Subtle Reflections

I have just written of the contrasts of San Ramon, glaring as they are.  But that would be normal for any place - contrast is always brighter than subtlety.  So what are the subtleties of this place - San Ramon?

Breakfast pickers

The people would be first in my mind.  Having traveled in many places, I am one to automatically look at people I encounter in my many walks, to momentarily capture their subtle intentions.  Tico's are generally a very friendly lot, quick with a Buena' dia, usually truncated from its proper form, and once heard merely as "Ben D".  I like the fleeting capture of a glimpse, it says so much - the eyes speak so readily, often greater than words in that split second.  Some wave, and smile, some gesticulate with more animation.  Clearly I am an easily identifiable gringo, and so perhaps a target one way or another, but almost always, it has been pleasant.

The other day, I escaped from my students and their work and traveled with Dustin to Piedades Norte, meeting with Rafa and Alejo, the two "clients" from last year's project.  I have an interest in the Rio Pax National Conservation Area in northern Piedades district for another potential study abroad project, the site of the former President Francisco Orlich ranch (founder of the National Liberation Party) and the headwaters of the Pax river.  A beautiful place, we drive as far as we could up into the high reaches of the watershed, then walked another couple kilometers up into the cloud canopy, following a rutted "public street" to its apparent apex.  This puzzled me - this "public street" seemed more a fire road, yet no one can build a house here.  This land used to be owned by the government, then parceled out to about 22 landowners who "farm" this land.  Due to its elevation and high, cloud induced moisture, crops such as coffee do not grow here (but will easily grow 500 meters lower in elevation).  Rather than keep the land in public stewardship, the government sold it and then pays a subsidy to these landowners to farm with a conservation motive.  There may be a subtlety of purpose at work here that mystifies me.  I am only too pleased that it is being conserved, though this road , suitable only for foot, mule, motorbike or four wheel drive, certainly could be cause for significant erosion and washouts, evidence we had seen.

Alejo

Rio Pax Watershed

Alejo, my walking partner scrambling nimbly up these hills, is a coffee farmer and a character,  ruddy face under a broad brimmed hat, tough knarly hands,  dirty pants and a penchant for my gift of beef jerky ("carne!!").  Though he cannot speak English, and I too little Spanish, we can nevertheless communicate - somehow.  It's those eyes with the subtle twinkle, the grin, the easy laugh, and the apparent tall tales - the one about getting lost in the woods as he grabbed a handful of soggy moss and demonstrated how he had squeezed it for water to survive.  I tried it, and squeezed only muddy water - but really, a shortage of water in this cloud canopy?  Or the presence of a lagoon "over there" with huge fish, a whale perhaps. Or the fact that we walked all the way up here so he could show us a rocky peak (rare for these parts), only to have it shrouded in the dense cloud cover.  I believed him then, for he would not lead three of us so far up without a purpose, but it was an enjoyable encounter nevertheless with but a small amount of jerky remaining for Donja Alejo!.  We finished our excursion with refreshments and conversation at the Cafeteria Flory, the same country soda we visited last year.

Though San Ramon has a very hard exterior face - of concrete and steel -there is beauty there; vegetables and murals.  I walked back to the hostel  yesterday from our presentation venue and passed the farmers market, and could not resist a wander through this bustling place, full of color, exotic vegetables and fruit - a feast for the senses, surrounded by concrete walls.  Were it not so late in the afternoon, or our departure so imminent, I would have filled my knapsack full of fruit to share, settling instead for three bouquet of fresh cut flowers for the equivalent of $6, to grace Miriam's house.

 

San Ramon is blessed with some highly talented and productive muralists who grace these ugly concrete walls (castle walls? So it seems another subtlety) with fantastic allegorical works of art using guerrilla graffiti techniques - spray paint mostly.  While not so subtle when seen up close, they are a subtle bloom in an otherwise harsh landscape. Whole streets are bordered by these images, including the farmers market, as are more isolated "surprise" concrete canvases of a single building.  There really seems to be very little graffiti, even though the rough and tumble appearance seems  to invite this potential.  Perhaps these creatures of an artist's imagination repel those that would dare something less imaginative.   I appreciate this concrete canvas, and I suspect the San Ramonans do as well.

I leave you and this adventure with a few of my favorite unpublished photos from this trip, of subtle and not so subtle beauty and imagery, so you might glimpse the fleeting capture of my shutter. 

Grey on Grey

Dona's Dryer

Could deck over San Ramon

Fiber Optic Flower

Walking club

 

Going Home

And Just As Quickly . . .

It ends.

What seems an eternity, ends.  What seems impossible, ends.  And what a finish!

Over these past two weeks, my students  have labored hard, but also played hard when the opportunity arose.  The sense of mission is always there, but never quite manifests itself until the heat is on and the pressure builds.  Over the past few days, when our presentation deadline loomed, the glow of computer screens on concentrating faces late into the evening was a common sight.  The occasional raised temper was heard, as I observed this frenzied activity, requiring an 11th hour pep talk on the need for calm cooperation, and most importantly, communication as a team to see this to the end.  This frenzy reminded me of the quote from The Best Marigold Hotel, where "everything will be alright in the end, and if it is not alright, it is not the end!"

And in the end, it was alright! It all came together, at our classroom/office space at Universidad de Costa Rica.  Tayler, Paul, and Ann-Marie, with Aaron at the keyboard, after a nervous rehearsal period in the morning, delivered the first presentation (in English, for our clients were all native English speakers) on the Women's center, with passion, energy, confidence and efficiency. And the reaction from Barbara Nielsen Randall, the group leader and spokesperson with Pastor James Rush, was all the students needed to see and feel to know their hard work had paid off.  "Pleased" does not quite describe it, but passionately thankful is the best I can do.  A long conversation followed among all students on the value of this project to them, and Barbara extolled the value and importance of giving back to those in need.

Jack and Ann-Marie, with Jordan at the keyboard, delivered the second Orphanage proposal, fully in Spanish, with assistance from Sarah only during the question period.  Dear Reader, this is not an easy task for students who are merely marginally fluent.  We elected to do so knowing that our primary client, Jessenia Vasquez Quesada, was fluent in English, but her Board counterpart and her Administrator were not. Understandably, the presentation lacked the clarity and passionate delivery that only the native tongue can deliver, and required the normally taboo habit of reading from slides or notecards that I excuse as necessary to deliver the basic message in this case. Most importantly, I commend these students on the supreme effort to meet the client on their own language turf. Extraordinary, and well done! And if there was any uncertainty, the reaction of the client was similarly full of praise and thankfulness, wherein they indicated this was precisely what they needed as a Board, and had discussed for so long, that this initiative will be the catalyst for moving this project forward. And if an echo rounded this classroom, Jessenia also extolled the virtues of volunteering to serve others less advantaged.

I believe this process, projects and message had a profound impact on my students. The delivery complete, the common exhalation and sighs of relief were palpable, with abundant smiles at a mission accomplished, and accomplished well with professionalism and grace.  And the profound discovery among the students of the value and importance of teamwork in accomplishing the goals, a microcosm of their future professional careers with a real project, a real client, and a real need, could not have been a better teaching moment!

For me as a faculty member, I can but guide, suggest, but most importantly, stand out of the way and merely observe, with pleasure and occasional amusement as the cycle of discovery is repeated again, but always with enormous pride.  This result today is precisely why I teach.  When asked during the discussion about my perceptions of this group of students, I replied that my role is merely to open doors along the path, but that the students must decide to proceed through those doors of their own accord - together!.  And they did so, with excellence, passion, determination, hard (team) work, and fun!  I am extraordinarily proud of them.

I would be remiss at this moment in not recognizing the extraordinary effort made by Tayler and Carrie, our mother/daughter team, to pull the final written proposal together, with help from John and Amy who could not be present in the end.  And to the efforts of the "grind-it-out" team of estimators/planners Travis, Bobby and Peter.  And last but not least, the great work of our translation student Sarah, who came through with enormous pressure in the end, and frankly made all this work possible and meaningful for our clients.  You guys are great!  Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

Of course, every good effort requires a "celebrando"!  We celebrated loud and well at the Colombian soda (a small restaurant), with some speeches (including my awful attempt at Spanish, however valiant the intent), some very funny "bad karoke" and a few twirls on the dance floor. Indeed, all is well that ends well.  Let's go home . . . and back to class!  PuraVida!

Of Contrast, Color and Light

I am seeing this place, San Ramon specifically and Costa Rica generally,  with a new set of lenses. Gone is the immediacy and excitement  of  the first moments of exploration a year ago.  At that time I wrote of the hesitancy to press the lock release very early the first Sunday morning, wondering what lay ahead for my solo wander.  Today, the button is easily pressed, but I am continually struck by even having to press this lock release in the first place.  This is a city of contrasts.

Sunrise on mist over the San Ramon valley

At once beautiful and ugly, peaceful and noisy, clean yet dirty, fragrant yet sourly pungent, bland but colorful, secure yet insecure.  Friendly though, without its ugly opposite, and that, along with a sense of pride, is perhaps its greatest asset.

Peter, Ann-Marie, Paul, Amy

The "walking club" has seen all of this.  It has been my custom to take early morning walks, at first solo, and then a growing cadre of students accompanying me.  I must recognize my die-hard walk mates this trip: Amy, Paul, and Ann-Marie.  How many times we said "buenas dias" to the many out and about at 6:00 AM.  We follow the morning light and have seen these contrasts daily:

By contrast

Trash day at a rare alley

the contrast of a tiny manicured yard next to a vacant, trash filled lot.  Beautiful flowers running along a coil of razor wire atop a high security fence.  The fragrance of lush flowers along the roadside while smelling the pervasive creeping septic stench.  Or a heron standing daily in a ditch, its brilliant white plumage in striking contrast to the green foliage creeping along its banks, sentinels to a fetid, trash filled pool, The canyon of city streets, defined by their close proximity and rows of security gates, fences and shutters.  The deteriorating ramshackle nature of "home" to some, and the opulent nature of home to others, yet it is still home. The difference: location and affordability, and perhaps the tiniest of green space, if only in a large pot behind the gate.

The ditch.

Market colors

While apparently devoid of urban zoning controls, it is not unusual to have a grimy transmission shop next to a house, or a larger industrial building next to a house.  It seems that, driven to entrepreneurialism in their own houses, people set up businesses in their own houses, creating this diverse mix of service industry in the deep shadows of a residence.

The valley road

Textured hillsides of coffee, cows and banana

There are many gray mornings, a foggy valley in which we reside, giving rise to blue skies (we are blessed not to be in the rainy season).  Yet there is much color here - the diversity of flowers, birds, prolific muralists at work, clothing, and portions of buildings.  They catch the eye and hold it, if momentarily, in distinct contrast to the prevalence of brown or grey shades.  Or, as is perhaps our favorite morning walk, traversing up to the high ridge above our hostel, and descending into the rural Piedades valley beyond - a transition of hardscape to softscape, motor noise to birdsong, grey to green interspersed with rich texture and color, rewarded at the very bottom with a large grove of bamboo "singing" its hollow wind-borne clinking song accompanied by the gurgling creek running through it.


From flat to very steep, dark to light, bland to colorful, noisy to quiet, these walks challenge all of or senses, and uplift our souls for the day ahead.

On Culture and Clippers

Back at work.  The weekend over, reality restored, my students re-launched, if a bit sunburned!

Aaron - in pain!

Our morning session went well, and quickly, at the University classroom.  Design solutions are rapidly being refined, the estimates sharpened with every bit of new information, our work plan evolving, and our proposals started.  Sarah will have her hands full in the translation department, but we are doing everything to advance work early enough for her not to be overloaded - translation, I have discovered, is a more complicated task involved as much in understand meaning and intent rather than just replacing English diction with Spanish.  Call it new appreciation - she is a trooper!

We returned for a sumptuous lunch at the hostel, posed for our official group photo in front of the hostel, and then each student/team went about their work, leaving me time for exploration of a different sort.

L to R: Crystal (of Oshkosh), me, Peter, John, Ann-Marie, Paul, Tayler, Sarah, Amy, Aaron,
Travis, Jack, Carrie, Jordan, Bobby and Beverly (of Maryland)

Our college is commencing another applied degree in Health Services Management. Taking my Learning Abroad experience with the Construction Management program and translating that to another discipline brought Sarah, Crystal, Beverly, Dustin and me to the nursing home - Hogar de Ancianos.  An imposing structure from the street corner, this facility looks more like a prison with high stone retaining walls topped by coils of razor wire.  Past the heavy steel gate we were greeted by the Board President, Myra, who described the center, A different impression emerged on our tour than from the street corner - one of single story wings of rooms, dining rooms, TV rooms, and the usual support facilities. And sitting in relative quiet were the residents, usually in wheelchairs. Unable to attend memory care patients, the 50-55 beds serve a traditional audience of senior citizens. Graced with plenty of open air spaces, greenery, friendly staff, and a lime orchard, the sense of the place belied the hard, imposing exterior.

However, things are changing culturally.  Traditionally, Costa Rican families were large - ten+ kids - and when the grandparents were in their declining years, they were "passed around" and cared for by the children.  Yet today, birth rates have fallen dramatically, which means more pressure on the nursing homes to care for the aged.  So Hogar struggles to determine how to accommodate growth, both physically and financially.  Perhaps there is a place here for our students in the future, a few years from now.

I couldn't help think about Dad whilst walking around and seeing these older folks in decline.  It reminded me of how long I have been away from home this past month, and frankly, I was getting a bit shaggy.  So I wandered over to a barber shop used by Dustin to get a badly needed haircut.  Now this is a tiny shop - a single office type chair centered in a space perhaps 5 or 6 feet wide, by a like depth, open to the sidewalk with a wooden bench for waiting, and a large mirror to trick the eye on the size of this diminutive space.  When I arrived, three men were ahead of me, so I waited and contemplated how I would transact my business, having steadfastly practiced "quisiera cortar mi pelo?" (can you cut my hair?), but not really certain of my response if the barber rattled on as to specifications, settling thus on merely the use of fingers to communicate length.

Now within this shop, or closet - the Brayza Salon Profesional - it became suddenly clear to me why men were awaiting her services.  This barber has a simple operation - clipper combs of various colors representing depth, a few scissors, combs and some potion she applies to the finished scalp - tools of her trade.  Likely more compelling to the waiting patrons was her attractive appearance graced with tightly bound shiny black hair, a tight fitting azure dress and close fitting black top, very high heels, and a turquoise necklace that often lay horizontally atop her ample, and amply supported, bosom nearly bursting forth from her low cut neckline.  Within 15 minutes she was done - $2.78!  I paid her a 25% tip for including my beard.  My weightloss de-shag now complete!

As Dustin and Beverly had stopped by whilst on the chair, and of course shot the photo above, we proceeded to the Colombian "soda" (a small fixed menu cafe) owned by "Salsa David's" family - the site of our upcoming celebrando on Friday - to decide a menu and discuss size/table arrangements. And there is no better way to determine the menu then to be served a plate of platanos with four different salsas, prepared by David's very animated mother and sister.  Accompanying this tasting plate was a Columbian drink of juice and beer. A lively discussion, a few platanos, perhaps a few too many sips of the drink concoction, and we were sold!

I was smiling while walking back to the hostel in the warm late afternoon sunshine, gunk in my trimmed hair, Colombian tasties in my belly, thinking that Dad would have enjoyed these same simple pleasures.

One Ladder Short . . .

As I write this at 5:30 AM, the sunrise is but a distant glow, I am sitting over  the back street in Samara at the Casa Esmeralda, with the ocean a cyclical roar in the distance.  It is quiet, peaceful but for a wailing dog and the start of the avian orchestra - unlike the evening before where the sunset was stunning, music and liquor flowed, the end of a fine day spent at the beach, the team's getaway weekend for the weeks' work.  Samara is a south facing cove on the Pacific side of the Costa Rican peninsula, a wide beach, robust waves at high tide, and a healthy dose of gringo/a's and tico/a's, and I suspect, ex-pats attracted by the easygoing lifestyle, having met several in a two days.

And work they have - this team.  So who are they?  A diverse group, permit me to introduce them, as they have organized themselves.

Gophers all, left to right rear: Carrie,  Jordan, Jack, Tayler, Peter, Aaron and Paul
Front: Ann-Marie, me, Amy and Bobby.  Where's Mullaney? Missing: Sarah on another translation adventure.  Taken on our Alejuela Culture and Construction tour.

 Our drafting team consists of Jack, Jordan, Paul and Aaron:   Jack the redhead, graced with a broad smile and prone to fits of animated excitement, especially when playing with the children we have met, is thus quite logically attached to the orphanage project .  His partner Jordan, who admitted he was formerly "ripped"  - as in muscular - slides easily into the conversations but with a studied air, and is driving the design of the orphanage.  Paul, a talented gangly tree at 6'3" is the tallest  (1/2" shorter than me)  and would likely qualify for the broadest smile on this team,  is driving the design of the women's center with buoyant enthusiasm.  Paired with Paul, Aaron, also tall (we have a few "trees" in this group) is focused and driven, with an easy smile, quick of hand and mouse as he magically transforms blocking studies before our very eyes.

Our estimating/scheduling team is clearly led by a former Navy man, Travis.  Prone to fits of studied perfection, his head is a gearbox, seeking precision and perfection in his estimating model, except when navigating a local tropical drink - his guard goes down, his eyes widen, excitement rising.  He is partnered with Peter, always "on", ever-animated, excited, and once with love-struck eyes, exclaimed upon the extraordinary beauty of Paola.  And on that he would be correct.  Bobby is the sleeper, enjoying the fact that he can sleep to the last possible minute, and with a freely given smile enthusiastically track down a cost estimate or a good pizza.

We have an unusual tandem in our group, Carrie and Tayler, mother and daughter, a very rare occurrence on a university program of this type.  Clearly both very good friends; my initial concerns about having a mother daughter team on this trip, where I know a party atmosphere can erupt at a moment's notice, were unfounded.  It is interesting to note their polarity.  Carrie, assisting the estimating team and writing the proposal for the women's center, is quiet and studious, an accountant, and a purposeful listener, who suddenly erupted at a design meeting with a suggestion that sparked a solution.  Tayler, perhaps a match for Paul in the smile department (for I have been told that she is rarely without one), is a diminutive bundle of energy with a focused passion for her tasks, is naturally excited to be the project manager for the women's center, demonstrating  a passion for their mission.

We have two "consultants" to our team, Sarah and Ann-Marie, yet another pair of tall "trees".  Sarah, a student in Spanish translation, is quiet and admittedly quite shy, but will jump into her role with a concentrated determination and grace, with much appreciative support from her teammates, as she learns this new field of construction industry terminology.  And speaking of grace, Ann-Marie is grace and devotion personified, and might easily be voted "best dressed".  With a camera constantly at the ready, shooting perhaps hundreds of frames a day, she moves about her task as interior designer to both teams with studiously determined interest, passion, and a Mona Lisa smile, but belying her demur nature, can wickedly demolish any of the gents on the ping pong table.  We  have shared our mutual love of photography, comparing shots as part of the "walking" club.

John, the other project manager for the orphanage, is mysterious, clearly driven to the beat of a different drummer, and is usually always late.  The "where's Mullaney" comment has come up often, he can be found drinking a white milk and protein substance, running earlier than any of us rise, and to his credit, is prone to wandering off and just talking with the locals without fear or particularly strong Spanish language skills.

I know Amy well as we are teamed on the Honduras orphanage projects. Amy is finishing her degree through Metro State and needed a Capstone experience.  As senior project manager, a role quickly assigned by her teammates as the most experienced in the group, she is a quiet, smiling, efficient yet engaging leader, fitting in easily with this group, wrapping her head in both projects with delight and determination.

We are further joined by two other students visiting Costa Rica for their own personal missions.  Crystal, a student from UW Oshkosh volunteering at the same orphanage we are working on, and likely the youngest cheesehead in this group, is slowly, quietly if perhaps a bit shyly, finding her place among this team.  Beverly, a graduate student from Maryland, is raw mojo personified, quick to dance, laugh, tease, yet is passionately dedicated to her mission teaching the women of Baho Tehares much needed skills in money management at the women's center.

This group has gelled well, finding common ground in a variety of endeavors - a morning walking club dedicated to a 6 AM wander on beach or very steep slopes, the sport fishing club bringing home not one but two Mahi-Mahi.  The surf club, doing more in the manner of body surfing than actual surfing, and the reader-loungers finding simple pleasures in a book on the beach.  And of course, the consumption of mojitos seems to lubricate their souls.

As for me, I have found this experience of the first week and weekend very satisfying, with great conversations, experiences  and "teaching moments"  wrapped in discourse, fueled by the student's unbridled energy and enthusiasm for their work . . . . and play!  And, as you can see below, I support students in any way I can, even when short one ladder to seek "higher learning"! 

Tayler, head and shoulders above!

Of Salsa and Colones

Hard work has its rewards.

The past several days witnessed the introduction to our two projects, and the student's release of raw energy and enthusiasm for work thereon. The first project we visited was a women's "empowerment" center located in the poor section of San Ramon, Baho Tehares.  We met with the uber passionate Barbara to learn that they help train poor women basic skills such as sewing so they can rise out of abject poverty.  The meeting and subsequent tour of the Baho was, I believe, a very sobering experience for the team.

Next a visit to an orphanage in Palmares, a clean, crisp and quiet place of about 14 children, who, during our meeting in the outdoor classroom to learn of their desired remodel, sat in a row, quiet if a bit fidgety, attentive perhaps not so much to Jessenia, the sharp, lawyer/Board member introducing the project to us, but to this pack of gringo/as suddenly descended in their space.  During Jessenia's oration, the staff psychologist came into the space, and the smallest of children suddenly ran across the space to hug him, followed by another, then another until suddenly all the children, like a water spigot fully opened, piled on to the greeting.  This joyous disruption was brief, whereupon they were ushered back to their row of seats.  Following the presentation, the team of students dispatched to measure and assess the space. Some engaged in making paper airplanes with the children where soon the air was filled with white projectiles and abundant giggles.

The projects now introduced, the students were eager to get to work, and work they have. From our "office", a classroom at the University of Costa Rica campus, to the many establishments selling building materials in town, the team established their own organization, hosted a design charette (brain storming), and began work on the myriad of details necessary to provide two complete proposals, taking their work with them well into the evening hours.

But not all evenings.  I introduce David ("Daaveeed"), the dance/zumba instructor who challenged our team last year.  For our hardworking students, he came to the Hostel and led a high energy salsa dance session in the dimly lit garage, running through the various moves, spins and twirls with patience for these gangle-footed gringo/as.  He finally said "enough", and just "have fun" for the remaining time by following his moves, whereupon the music came up, and he, like the childhood Simon Says, ran through some high energy zumba moves.  Indeed, fun it was and a great team building exercise. Hard work has its rewards.

The students are fairly self regulating at this point as they prosecute their tasks, leaving me time to take on my own affairs (like getting ready for "real" school in a few weeks).  I was having a problem with my cash card being denied, but luckily had little need for colones.  However, the smoothie stand is awaiting my business, and so therefore I found it necessary, once my bank knew there was no possibility of fraud, to wander down the street to the local bank and get some cash.  Permit me to illuminate how entirely different the bank visit experience is here, for we take our highly accessible financial institutions for granted.

First, I visited the ATM and ran through the normal keystrokes, requesting "English" and when asked the currency, selected " dollars" thinking the machine would dispense colones to the dollar value equivalent I entered.  I know, I'm a bit dense sometimes, but in trying to determine how many colones I wanted, the machine would indicate "millions", and doing the math quickly, under self-inflicted pressure, I had no interest in withdrawing $50,000 (the approximate exchange rate), without realizing that "million" here refers to one thousand.  Did I mention my cranial density?

So then, not wishing to possess my bundle of US dollars that was ultimately dispensed by the machine, I proceeded into the bank, greeted by a stern guard who unlocked the door to let me in, re-locked it behind me, inquired of my business (I held my dollars up), used his metal detecting wand on me, then approached a nearby machine and told me to hit this button, then that.  I was excited to think that perhaps, seeing the many others now inside the lobby, this machine would accept my dollars and spit out colones.  Not a chance, it instead printed a ticket with the number 94.  To my dejection, there were 24 people in the waiting line ahead of me for the one teller working the counter.  Arrgh! My ATM stupidity, now penance, revealed itself - I had to wait. Surveying the crowded lobby, I proceeded to an available seat crossing in front of an outstretched hand, a big smile and a "heeeey!" "Daaveeed" had ticket 92.  Over the next 45+ minutes, we were engaged in a great conversation (his English is pretty good - learned primarily from watching TV and goading from his friends) where I learned that he is 24, married, started to dance when he was 6, and seriously started to dance for money as a teacher about six years ago.  From Columbia, he is a somewhat diminutive bundle of raw fitness, fully capable of wearing his skin-tight shirt, possessing a broad, effusive smile with a close cropped haircut and one bum eye. He recently acquired his own studio, teaches as many as five classes a day, every day, and has parents who run a small Columbian restaurant near the hospital, the site we are considering for our final celebration dinner (and no small amount of hard sell  on his part - "so guuud!").

This encounter didn't feel like penance for my ATM stupidity. When finally before the teller to make the exchange, I realized why the line was so long.  I was required to show my passport (of which I was warned) and wait a good 3-4 minutes for this seemingly simple transaction to complete.  As I stood there waiting patiently, I could not help but notice, astride his computer, below his rack of transaction slips, below his swirling mouse, was a well worn mouse pad imprinted with Ben Franklin, an image of a $100 American bill!  I was quietly amused at  this irony - shouldn't that be "colones"? 

Shades of Green

While my students were getting their adrenaline rush on the zipline tour this Sunday past,
and since I had zipped last year, I opted for a slow, explorative wander in the woods.

Footbridge over foggy bottom

There is something enchanting and faintly prehistoric about the cloud canopy - the richness and abundance of flora, and presumably fauna, though none seen other than hummingbirds and butterflies, is enough to slow my pace, and that is not an easy task.  There are too many visual impressions - my eye is in constant intensive motion acting as compositor for my camera.

And this day, it really was the cloud canopy, for it was drenched in fog, mist and light rain the entirety of the walk, the colors were rich, deep and dark shades of green punctuated by crisp bright.colors of flowers and roots.  The wander took us up, down and over valleys, slopes and suspension footbridges, over and astride a swirling river, treating the eye to vistas large and very small.  Tunnel openings of mysterious unseen creatures under rocks and ledges. The webs of spiders illuminated by droplets of water, their creators tucked nearly invisibly under a leaf.  The smell of dampness and woodland rot, and the fragrance of occasional flowers.  And then there is the light that illuminates everything in such a contrast as to be simultaneously fuzzy and sharp.

So rather than continue to write as rich and lengthy a prose as necessary to describe my compositions, seeing them would provide far greater pleasure.  After all, a picture is worth . . .

Delicate fern tips reflected

Standing upright UNDER this fern

Climbing for light

A contrast of foggy forest textures

The reach of the fiddlehead

Dappled damp converging shades of green

Red "walker" roots - colored socks?

Delicate is the lacy balance of web, branch, leaves and water, a fleeting capture soon to evaporate

Bright blue topside in flight, spooky when not

As if on fire, a bright spot in the green

From under, looking up

Like a Cold Shower . . .

Very early last Saturday morning (January 3, 2015), in the inky darkness of Sanibel, I slipped into the cab for the airport, flying and arriving, still in darkness, at the Atlanta airport to await a rendezvous with my students for our flight to Costa Rica.  At the window overlooking the rainy tarmac, I finished my previous post just as the first student showed up.  Suddenly, my lingering reverie upon my father started to ebb as I was forced to make sure all the students (but two) made it to the airport - no small concern for the lead faculty - and take measure of their own excitement mixed in no small measure with fatigue from their early morning wake-up.

Fast forward to San Jose airport in Costa Rica.  Now the focus was to make sure the other two, who were supposed to arrive from Chicago at roughly the same time, would also be located and join our group.  As their flight had been delayed, I sent the other students on our bus to the local mall to wait, and I stood by the horrendously constricted single exit from the airport in the hopes I could spot two gringos among the hordes of people exiting.  I waited, and watched, realizing that probably a third of the exiteers were in fact gringos!

A year ago, this was an exciting moment when I stepped through those same doors, the first step in Costa Rica, taking in the pace of the people, the thick crowds around this one exitway, trying to fix a bearing on this place.  Yet this day, I could observe the people, place and process of movement and re-unification of travelers, whether with family, colleagues or endlessly hawking cabbies, through a lens of familiarity. In the nearly two hours I waited, watching for O'Hare luggage tags of people exiting, listening to the cacophonous hum of many greeting voices, I also realized in my transitional state of mind that Dad would have relished this moment, this "adrenalous" excitement that comes of travel, the first step and breath of new places, as I do now, and did last year.

But reality, like a cold shower, comes quickly when the faucet is opened,  It was now time to change my focus to guiding this new adventure, not with six students as I had last year, but thirteen! In the bus ride to San Ramon, I could sense the student's excitement for this adventure, recalling the lens through which they were seeing this new place, and I could now appreciate the nuances of this place much like watching a movie the second time - you know the ending but still take pleasure in the evolving storyline.

Hot, tired, pleased,  I finished the day with a very cold shower, not by choice, but because the small electric heater affixed to the shower spigot did not work. A fitting metaphor for transition of my mind, body and spirit, now invigorated for a new purpose, guiding and harnessing the energy of my students.


 

Dad, You Left Your Chariot

Yesterday was a rough day.  It was the end of our time of stories and companionship, and you loved stories.  And I loved you.  Over the past year we have shared many moments, a fleeting capture of memories soon to fade behind new ones

Brought you the book on Sigmaringen written in French, that lovely middle aged castle whose family had harbored you in Umkirch near the end of the war.  You were alert then, but bedridden and weakening daily. I brought a dictionary too, but I suspect you never looked at that - the French came roaring back, usually in the form of flirtations with the nurse. And we joked about Paris, recalled finding your old apartment on  Rue de Bucci on the west bank with the miracle of Google earth, streaming memories of bygone life and times, all documented in your book War Torn.

Or that tale of love forsaken in Massachusetts, of boarding the ship home to Germany standing next to a petite woman crying by the rail, you consoling her, a violinist on her Fulbright scholarship.  A kindly gesture rewarded by an Atlantic crossing of days with Ruth, your new friend Ray, also love-lost, and the three of you sharing chocolates on a deck stair late into the evening at the start of a long relationship.  And here she is with her husband, Ray, coming to your hospital room 63 years later, playing her violin, to say good bye on a lifelong friendship. 

Of Mom, gone now nearly fifteen years and your desire to join her, and your voicleless nodding to say "hi" from me .  But ever alert, strategic and organized, running through your mental lists while Atti and I sit silently by, wondering how long you will be with us, and you whispering out quite unexpectedly that the car needs an oil change.  I couldn't help but laugh. 

Of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren born and unborn but on the way, the pride in each and every one of them.  Of family and friends far and wide, with whom we could connect via Skpe or phone - they typically together for  the holidays, they shocked by seeing you white-on-white sheets bedridden as you were, weakly and quietly saying your goodbyes to them , and they mostly shocked, dazed and at a loss for words.  A terrifying moment really, for what can you say?  Yet more messages read, and acknowledged by you with a slight smile or raised eyebrow as you drifted further away - and especially of Laura's heartfelt message to you that I could barely read, and your knowing smile of pride.

And me, choking  up listening to these goodbyes, but knowing deeply that this was our gift to you, to bring closure on a life well lived. 

Of evenings spent sorting through your stuff at home, such stuff so well organized as to cause my personal embarrassment that I somehow missed that gene, but advancing the preparations for your departure so easy and well documented, yet still finding "historic" handwritten budget notes from 1963.  You were a stickler for order and detail - I can see that manifestation as I sift though files, carefully kept these so many years.  Now I know what you spent for my college, down to the penny.

I brought the ride in to your room a couple of times, fourteen miles one way, including the always interesting causeway crossing.  The first time I wheeled to the side of your bed and put your hand on the saddle, and you in your drowsy state, slowly caressed the saddle, and asked me softly "which bike?"  "The Lightspeed Pop - your chariot to the hereafter ".  And you smiled and knowingly approved, whispering a few precious moments later "I want you to have this bike" before drifting off to sleep again.  And slowly over days, while we observed the frolicking dolphins and manatees in the lagoon outside your window, you quietly slipped away from us.

I was certain the world stood still in the quiet, early morning darkness, the moon shimmering on San Carlos Bay as we drove home for the last time.  The weight of my sadness was heavy, and I managed a few restless hours of sleep.

You left your chariot behind, Pop. 

I mounted it with your helmet, your gloves, and pedaled hard tip-to-tip that morning, enjoying the natural activities of the day, the gator by the pond, the gaggle of ibis, just another day. The world had indeed not stopped, it was not a dream.  I pedaled hard and fast,  using the bike paths you worked so hard to plan, taking in the lighthouse, sliding easily through the great curves of Gulf Drive, running at pace up to the tip of Captiva to catch the sea, sprinting the last few miles home. I rode the final 100 yards or so in your honor - only my left leg pedaling, the right stiff and hanging as it has over all these years you rode Pop.  How did you do it?  My left leg could barely handle 100 yards,in a few minutes, and yours went years and tens of thousands of miles! 

You inspired me to ride, and now, I ride on your chariot.  Thanks.    For everything. . .