>As Jee and I had not gone anywhere for vacation during 2004, we decided to spend Christmas in Hawaii. We planned to visit my cousins in Kauai and then spend a few days by ourselves on Maui. Although I would have preferred flying to Honolulu from LaGuardia or JFK, Jee was able to get a really good price on tickets from Newark. So on December 23rd we left early for the drive from Connecticut to New Jersey. </div><div><br /></div><div>With no traffic on I-95, we made great time right until we got to the Bruckner Expressway in the Bronx. On that day, traffic on the Bruckner was anything but express. I wasn't worried however as I had allowed several hours to get to the airport. Forty-five minutes later however, we had only moved a couple hundred yards. Frustration at the traffic gradually turned into panic as I stared to realize that we would never make our flight if we couldn't find a way past this highway parking lot. In desperation, I called our son David and asked his help. Through the wonders of technology—cell phones and internet mapping—he began directing us off the Bruckner and through a maze of streets completely across the Bronx. It wasn't until I could see the George Washington Bridge, however, that I started to feel some relief. </div><div><br /></div><div>At long last we finally saw the exit signs for Newark airport. By the time we parked the car and took the shuttle to the American terminal we had less than half an hour before our flight. So despite the long line of passengers, we pushed to the front and quickly got the attention of an agent. We thought we were home free but then learned it was too late to check our bags! With all flights booked solid, our plans to spend Christmas in Hawaii again began to fade. The American agent was good, however, and found a cancellation for the last two tickets going to Honolulu the next morning. We snapped up the seats even though we weren't sure about getting a connection to Kauai. But everything worked out. When we arrived in Lihue on Christmas Eve, my cousins were there to give us a traditional welcome with fragrant leis, hugs and kisses. Tired but happy we looked forward to a relaxing week in tropical sunshine.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning we found our presents under a Christmas tree brought in from California. Outside, instead of pines and snow drifts were palms and beach sand. How wonderful! With our young nieces playing with their toys and showing off their new clothes, we spent the morning catching up on what everyone had been doing over the years since we were last together. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then that afternoon we started to hear about an earthquake and tsunami in Indonesia. The first TV news sounded serious but had few details. I called the head of our Emergency Response department to see whether we would be organizing any assistance. I was told they were still gathering information and would let me know. Little did I realize how this event on the other side of the world was about to change my life. That, however, is the story for another day.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-32579908349973456832008-12-13T08:23:00.006-05:002009-02-22T11:59:58.899-05:00Scenes from North Korea July 2006<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh546Lvv2PqYs8C4kmVPQjeclH4P-EBuoaYdmiOw2JY36z3puuoMUsSihUdDheaaOoUhHWyYWciSdxdoaEUDxsCfOWMEebGIOk_v8sfPanpvPBvSPjKw6vbpW5Y5pwy10JPPbzBMfPEkFs/s1600-h/DPRK+(1).jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh546Lvv2PqYs8C4kmVPQjeclH4P-EBuoaYdmiOw2JY36z3puuoMUsSihUdDheaaOoUhHWyYWciSdxdoaEUDxsCfOWMEebGIOk_v8sfPanpvPBvSPjKw6vbpW5Y5pwy10JPPbzBMfPEkFs/s400/DPRK+(1).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279274340617804818" /></a><div>Guide at the Pohyon Temple Complex</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMSKPV4tElpMPeaMLG9xOSaIlPIEr4QXWhXTQnzC_zsMHFH187OoVApGVwSCzWfwpnpWlRp_qBRypABbOq8HmWPX32BLRq6LlGajabuTFshpt8u9uv0JLef_QDEYMD_Ek3VaLwzMw7gA/s1600-h/DPRK1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMSKPV4tElpMPeaMLG9xOSaIlPIEr4QXWhXTQnzC_zsMHFH187OoVApGVwSCzWfwpnpWlRp_qBRypABbOq8HmWPX32BLRq6LlGajabuTFshpt8u9uv0JLef_QDEYMD_Ek3VaLwzMw7gA/s400/DPRK1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279274332875076738" /></a></div><div>International Friendship Exhibition Museum</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeZ_VI0ImsZC-hpxhstNF2wV3rnW9pUoOQPW0nmnLEN86B-HFRpvytK3SFpoEPPSJTzvzeZAUCnj4qTDlFoE0mTgK-m1v1eM4ePBHkPHYFeO1ZlzF-tasktfkoSacjVFkBO9b0JqQDAs/s1600-h/DPRK2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeZ_VI0ImsZC-hpxhstNF2wV3rnW9pUoOQPW0nmnLEN86B-HFRpvytK3SFpoEPPSJTzvzeZAUCnj4qTDlFoE0mTgK-m1v1eM4ePBHkPHYFeO1ZlzF-tasktfkoSacjVFkBO9b0JqQDAs/s400/DPRK2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279274323410335010" /></a></div><div>Kim Jong Il Shrine</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOAc2K8qYlETDHBIkx63zrIPOHY4tnagNf_U-l0-Hri2D5B2irxie0KCd4E-h4kfz53Pyr9KxfEKLLYp2exnu9t82BnwIiAHjIBYQZDa2LlOWUArV0LmGyMsSWCDuG93Yt3YvTcJujRQ/s1600-h/DPRK+(2).jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOAc2K8qYlETDHBIkx63zrIPOHY4tnagNf_U-l0-Hri2D5B2irxie0KCd4E-h4kfz53Pyr9KxfEKLLYp2exnu9t82BnwIiAHjIBYQZDa2LlOWUArV0LmGyMsSWCDuG93Yt3YvTcJujRQ/s400/DPRK+(2).jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279274314949349026" /></a><br /></div><div>Dawn on the Taedong River</div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-63740188964900993212008-12-06T14:36:00.014-05:002009-01-01T12:48:25.848-05:00Sri Lanka Tea Gardens October 2007<div>In the highlands of Sri Lanka, the climate is moist and cool—perfect for growing tea. </div><div><br /></div><div>We had traveled to the highlands to attend a ceremony at a nursing school where AmeriCares, the NGO I worked for, had supported some much needed renovations. The nursing students as well as their teachers were so thankful for the new equipment, furnishings and training materials that we had provided. As their honored guests we each were given multiple garlands of fragrant flowers. The Minister of Health himself came up from Colombo to thank us and join in the festivities. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although the ceremony at the nursing school was brief, it took the better part of one day to travel to the school and another to return to Colombo. The slow drive through the winding mountain roads gave us the chance to admire the many tea gardens along the way.</div><div><br /></div><div>We stayed overnight at the Grand Ella Motel in Nawara Eliya. Despite its unpromising name, this government managed hotel was a quaint reminder of the colonial days. With comfortable chairs on the veranda, ceiling fans overhead, and a staff eager to please their guests, it was easy to feel like a British planter in the days before independence. Sitting in the hotel garden we could enjoy our tea while looking out over the Ella Gap. Here at an elevation of over 3,000 feet, we looked through the mountain pass down to the faraway coastal plains barely visible through the mist and haze.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4W1QeaxCOwpBGdNkFRT-pEybdJeqtmiaHRjOcFeSD3vQPxpFOBYUz9e8u_0pW7iPUB1UXuwzNvR5CG20VzkDN9PduUwdvM51ZqsoamWDexCCb6SNTUtW7gHz408V3mtoHcGCgyutdI1M/s1600-h/Ella+Gap.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4W1QeaxCOwpBGdNkFRT-pEybdJeqtmiaHRjOcFeSD3vQPxpFOBYUz9e8u_0pW7iPUB1UXuwzNvR5CG20VzkDN9PduUwdvM51ZqsoamWDexCCb6SNTUtW7gHz408V3mtoHcGCgyutdI1M/s400/Ella+Gap.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276774251870895218" /></a><div><br /></div><div>There were a number of tea factories in the area including Kinellan. While we did not tour this factory, we did buy tea inexpensively at the factory store.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1alc2FKdfxUb-91LHBQRQv3bwIurb3s8F_ISMkrsazhGuSEmHU3FaKX3CsEXj-0FaTG-TJtzUaC34DL1421Zf8u9L5Y3eEk6d1M3u95RLe_ir-IDLKmwwrqFeM7oxa0lD1gx43GWDYr4/s1600-h/Kinellan+Tea.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1alc2FKdfxUb-91LHBQRQv3bwIurb3s8F_ISMkrsazhGuSEmHU3FaKX3CsEXj-0FaTG-TJtzUaC34DL1421Zf8u9L5Y3eEk6d1M3u95RLe_ir-IDLKmwwrqFeM7oxa0lD1gx43GWDYr4/s400/Kinellan+Tea.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276774249197603954" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Wherever you drive in Sri Lanka's highlands, tea is planted in neat sections up and down the hillsides. Although the tea bushes are densely planted, the pluckers quickly work their way past each bush to take two leaves and a bud. In season, sections of tea are plucked every 10 days. It takes four years for a new tea bush to develop leaves worth picking. With care, however, a tea bush will continue producing for over 100 years.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYTAcdfRpQzzee5W41V36Sg9zJhcSsYEVdv_FrbPHUnIHdh8gzlSlMfErM4k1jHR72T6jjhgPhShfZ_CSIEMfnM2115aQsyeB7HT1ELGM7dt9jgZ7YvTmcKaDLN0C4NIJ6HeIWIaLl3M/s1600-h/Tea+Gardens.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYTAcdfRpQzzee5W41V36Sg9zJhcSsYEVdv_FrbPHUnIHdh8gzlSlMfErM4k1jHR72T6jjhgPhShfZ_CSIEMfnM2115aQsyeB7HT1ELGM7dt9jgZ7YvTmcKaDLN0C4NIJ6HeIWIaLl3M/s400/Tea+Gardens.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276774231843208882" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:11px;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEQ-1XkjNdEDrsJP8TTA0QzCJiMlGYLl1TZhb2glbhVuTSLL1Y7ea76PG9IBnj9lIliWllzDEAKiUeaZb4SXSiyysZXpLNP_lFMM4l4xQzmiZMLHCqi56CczQrqx6h2WxZ-KsPSFVmns/s400/Picking+Tea.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276774239607358578" /></span></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-23480399330823998112008-11-29T15:01:00.011-05:002008-12-02T06:44:48.616-05:00Beijing August 2005<div>One of the side benefits of traveling to North Korea is that you need to spend several days in Beijing while arranging for your visa and flight to Pyongyang. In August 2005, together with my colleagues Amy and Michael, I was able to enjoy some of the sights around China's "Northern Capital." As the Forbidden City was just a short walk from our hotel, that was the first place we visited. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvj-5Q55TzIyzN54pT7Uhcmtt-gr1Q-3pN8H9mMJhsIgit7X-baro2L1qUci6UxmupSCsOvIdcBkV2zZiMy2Usp8aGTbB9Uv-BMiCFVGkz2aCeH7SsYZLBx2xqWfPy9AHavX6sEHKs1c/s1600-h/China00334.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvj-5Q55TzIyzN54pT7Uhcmtt-gr1Q-3pN8H9mMJhsIgit7X-baro2L1qUci6UxmupSCsOvIdcBkV2zZiMy2Usp8aGTbB9Uv-BMiCFVGkz2aCeH7SsYZLBx2xqWfPy9AHavX6sEHKs1c/s400/China00334.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172493251039282" /></a><div><br /></div><div>Nearly as famous as the Forbidden City is the Temple of Heaven complex. The area for these temples is actually larger than the Forbidden City but its use was ceremonial. Pictured is the Imperial Vault of Heaven at the center of the temple area. During Beijing's imperial past, this is where the ancestral tablets of the Emperor were kept.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXglTPUFH9avCVC3dLelO-vUPD38pYmd-fKL9MkCnOBgaF5nl89LgNlygoln-ImtPcoqgvxHApZtdS46bhIFlaTz74IbiIHqDSXO9JaOIF3_CbjIqZhfAaxElkwy9mMwJD7CbSkpK4_Y/s1600-h/China00441.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXglTPUFH9avCVC3dLelO-vUPD38pYmd-fKL9MkCnOBgaF5nl89LgNlygoln-ImtPcoqgvxHApZtdS46bhIFlaTz74IbiIHqDSXO9JaOIF3_CbjIqZhfAaxElkwy9mMwJD7CbSkpK4_Y/s400/China00441.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172488677362418" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A long, broad paved avenue leads from the Imperial Vault to this impressive gate. As you pass through these arches you enter the grounds surrounding the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests which can be seen in the distance. For five centuries, the Emperor came here annually in grand ceremony to pray for fertility throughout the Middle Kingdom.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4r0VhyphenhyphenH3IiDQd4u9BbjpNLC8UDl6G_mLUrXuWnpONU7D9tyfC0w53anokdeNKv7p5Q7IVU3JdzK8vEJomqpXfEQwnE_jYGdyAh4buPE8X7yW7dhNP2sVcCzc6trepE-A4yVUllPxqF-A/s1600-h/China00443.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4r0VhyphenhyphenH3IiDQd4u9BbjpNLC8UDl6G_mLUrXuWnpONU7D9tyfC0w53anokdeNKv7p5Q7IVU3JdzK8vEJomqpXfEQwnE_jYGdyAh4buPE8X7yW7dhNP2sVcCzc6trepE-A4yVUllPxqF-A/s400/China00443.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172486847977714" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And no trip to Beijing would be complete without a visit to the Great Wall. When Romans ruled the Mediterranean, large sections of the Great Wall had already been constructed. A million solders guarded its length. Now, on a typical summer weekend such as this, the Emperor's guards have been replaced by thousands of foreigners and, seemingly, much of the population of Beijing. The structure built over the centuries to separate China from the rest of the world is now accepted as a heritage for all mankind. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHownPEa03EuQniA6kXg8y52-BHSYsUBBkIRHI9wjFF-1E9wo0Mt-KvGT1CEZWfizieglrjTt-9TKvgXypvneGRXq1qNWYNGmb44QPUKBJ_fUMqPWFdETz475OyL5cePbshvLfUKAL6uw/s1600-h/Walll00428.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHownPEa03EuQniA6kXg8y52-BHSYsUBBkIRHI9wjFF-1E9wo0Mt-KvGT1CEZWfizieglrjTt-9TKvgXypvneGRXq1qNWYNGmb44QPUKBJ_fUMqPWFdETz475OyL5cePbshvLfUKAL6uw/s400/Walll00428.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172479837579826" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>As you walk further along the Great Wall the crowds thin out in part due to the distance but also because the climb can be steep. Even a day's hike along the Great Wall takes you only a few thousand yards—a baby step compared to its 4,000 mile length. The scale of this construction, which extends across peaks and valleys as far as the eye can see, overwhelms everyday sensibility and is grasped only by imagination.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Nw2QeyflKaisRlLK4O4iB9DPy1zpdKR9LI1NySUHTgYu-dSHPgSKEFRDkXaNcD_rLNWQ-LCU6tp4Wv5w9GY9szAwJYRNLrsy8xpCqPbTdLK2Ng1zAFA2Pu1cJQNy12-nZp4BjDJUsYE/s1600-h/Wall00436.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Nw2QeyflKaisRlLK4O4iB9DPy1zpdKR9LI1NySUHTgYu-dSHPgSKEFRDkXaNcD_rLNWQ-LCU6tp4Wv5w9GY9szAwJYRNLrsy8xpCqPbTdLK2Ng1zAFA2Pu1cJQNy12-nZp4BjDJUsYE/s400/Wall00436.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172472335561058" /></a><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-83099806777209420662008-11-28T20:38:00.005-05:002008-12-02T06:46:02.826-05:00Penang Sunset August 2006<div>Sunsets in Malaysia are spectacular!</div><div><br /></div><div>When I first arrived in Malaysia as a Peace Corps Volunteer in 1970, I was awe-struck by the colors of the sunsets. Growing up in New England, I was accustomed to the lingering twilight of summer with the colors of day gradually dissipating until the world turned gray and dark. However, in Malaysia, just north of the equator, sunset never lasted long. From the end of day until the dark of night was a matter of minutes rather than hours. Yet here the sunlight fought to remain in the sky with shades of pink and cobalt shifting into mauve before giving way to nightfall. </div><div><br /></div><div>High on Penang Hill in August 2006 I was surrounded by another wonderful Malaysian sunset. Until you can visit Penang yourself to be bathed in the light of an ochre sunset, I hope you will enjoy these images. (Click the pictures to enlarge.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Looking out from the garden of the Penang Hill Hotel, you can see the condos that line the shore along Gurney Drive and, in the distance, the lights of Province Wellesley flickering from across Penang harbor.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-nt1TxbKEe_3cPRM7PURae7tYLx5LhaqhLjPuMfph2Y4f-_Dj8N1VB2KrMmsSbG6KDVQRCKvFp50XKdEAmfKu6UFo1awOzkJmdonYpC6r0X0fPBQ9xByCd7qrN9q-tMm6WGQCDkXaeE/s1600-h/Penang+Hill+Flags.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-nt1TxbKEe_3cPRM7PURae7tYLx5LhaqhLjPuMfph2Y4f-_Dj8N1VB2KrMmsSbG6KDVQRCKvFp50XKdEAmfKu6UFo1awOzkJmdonYpC6r0X0fPBQ9xByCd7qrN9q-tMm6WGQCDkXaeE/s400/Penang+Hill+Flags.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273890645384583314" /></a><div><br /></div><div>On the opposite shore far beyond the Penang Hill radio tower, Kedah Peak (Gunung Jerai) rises through the mist. For centuries, this mountain has remained a landmark for sailors traveling through the Straits of Malacca. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxoWhp843CPMP-uTlA_IFqAIJa8va-D0HcuVkcJUd0BmhU4_OoPA-404d8me90mMXUuSc-uudHNg087CFOiqZzxhMwGDHaDtfRy5BQGWztsZ6WmoLyFaJTLXAEU9FeQGAp7EWrBCvHlk/s1600-h/Penang+Hill+Radio.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxoWhp843CPMP-uTlA_IFqAIJa8va-D0HcuVkcJUd0BmhU4_OoPA-404d8me90mMXUuSc-uudHNg087CFOiqZzxhMwGDHaDtfRy5BQGWztsZ6WmoLyFaJTLXAEU9FeQGAp7EWrBCvHlk/s400/Penang+Hill+Radio.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273890639664608482" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>As the sun finally dips below the horizon, clouds capture the red and ochre tones of the rapidly vanishing light that burnishes Georgetown, the harbor and the opposite shore. Just a couple minutes later and the light is gone from the sky. This is the image as captured by my camera without any added color from Photoshop. Such sunsets are wonderful to see and inspiring to experience. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9V2nEkC_FzEGjdT4YrWEa3EqZZuwDAYAAow5xhF9TK-tSdrPOMmUVsX9ElQqq7-ydvv7jAgX9wpKHoSlNOXj87P8GM2_PdAO9R9TjHWRo50EVra8R0nBphq4y_alUAw9SFjzDbpnm8w/s1600-h/Penang+Sunset.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9V2nEkC_FzEGjdT4YrWEa3EqZZuwDAYAAow5xhF9TK-tSdrPOMmUVsX9ElQqq7-ydvv7jAgX9wpKHoSlNOXj87P8GM2_PdAO9R9TjHWRo50EVra8R0nBphq4y_alUAw9SFjzDbpnm8w/s400/Penang+Sunset.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273890630534670210" /></a><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-27668728152403154802008-11-20T17:48:00.012-05:002008-11-23T12:02:32.903-05:00Ankor Wat December 2005<div><br /></div><div>A business trip to Cambodia at the end of 2005 enabled me to spend a Saturday exploring Ankor Wat. This was a trip long delayed. Back in 1971 when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malaysia, a group of us had taken the train to Bangkok following our first year of service. After seeing Bangkok's monuments and glittering night life, there was a discussion on what to see next. I was for crossing the border into Cambodia to see Angkor Wat but was outvoted by those wanting to see the Shangri-La of the north, Chiang Mai. "We'll visit Angkor Wat next year," they said. But by 1972 the conflict in Cambodia had taken Angkor Wat off the list of tourist destinations. It was to be many years before anyone would again think of Cambodia as a fun place to visit.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBdmJdlXQWJ4mJDbqhJ-OXEfnAO5iYGpui-auDgKgIsISzC6m8aLc1hlWVqDNSG12ag9tffCImBjAyvmRIEdHYHahsbVAgPclaCeeaqfYdfjNjqEeKYtQzi0coh92fh4hyPBzFvIVJTI/s1600-h/DSC00576.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBdmJdlXQWJ4mJDbqhJ-OXEfnAO5iYGpui-auDgKgIsISzC6m8aLc1hlWVqDNSG12ag9tffCImBjAyvmRIEdHYHahsbVAgPclaCeeaqfYdfjNjqEeKYtQzi0coh92fh4hyPBzFvIVJTI/s400/DSC00576.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270876488436026290" /></a><div><br /></div><div>The Angkor Wat complex is surrounded by a large moat bridged by a pedestrian causeway. When I first saw the towers marking the core of the temple the huge scale of the complex became apparent. Completed about 800 years ago, this Hindu monument recreates a vision of heaven on earth. Abandoned for centuries, the temples of Angkor Wat were reclaimed by the surrounding jungle until discovered and described by astonished French explorers in the mid-19th century.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYzSwEC9MtRAZN0dp43aUyWxmvBfs5_0ngzvXOESk56LievCCwJ2VgkyVtM6JLmM-tK9H_tAPONOQLkFvgTnn7uh0j8pdosd0sGdNz8hCjnzxUjglJE3UaoI3ikfsqSjAQQNuRLvK-Oo/s1600-h/DSC00541.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYzSwEC9MtRAZN0dp43aUyWxmvBfs5_0ngzvXOESk56LievCCwJ2VgkyVtM6JLmM-tK9H_tAPONOQLkFvgTnn7uh0j8pdosd0sGdNz8hCjnzxUjglJE3UaoI3ikfsqSjAQQNuRLvK-Oo/s400/DSC00541.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270876490107873170" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Rendering the entrance to Angkor Wat as a sepia-toned image somehow captures the aura of mystery and ancient beauty one senses while approaching the central temple.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e5gHB2NBat5n8Z9xsSnXUIEurqW24Oha0XjVZ0JTd7B_SlCA8DJlshM1GCAjV1kYjZurMpyYkI4YxZbgLU3qAZHvhmMIriTxLekl_TmE4_ZyH6wyCtybrXM2j4-nb8_-IOiis_ZHcWA/s1600-h/DSC00547.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e5gHB2NBat5n8Z9xsSnXUIEurqW24Oha0XjVZ0JTd7B_SlCA8DJlshM1GCAjV1kYjZurMpyYkI4YxZbgLU3qAZHvhmMIriTxLekl_TmE4_ZyH6wyCtybrXM2j4-nb8_-IOiis_ZHcWA/s400/DSC00547.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270876482463904354" /></a></div><div>Galleries are found along the outside walls of the temple. As you walk along the outer wall every inch is covered by bias-relief carvings illuminating Hindu beliefs.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cAS3UUmV9yaVnS03fHf7whIirOwQZBZVZX-K_uE60TgNO35Alzju4wd27qzE0m9NS0DPKaV_KQat2Pt2HADF_Q_7Qu10PF4pZzaKXCnZshDlQIs6lzQYA475P7PVj_HjrzqMDGBqGPg/s1600-h/DSC00542.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cAS3UUmV9yaVnS03fHf7whIirOwQZBZVZX-K_uE60TgNO35Alzju4wd27qzE0m9NS0DPKaV_KQat2Pt2HADF_Q_7Qu10PF4pZzaKXCnZshDlQIs6lzQYA475P7PVj_HjrzqMDGBqGPg/s400/DSC00542.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270876478776468690" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Before my visit, I had thought I would be seeing just Angkor Wat, a temple that has become the symbol of Cambodia to the world. But the area north of the town Siem Reap is an immense archeological park--some 400 square kilometers--where the number and variety of Kymer temples is beyond counting. There are more temples than you could explore in a day or even see in a month.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPy5B3nM3jH-8kpPUFh1b5DTNr2ZIrrMx6TmvgB9B6sSnTM6Jcp7wwMUaVnEerH1ZrAa3AGyF5c7vI1i2unakhjmKSZlwfER4SnXxZOfmqtqvRbH_FwQRgOig4eIx93f-stFTJ9uhNURI/s1600-h/DSC00567.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPy5B3nM3jH-8kpPUFh1b5DTNr2ZIrrMx6TmvgB9B6sSnTM6Jcp7wwMUaVnEerH1ZrAa3AGyF5c7vI1i2unakhjmKSZlwfER4SnXxZOfmqtqvRbH_FwQRgOig4eIx93f-stFTJ9uhNURI/s400/DSC00567.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270876473821103090" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>While I saw many temples throughout my day at Angkor Wat, many had become more jungle than building. This temple was somewhat unique not only for being freed from the surrounding forest but also for its modest scale and wonderful color.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6Yyxjbst0Vhp5DG_eHznScAAwof9DD_6oRt9aA2YdFnmJmdaRESCgiRdR3V_FlB3-N7it5z8sUXm1QQq7u0W9c7NFQ0Yu_6UNdQOTQKOyjPq1TxCiB9PBKc-64qHhB_y-oX8Chz-0cc/s1600-h/DSC00555.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6Yyxjbst0Vhp5DG_eHznScAAwof9DD_6oRt9aA2YdFnmJmdaRESCgiRdR3V_FlB3-N7it5z8sUXm1QQq7u0W9c7NFQ0Yu_6UNdQOTQKOyjPq1TxCiB9PBKc-64qHhB_y-oX8Chz-0cc/s400/DSC00555.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270875703631935426" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Detail from Angkor Wat <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Aspera</span> (temple nymph). </div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-53042606622610166532008-11-18T19:05:00.017-05:002008-11-22T12:31:12.234-05:00California Vacation February 2008San Francisco in February is brisk and misty. We walked all over the city to stay warm while we saw the sights. No matter how often we visit, however, we always find a new vista. From the top of Coit Tower we had this dramatic view of San Francisco's unmatched skyline.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6WsLphGCMY4hKVu73GAWGWj9mvbzLym2aPjQHceSdw9a81Jx1zzYmRZOPL_Bv5L_HLXn80r6qgsC8IGdy4j2sfev1Z49dJIeeG32AmECq1JUY92vXKwmTigV-a5vYgU33QtDIeA3Bwg/s1600-h/San+Francisco+Skyline.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270155821712770130" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6WsLphGCMY4hKVu73GAWGWj9mvbzLym2aPjQHceSdw9a81Jx1zzYmRZOPL_Bv5L_HLXn80r6qgsC8IGdy4j2sfev1Z49dJIeeG32AmECq1JUY92vXKwmTigV-a5vYgU33QtDIeA3Bwg/s400/San+Francisco+Skyline.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />At the Palace of the Legion of Honor the line to get in the museum snaked around the building. So we just wandered over the grounds and admired the outdoor sculpture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNozu-fy6y49y5WUqPi1US5mZDkW2_wXY4RHLvIGPPyGylD9cjvtnhBs1qvfuQhTel-dZRVc_uuONQgkgcmugltBjBiBMqlPJbmKvvE9AVL-GrLDOYpYATmpFGq0xnIIqr3_8uK3u5do/s1600-h/The+Thinker.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270155539170017650" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNozu-fy6y49y5WUqPi1US5mZDkW2_wXY4RHLvIGPPyGylD9cjvtnhBs1qvfuQhTel-dZRVc_uuONQgkgcmugltBjBiBMqlPJbmKvvE9AVL-GrLDOYpYATmpFGq0xnIIqr3_8uK3u5do/s400/The+Thinker.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />From San Francisco we traveled to San Diego to visit some friends working at San Diego State University. They took us to nearby La Jolla where seals and their pups had taken over the beach. At this time of year, they're able to have the beach all to themselves.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_Dd4kA1ok7eU4sJuoJv_7IvFQS7A3V3CgiiSMqqmvafNNM0gKHOojjPR962-LtV2MgX7NL1zDhnuef30b9WhB_dFZECGUgS0QnhGuaQijFrlyVyeSYHk800QHhRYVLwITRj7V585phU/s1600-h/LaJolla+Beach.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270155390043993634" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_Dd4kA1ok7eU4sJuoJv_7IvFQS7A3V3CgiiSMqqmvafNNM0gKHOojjPR962-LtV2MgX7NL1zDhnuef30b9WhB_dFZECGUgS0QnhGuaQijFrlyVyeSYHk800QHhRYVLwITRj7V585phU/s400/LaJolla+Beach.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />In February, New York's Central Park is slippery with snow and slush. Balboa Park in San Diego, however, is still a garden in bloom. Orchids, palms and other exotic plants fill the Botanical Building.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmleqG4VARIDfScNRoL0VyAMf9LkYQ0mvBzfjQR9mNAPPXLbxY42GJfF2P5rqMk3ajOw4vX3EYeAetHhWWS0kE7sjNwqrnSg5_pbPtHol7ajqkyOpZfdLM8euAuFpSctcVYIBp8FWUEc/s1600-h/Botanical+Building+Balboa+Park.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270155024543791298" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmleqG4VARIDfScNRoL0VyAMf9LkYQ0mvBzfjQR9mNAPPXLbxY42GJfF2P5rqMk3ajOw4vX3EYeAetHhWWS0kE7sjNwqrnSg5_pbPtHol7ajqkyOpZfdLM8euAuFpSctcVYIBp8FWUEc/s400/Botanical+Building+Balboa+Park.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Between the Botanical Building and the Museum of San Diego History is this lovely Lily Pond. On the day we were there, a film crew was setting up in a grassy area nearby to record an interview. We didn't stay, however, to see who the local celebrity would be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbH7yUmqE-MXltysiRt8OPbLqofR9nR_rqKncIrMUuhDzHwsA0HRGCYFqZGcVjCOGtOoVgiJW4RS6SvfMtyf4xTnAoP4SVCFB3YK9_xGDvkskEvPLPa7JOSrksUULvSHvQ-z34qRV-9g/s1600-h/Lily+Pond+Balboa+Park.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270154668840465890" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbH7yUmqE-MXltysiRt8OPbLqofR9nR_rqKncIrMUuhDzHwsA0HRGCYFqZGcVjCOGtOoVgiJW4RS6SvfMtyf4xTnAoP4SVCFB3YK9_xGDvkskEvPLPa7JOSrksUULvSHvQ-z34qRV-9g/s400/Lily+Pond+Balboa+Park.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />On our way back to northern California we spent several days exploring the Central Coast around Paso Robles. The area is often overlooked in the rush of traffic traveling between LA and San Francisco. But for those who take the time to slow down and look, there is a landscape that inspires. During the Great Depression, while William Randolph Hearst ruled his world from a mountaintop castle, children in the nearby village of San Simeon learned their ABCs in this one room school house.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIbcjytPdyhoFFkhpwWvdnHatDW7bc2azcjQAlomERZ0tZ9yzj1OWCayvDi5R72ZxSqzga0jpbHp7wpYvNaKs22IfYP5TgZ_Jgu28SZRMjfHFlHiqoqTcOR2GBsOxJNTky6wN1_rRui8/s1600-h/San+Simeon+School.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270154480031938850" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIbcjytPdyhoFFkhpwWvdnHatDW7bc2azcjQAlomERZ0tZ9yzj1OWCayvDi5R72ZxSqzga0jpbHp7wpYvNaKs22IfYP5TgZ_Jgu28SZRMjfHFlHiqoqTcOR2GBsOxJNTky6wN1_rRui8/s400/San+Simeon+School.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Some 20 miles south of San Simeon is the community of Moro Bay. This town has one of the safest anchorages in California with Moro Rock standing as sentinel to protect the harbor entrance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmADdJR_Br__vP07xVxbNwS5T0dRH-eKlFR45PPw1b2cBo3Y0XayAUE5M17kzI-QF55cMCxatMb0fhxzxknQSt3zEvSSnOj3B9Miz6dZLJE0tS-N-vS2kSReaA0kCxUk2fkkyTR4UEgGU/s1600-h/Moro+Bay.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270153819488649762" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 220px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmADdJR_Br__vP07xVxbNwS5T0dRH-eKlFR45PPw1b2cBo3Y0XayAUE5M17kzI-QF55cMCxatMb0fhxzxknQSt3zEvSSnOj3B9Miz6dZLJE0tS-N-vS2kSReaA0kCxUk2fkkyTR4UEgGU/s400/Moro+Bay.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DyAHvqJBhcW5uJel2d8_3cw6S_Rk-tbXtDObZAhOPq2Tp6OG2b5XsWObnDhxcvWKKaYWMprMCuEqrT2g-4SHFp00fFGZ1Ou9XQ8s6dLI9bYBzhYSafkxlQZ-DjM139qzKfVo4QHHYgE/s1600-h/Moro+Rock.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270153670888771266" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 205px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9DyAHvqJBhcW5uJel2d8_3cw6S_Rk-tbXtDObZAhOPq2Tp6OG2b5XsWObnDhxcvWKKaYWMprMCuEqrT2g-4SHFp00fFGZ1Ou9XQ8s6dLI9bYBzhYSafkxlQZ-DjM139qzKfVo4QHHYgE/s400/Moro+Rock.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />While less well known than Napa and Sonoma, the Central Coast has become one of California's premier wine growing areas. Over 100 wineries can be found in the greater Paso Robles area. One of the best wineries for Pinot Noir is located in nearby Templeton—Wild Horse Vineyards. It was cold and cloudy the day we arrived but the winery staff's hospitality made our visit enjoyable. The conversation among the guests was friendly and the wine was wonderful. Just outside the tasting room I took this photo of the stormy sky.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrw_7dOb9Ov5Nfy1AN4ogDg2XYtzvVX_rrL_7wA_XtkFP8qOjl8KdAm67LjYengtk5y9oxVyDRfSBePIW-fZtPRgUbltXUsupAcG6RS6yObfEJt1OUT5df8IOtR9vlhY6tIvUCtRptlSs/s1600-h/Wild+Horse+Vineyards.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270153538015952578" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 252px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrw_7dOb9Ov5Nfy1AN4ogDg2XYtzvVX_rrL_7wA_XtkFP8qOjl8KdAm67LjYengtk5y9oxVyDRfSBePIW-fZtPRgUbltXUsupAcG6RS6yObfEJt1OUT5df8IOtR9vlhY6tIvUCtRptlSs/s400/Wild+Horse+Vineyards.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />We ended our California sojourn in the Sacramento River valley. While most states talk about renewable energy, in California the hillside windmills capture electricity for the future.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71djfGFcAcWZ0RWm5FDwIuHmW_lUAnaZJnYqgYvN9sDPxvktbVceGZEPcsaXnaz5v8dBF_Ce2WKcaXpLKkahKQyK9WKkCobUBT34pnz-m1cMUDmiph5IxkDuSy21FZmO19yWQ_Va9qro/s1600-h/Windmills+Sacramento+River.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270153377081945746" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 127px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71djfGFcAcWZ0RWm5FDwIuHmW_lUAnaZJnYqgYvN9sDPxvktbVceGZEPcsaXnaz5v8dBF_Ce2WKcaXpLKkahKQyK9WKkCobUBT34pnz-m1cMUDmiph5IxkDuSy21FZmO19yWQ_Va9qro/s400/Windmills+Sacramento+River.jpg" border="0" /></a>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9222428668432968695.post-41180328027190524962008-11-16T14:10:00.007-05:002009-01-02T23:02:58.218-05:00PCV Reunion in Vermont August 2007<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOy28jDwTBkatMe5V8C1_T4N3wsyYmWwi6LzJ0WTAOcibVmNE_lVbDEd7_DOJwcnVek1_zXYAlvoCp3a8399y4GAtwtZTpBgelQ5tvSUBxKTrH208Gjxq4873MfNxnGU6NlpjW-Kj6etM/s1600-h/PCV+Reunion+in+Vermont.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOy28jDwTBkatMe5V8C1_T4N3wsyYmWwi6LzJ0WTAOcibVmNE_lVbDEd7_DOJwcnVek1_zXYAlvoCp3a8399y4GAtwtZTpBgelQ5tvSUBxKTrH208Gjxq4873MfNxnGU6NlpjW-Kj6etM/s400/PCV+Reunion+in+Vermont.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269350028075559906" /></a><br />A long time ago in a country far away, a group of new college graduates found themselves learning Malay and finding out how they could adapt to a strange and wonderful culture. In 1970, we first gathered from around the country to a "staging" in San Jose, California to find out about the country where we would spend the next two years as Peace Corps Volunteers. Malaysia was a place few of us were familiar with. In a short time, however, we would all come to love Malaysia as a second home.<div><br /></div><div>Our flight from San Francisco to Tokyo was aboard a PanAm 747. The first 747s had only recently been introduced six months earlier. None of us had ever seen one let alone flown on one. Our jet dwarfed everything else on the runway. Taking our seats in its expansive interior added to the thrill, and trepidation, we felt leaving the USA for two years of Peace Corps service.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the early 1970s there were about 400 PCVs scattered across Malaysia. Some of us were sent to isolated <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">kampongs</span> while others lived in major cities such as Kuala Lumpur (affectionately known as KL) and Ipoh. But no matter where you were, you were never far from other PCVs. Phones were not always available and, of course, there was no email. So we wrote to each other or, more commonly, just dropped by unannounced. On weekends, when PCVs got together, we could always find something to do—bike over to Kajang for satay, take a bus to visit Batu Caves, or just find a quiet beach for swimming. After a year in Malaysia, a few of us went on vacation to Thailand: Dick and Roberta, Susan, and me. On that trip we got to know each other very well.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we finished our Peace Corps service, we thought we would stay in touch but somehow over the years as we went to grad school, got jobs, married and raised kids, moved from state to state or even country to country, we lost track of each other. Within the last decade, however, thanks to the wonders of the internet, we've been successful in finding many Malaysia PCV Group 29 alumni. Susan has been the key organizer in pulling our group back together for mini-reunions. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the summer of 2007, Susan began planning a weekend in Vermont for those of us in the Northeast. Dick and Roberta still live in Vermont. Though divorced, they remain neighbors on the same country road. Dick farms and preaches. Roberta teaches. Also invited were Mel and Kathy who live in Pennsylvania. As it turned out, on that weekend, Mel and Kathy were unable to join us and Dick was away in Massachusetts awaiting the birth of another grandchild. Roberta stayed back, however, to be our hostess and show us a little bit of Vermont.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had not seen Roberta since she and Dick left Malaysia in 1972. Roberta's voice and her captivating enthusiasm had not changed. It was a joy seeing her again after so many years. Although my wife Jee had heard about Roberta and had talked to her on the phone, they had never met. However, when they got together they found they had much in common from teaching to a love of cooking and handicrafts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Roberta thinks that when she retires from teaching she may rejoin the Peace Corps. While Malaysia is no longer a Peace Corps country, there are many other places Roberta thinks she would enjoy serving as a volunteer. For Susan, who since leaving Malaysia has had a career in research biology, the idea of international living has never gone away. As her husband is from India, she regularly visits family in South Asia and travels to such picturesque destinations as China, Cambodia and Brazil. As for myself, I nearly didn't leave Malaysia. I extended my Peace Corps service in Malaysia an additional year to court Jee. As Jee is from Penang, an island that remains one of Malaysia's most enjoyable destinations, it was hard to go. But in 1973 we returned to America so I could enter graduate school. My first job after that was back in Southeast Asia, initially in the Philippines and then in Indonesia. Later, Jee and I lived in Cameroon and Somalia. In all, we spent 10 years working overseas before we finally returned to New England to settle.</div><div><br /></div><div>For each of us at this mini-reunion, our experience in Malaysia has become a touchstone that we use to compare all our lives since that magical time.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14518027202415960077noreply@blogger.com0