There's no place like it...

Back in 2011, for the A-Z Challenge, I wrote a piece about Home, and how it seems to move with me as I meander this world.

I was reminded of this on flying back to Kansas City, MO late last week (and very early last Friday.)

I've been here in this city by the Missouri river for just short of two years now. Still here, haven't left but for a trip back to San Jose, CA for work in April of last year. April was too soon after I'd driven from California to Missouri, so "home" was still a fluid concept, unlatched to any particular place.

And I've remained here since, until work drove me elsewhere.

I spent last week in the Pacific Northwest, The Bellevue/Redmond area near Seattle. A consulting gig at Microsoft.

Technology has meant that I was able to stay in face-to-face contact with...home, and him therein. We've discovered that this helps.

A thirty-minutes-after-midnight flight from Seattle brought me to Kansas City as the sun rose. Riding the shuttle in from the airport I was pleased to feel a sense of "Home" as the city came into view. As we crossed the bridge across the Missouri river I felt myself smile.

I was home.

A is for Adventure...

...and April, and airports (sigh), and appreciation, and...

A challenge. Just in case I didn't have quite enough going on, last month I signed up for the A-Z Challenge. Twenty-six blog posts in April.

Every day except Sundays. If twenty-six looks and sounds familiar to those ...um... familiar with the alphabet used in English, it should. The blog posts are themed - one for each letter.

What do I know about "Q"? Funny you should ask...but that'll have to wait a few weeks.

Anyway, another "A-word", we're airborne again. And I'd promised myself "not again" - at least for a good long while.

Well, not actually airborne as yet (is it not ever thus?). But soon. How do I know? The Airline told me so.

What's that double positive that signifies a negative?

Yeah, right.

Up, up and...Away.

Airport Appreciation

It was to have been a quick trip. Two-thirds of a day traveling on Saturday (because we were going against the sun), an evening, a day (Sunday) and a morning in Kansas City, and a half-a-day traveling back to SFO on Monday (this time going with the sun).

And, I suppose, it was a quick trip. We left when we should (more or less) and we arrived back when we should (also more or less).

But it was all the time in between when the wheels came off the wagon - and where I learned a new phrase, the one serving as title for this post, "Airport appreciation".

We heard it as we took a shuttle from a hotel to an airport at a very early hour on Sunday morning. Two pilots were talking and I overheard,

"I had about three hours 'airport appreciation' yesterday," said one.

"That's happening a lot more lately," the other replied, "sitting around, going nowhere."

Tell me about it. We weren't supposed to be anywhere near an airport on Sunday morning, early or otherwise. But there we were.

The plane for the connecting flight on Saturday, in Chicago, broke down ("some mechanical difficulties", they said), so the flight was cancelled. Not to worry, there was another two flights. The first of which was already full, but we were booked (boarding passes and everything) on the second. The only fly in the ointment - the flight we were to be on didn't leave for another five and a half hours (or so).

Five and a half hours at the gate? No. Not doing that. Not, not, not.

As it turns out, we were fortunate enough to have the means to step into the American Airlines Admirals Club® for the day. It has a "Quiet Room" - no cell phones (well, no talking on them anyway) and a general air of quiet - no loud voices, good chairs.

It was like being in church, you didn't want to talk above a whisper!

We spent many hours there Saturday - even got some food later in the evening. There were display panels showing flight information, so we could watch as the flight got more and more delayed.

Finally we went to the gate. This was now around 10:00 PM. And waited, and waited, and waited…

From time to time a new departure time would be posted. Worse yet, my phone would ring  and a bright voice would announce the new time. And the time would pass (the bright voice neglected to mention this).

The flight had been diverted, but it finally left there and was in the air, en route to us! Cheers all round. Well almost. The woman beside me, who had just flown in that day from London, said, "The crew…". I told her to be quiet.

"You know what I was going to say, don't you?" she countered.

"La, la, la, I can't hear you," said I. I was a little loopy by this time.

The plane landed, the passengers disembarked. And the crew left. They had passed over, through, by the number of hours they were legally allowed to fly.

A big surprise to the staff at the gate (something I yet don't understand).

"I told you," said the Londoner.

It was now 1:00 AM on Sunday. Flights were booked for the following day. Hotel vouchers were distributed. The hotel was 20 minutes away - on a good day. We watched the (small) shuttle fill three times before patience snapped. We took a different shuttle to a different hotel (one three minutes away from the airport).

We got to bed sometime after 2:00.

Back to the airport later that morning, listening to flight crews talk of "airport appreciation".

We made it to Kansas City with minimal delay that morning - though we had to cancel the breakfast we had arranged with friends, and push our meeting that afternoon back an hour.

Oh, and one other thing. Our luggage wasn't on the flight with us.

It turned up after midnight Sunday evening. Cell phone chargers were all in the one checked bag - so our phones had died sometime Sunday.

It was good to get back to the Bay Area Monday, let me tell you.

Basso profundo...at least for a while

The clouds parted and...my brain started to work again (more or less).

The latter part of the week just ending was spent in a fog of cotton wool-filled head, sore throat and a marvelous voice that sounded like it had dropped an octave and a half. Not all bad, I suppose...

The previous week ended on a much higher note(!)

We went to New York City. My brother was having one of those "decade" birthdays and my sister-in-law thought our arrival from the West Coast, and my sisters, brother-in-law and niece arriving from Ireland, would add to the festivities.

She was right. A high old time was had by all on Friday the 4th. And well into Saturday the 5th, for that matter. And dinner with the entire family together on Saturday evening was a food and laughter-filled event.

A great time - enjoyed by all.

It was a good trip, despite almost being crushed (while still in our car) by an 18-wheeler! Not to mention the creative cab driver my sisters had the misfortune to select - he reversed down an entry ramp to a highway. This while on their way to the hotel from the airport.

I may have picked up some bug or other there because, by Wednesday, I was not feeling well at all. The past few days have been difficult - I am not known for being a good patient. This requires patience from those around me. And it is lovingly given - I am more fortunate than I deserve (thank goodness).

Today is better, but I have work, that was let slip, to catch up on. No rest for the wicked. I should never rest again so. :-)

On a completely different note, I was unaccountably saddened to read that Nokia changed direction and decided to produce phones with Microsoft's new mobile phone operating system. I know I'm a geek, but I really have to stop getting so caught up with devices.

Breathe, Kevin. Well, right now, with this cold an' all, that's a little harder than usual. Ya'know?

A long way from Clare to here...

Even longer from Dublin to here...in oh so many ways.

Going by the day rather than the date, I stepped off a plane in Oakland seventeen years ago today. In one hundred four degrees of heat - and an overcoat. Given I was arriving with pretty much all I had to my name, it was the easiest way to carry it.

"Easiest" - at least up until that point.

Much had happened to bring me to that place and that time. Yet more has happened since. While I might wish to change some aspects of my life up to that watershed arrival, I would not care to change anything that has transpired since.

A long way - and not only in time and space.

Take a left at memory lane

Sunday dawned bright, sunny even, and clear. We'd wanted to visit Glendalough and the weather was perfect for it. Years ago we had been there. A wet, wet, wet day. This could only be better.

My sister drove. I was intrigued that she took "the long way around" as I had on the previous visit. We drove by many scenes from our childhood. Tradition counts for much with us, as does memory

Our Summers, growing up, were spent in the Wicklow mountains. Two months, at least, each year in a cottage of which I've said "think of anything - it didn't have it". Electricity, running water, that kind of thing. But it had a huge hearth around which we heard stories, lots of space without for children to burn off energy and access to the beauty of "the garden of Ireland", as Wicklow is known, just outside the red front door.

When we were a little older we hiked, my father, my older sister and I, over the mountains and down beside the waterfall, past the mining village - mine and miners long gone - into the valley of Glendalough.

The valley of St. Kevin - no relation - and a monastic settlement dating back fourteen centuries. Even with all the tourists and a "€1 for a photo with an Irish Chieftain" - who was playing brave Scottish airs on a very Scottish bagpipe, but let's not quibble - there is a peace to the place.


The graveyard, near the iconic Round Tower, sports gravestones worn smooth with time. Only the fact of their existence attests to the final resting place of some soul. Yet the graveyard also holds within its embrace members of families who are but recently dead.

Some things continue to serve their purpose. Some things do not change.

The upper lake is still there, quiet, serene. My sister and I can still skip stones on its surface.

The silence still seeps into your bones and the weight of time lies heavy all around.

Faraway (or even nearby) hills are green

As I walked to my sister's earlier today, the damp air reminded me of the value of multiple layers of clothing. Not something I generally think of in Northern California - even in the (shallow) depth of Winter.

And certainly not in May.

Ahead of me a cat, looking for all the world like it was wearing white slippers on all four feet and a long midnight black robe, paused in mid-step to stare at me. Startled green eyes regarded me for a moment before the cat slunk, as if embarrassed to be seen in such a state of undress, through a small gap in a garden hedge.

I stepped when I reached the spot where the cat had disappeared, but there was nothing to be seen.

I moved on under a deep gray sky. Up ahead, the foothills of the Dublin mountains were topless, their rolling contours obscured by the clouds that seemed settled in for the day.

In Northern California the hills are green in the Winter months. Here, in the Emerald Isle, they are so all year round.

Alone, with 300 people, at 35,000 feet

"Seems we have an empty seat."

I looked up and over at the man who spoke. He was older, with a reddish complexion. What must have been, once, a shock of hair was now mostly gone. A tinge of its red color was still visible in the remnant.

"Yes," I said, not inviting further conversation. I was all too aware of the empty plane seat beside me.

A documentation mixup and I found myself making this trip alone. The ordinary, trivial, inconvenient experiences of travel - and he is not there to share them.

As a couple there are silences between us. Quiet, companionable silences where words would be an intrusion.

Absence, however, is experienced very differently. The work week, with its patterns, is bad enough. Unexpected, unplanned for absences do not sit well with me.

With each passing hour another 500 miles of distance opened up between us. No. Such did not sit well with me at all.

Can you imagine a future alone? I cannot.

Bon Appétit

A "fresh buttery taste spread". Faint praise indeed. The legal department of the food division must be proud. Though, on reflection, I'm using "food" in it's "food-like" sense. You really shouldn't eat on planes.

Saturday was a contrasting day for food. It began well enough with a very acceptable muffin - at a somewhat less acceptable hour - in San Francisco airport.

Chicago provided plenty of time and plenty of variety to get something decent to eat before the advent of "fresh buttery" tastes.

A salad, I thought, vanity and sanity in rare congruence. The "freshly tossed" sign on a salad bar drew my attention - as did the idea of barbecue chicken and southwestern-ish style ingredients.

South Western in Chicago - what could go wrong?

We humans run on rails, often with many of our actions rendered automatic by repetition.

The construction began with romaine lettuce but it wasn't until the croutons that I suspected there was something amiss. At that exact moment the preparer looked at the contents of her mixing bowl.

We laughed, she apologized and made to throw the salad away and begin anew. Given they were all the same price, I opted for the current contents.

She asked if I wanted anything else in my salad. "Tortilla chips," I said and she tossed generous handfuls of red and black chips into my Classic Chicken Casear.

Crunch!

I didn't mean what you said

"Gondolas," he said.

"Gondolas," I heard, and my mind went to canals, long thin boats, Italian arias sung by men wearing stripped tee-shirts. Yes, I know we are in the Rockies. But there is a river.

We were talking with someone from Starwood Vacation Properties about their new development in Avon, CO. It seems a nice two-bedroom unit, should you wish to own all 52 weeks of the year, will set one back a cool (well, this is ski country) $2M. If, should you have the need, the three-bedroom can be had for around two-and-a-half (million, that is).

We don't have the need. Not to mention the heaped pile of dollar bills.

Guests, owners of one, two or more weeks, staying there can take the elevator to the lobby, board a gondola, and be brought to the base of one of the ski lifts. There they may ascend the mountain in a gentle, controlled way - and descend in a considerably less controlled fashion. Please forgive me, skiing is not my thing.

I looked at the river. "A lot of rocks," thought I, "for a gondola to navigate."

Some two days after this conversation we were driving around Avon and I turned right rather than left - not an infrequent occurrence for me. Shortly thereafter, we arrived at the base of a ski lift.

I looked back and saw a series of enclosed "gondolas" suspended from wires, stretching from the ski lift back to the Starwood Riverfront property.

Et erat lux.

Rocky Mountain high - with apologies to JD

Last Friday we flew into Denver. Because we aren't "snowbirds", we did not come in the season. So, the local airport is not accepting flights at this time.

So, a two-and-a-half hour drive through the Rockies to get to Avon, CO. It wasn't a difficult drive, just lengthy - westward, into the setting sun.

The "season" we were looking for was Fall. And we judged it correctly. The aspens are turning yellow and russet gold. This set against the evergreens and the hint of snow on the peaks - a palette for a poet.

Avon is a small town. No one seems in too much of a hurry. Perhaps that comes later, when the area is flooded with skiers. I'll take the quieter version.

Avon is a small town, with roundabouts! I had to dig back into my European heritage to remember the rules. So far I haven't caused any major concern to the local population.

A number of the "villages" around the area seem somewhat manufactured - largely collections of accommodation lodges, ski supplies and sporting goods stores. I can't complain. We are staying at one ourselves - a lodge I mean, not a sporting goods store.

Well, the economy here is based on tourism. The mines in the area seem long tapped out. And, I suspect, jobs in the service industry are better, and safer, than any mining ones were.

Being at over 7,000 feet in a very dry climate has had its impact on my nose. I've seen a number of three and four AMs since arriving here (and not just because I was going to bed very late).

The humidifier in the room helps - somewhat. For the rest, there are always books to read even at that hour.

Good eating is to be had also. If I remember rightly, vacation food doesn't have any calories. That's the hope anyway.

This is a place we will return to. One week is hardly sufficient to do it justice.

Go to the land that I will show you.

"It was twenty years ago today..."

Well, not twenty. We'll have to wait another four years for that. And not today. Tomorrow really. But you get my drift. Or, maybe I really am drifting. It had to happen sometime. I suppose.

On the last Thursday in June, in 1993, I stepped off a plane at Oakland Airport. 104ºF that afternoon, if I recall correctly. Quite a change from Dublin. It was raining there. So much so, water was running down the street.

Much has changed since then.

And all of it for the better.

For the quote that titles this entry, see here.

Kansas City recap

The trip to and from Kansas City, MO involved delays. But, given the weather many other travelers had to cope with, we got off lightly. And hour and a half, or so, each way. Nothing to write home about.

Though you can write about it in a blog it seems. :-}

The weather in KC was cold, the friendship warm and the food, given the artistry of two couples with whom we ate, and some of the finest eating establishments to be found, was wonderful. All diets - start next year.

Two views of the Country Club Plaza, one at night showing the famous Plaza Lights, and the second showing a very cold figurine in a fountain. The sidewalk was treacherous underfoot that day as I recall.





A different Christmas vacation than of recent past and also different to those stretching back more than a decade for me and much longer for Dick. No trip to and from St. Louis now Rosemary is gone. And the eve of Christmas, usually spent with her whether in KC or St. Louis, different.

But she was not far from our thoughts.

And, during the celebration that marks light shining in the darkness, the thought of lux perpetua luceat ea is comforting.

Micro-vacation - macro-need

This weekend just passed we had one of our micro-vacations (much needed). Four days spent to the north of the Bay Area, at the Highlands Resort in Guerneville. It's a couple of hours from where we live - and a whole world away. We have been going there together for 14 years - and Dick another six or more before that.

Set among redwoods, along the Russian River, it is a peaceful place. Made more peaceful by the fact that our cellphones (mostly) don't work, we watch no television, and the room in which we stay doesn't have a phone.

Music, reading, good food, a hot tub under the stars and the Pacific Ocean only 13 miles away at Jenner by the sea.

Before you reach Jenner you pass through Duncans Mills - a (very) small town only four miles from the coast and about six feet above river or sea level. Not such a good place when the river floods.

We have become known at the Querica Gallery in Duncans Mills - even if our last visit was a year and a half ago. Ron Querica recognized us. We have a fondness for his wife's sculpture and have bought some pieces over the years.

Saturday evening we ate out - an anniversary celebration. The Village Inn in Monte Rio is another establishment we have frequented over the years. Excellent, excellent food and a great place for people watching. A wonderful range of people, many couples, of all predilections.

We drove up Thursday evening and back down Monday afternoon. And, as luck would have it, found a new Home Furnishings & Accessories store in Sebastopol. Good or bad luck? Who knows - but they do have some beautiful pieces.