Spiritual Journey and True Self

Mythology around the world describes a descent into darkness, such as the goddess Innana’s descent into the underworld. She descends deeper and deeper, shedding jewelry and clothing, and it gets darker and darker, and when she ascends back up into the light, she is reborn. The darkness is similar to meditation: meditators don’t just focus mindfully on pleasant things but also on unpleasant, even extremely painful things and disturbing things. You sit there with disturbance in the darkness and observe it closely. Rising up from the darkness is like enlightenment.

My descent into darkness was my deeply depressing and alienating six years of dwelling in Topeka, Kansas. I was rather reclusive and quiet while surrounded by the most hostile community I’ve ever encountered, an androcentric and oppressive place completely at odds with my beliefs and discouraging any possibility of healing. Poisonous relatives verbally abused me to an extreme before I finally stopped having denial about what my relatives are truly like and how I feel about them. As a result—while on one hand I was psychologically traumatized—I analyzed these relatives, and I analyzed and figured out my own past and my own life’s path. Meanwhile I could not sleep without having dreams that involved long white hallways representing the path of my life.

During that time, I sat with the unpleasant and the profoundly disturbing and the deeply depressing. Meanwhile, I could not find my True Self in that environment, which I realized is just the thing my poisonous relatives have wanted all my life: for me to be completely disconnected from my True Self, which most people in this dysfunctional patriarchal society lose in very early childhood. Despite meditation and intellectual understanding, I lost myself and through fear and loathing somewhat regressed to my childhood, to the point that I almost returned to the voluntary muteness of my childhood. Nobody wanted to hear what I had to say, so why should I speak? Nobody would listen to me but would attack me no matter what I did, so why should I speak? In this deeply hateful and alienating environment, I experienced almost constant fear and loathing and had no sense of belonging. I even lost that false sense of belonging in a family to which I had clung for all those years. Despite that regression, I still had wisdom coming through in thin beams of light.

Moving from Kansas to Portland, Oregon, is not only a geographical move but also a spiritual one. I do not mean to imply that when I moved I reached enlightenment and became a Buddha, but rather that I have moved from that poisonous Goddess-rejecting environment, the dark underworld, to a city that is very progressive and creative, supportive of artistic creativity, and rich in fertile soil for spiritual growth. In Portland I have joined a meditation community that is genuinely helpful in the healing process (and more like group therapy than organized religion). Not only the meditation community but much of my experience in Portland, such as my nonviolent communication classes and meeting up with feminists, give me a sense of safety and an ability to say what I genuinely think and feel rather than wear a mask. I have moved to a community where it is possible to find your True Self.

During my first trip to India, an amazing Buddhist pilgrimage, I thought I found acceptance with a temporary traveling sangha, but during my second trip to the other side of the world I came to realize that India, Nepal and Tibet are not ultimately where my path was pointing me. I became all the more eager to head for the west coast, which seemed to be drawing me in. Ever since I graduated from college I have felt an urge to move to the west coast, but fresh out of college I didn’t have the courage to go through with it (even though now it doesn’t seem particularly courageous). I think the healing and supportive energy of the west coast was calling me all along. I don’t believe in “manifest destiny,” an excuse that arrogant white people used for attempted genocide and greed as they moved west in the nineteenth century; this is something very different. If a community just like Portland existed in the Midwest, I still would have moved to it.

Sometimes I think Oscar Wilde wasn’t joking when he said, “Life imitates art.” I don’t know if everyone’s life has a strong plot and so much metaphor as mine. I suspect that since most people are stuck on the most basic need of safety, when it comes to attempting to meet their needs, they are oblivious to their needs and to their True Self. Even if their life does have the potential for a plot and a mythological connotation, they are completely oblivious to it. Actually, I suspect that people who are on that bottom level of needs are at the starting point of the journey and never actually take it. I don’t quite know why some people are truth seekers, while others have no inclination to seek truth.

I'm currently reading a book called Dancing in the Flames: the Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness, by Marion Woodman and Elinor Dickson. Another relevant book (also published by Shambhala Publications) is The Heroine's Journey by Maureen Murdock.

Snow Ducks

It's surprising that the ducks are sticking around this time of year. These are pictures I took from my balcony while it was snowing steadily.

I wasn't fast enough to take a picture while they were in flight, flying toward me after I opened the sliding door.

A tree with a couple of squirrels, despite the weather.

I Cannot Stop Marveling

I cannot stop marveling
at how tall the trees grow here,
like my true self
that family and other bullies
have tried so hard to suppress, to murder.
At last I have found a place
where growth and healing happen.

Portland in Autumn

Bamboo on the Fanno Creek Trail

I actually took these photos about three weeks ago, and it's high time I post them. Since then, the trees have fewer leaves and the sky has more rain. The ducks are happy.

I don't want to encourage people to move to Portland, simply because many people have been moving here lately, and it's hard to get a job. Very hard.

Holly on the Fanno Creek Trail

Ducks in the swimming pool at my apartment complex (they like the heated water)
The parking lot is under construction on the other side of the pool.

View at the Hoyt Arboritum, where trees are labeled so you know what to call what you're looking at.

Hoyt Arboritum.

Astonishing tree with fluffy red leaves at the Hoyt Arboritum

The photo doesn't do it justice; the bark on this tree is as green as the leaves, but with some red stripes. It's also shiny and looks as if someone painted the trunk, and yet it's natural.

Hoyt Arboritum

View of downtown Portland, from the Hoyt Arboritum

I was in Lhasa on Tibet Uprising Day

Immediately after I got home from a trip to India, Nepal, and Tibet, I turned on my computer, typed up the following eyewitness account, and sent it to the International Campaign for Tibet and various news media. I ultimately also sent it to the president of China and to Amnesty International, and perhaps a few other organizations. The Olympics in China are coming up, and currently the International Campaign for Tibet's website has a letter that you can send to Bush, because he's going to visit Beijing. (I could make a snide remark about how I'm sure someone who's literate will read the letter to him, but I'll refrain.)

Today is March 10, 2008, and I am writing by the light from a hotel room window, since the power is out, as it has been all afternoon, evening, and night. I have spent a week in Tibet, and this is the only day that there has been a power outage, quite unlike Kathmandu, Nepal, where power outages happen at least once a day and last for hours. I suspect that the authorities deliberately turned the electricity off in at least part of Lhasa, just because today is Tibet Uprising Day, when protests against the Chinese occupation are most likely to occur. On this day in 1959, the current Dalai Lama sneaked out of his summer palace, the Norbulingka, and began a long journey to exile in India; two days later, the Chinese bombed the palace and still thought he was inside.

This morning as I equanimously lived in the present moment, practicing my walking meditation around the Potala, the Dalai Lama’s palace which is perched high on a mountain. I occasionally spun big gold prayer wheels set in wooden frames while I observed the pilgrims around me, some of whom greeted me with the words, “Tashe delek,” or “Hello!” I didn’t think much about the fact that today was Tibet Uprising Day. I was the only Westerner in sight, but I wore a Tibetan-style chupa, or dress, like so many of the pilgrims. Some of them wore contemporary clothes, and I saw many women wearing sunhats, but other pilgrims who had traveled far away wore traditional clothing that was often somewhat ragged, and they carried prayer wheels and often had coral and turquoise beads braided in their black or grey hair. I could see different styles of chupas from different Tibetan regions, for pilgrims walked great distances to reach Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. During one of my perambulations, when I reached the back wall below the Potala, I was startled by the sight of a white police vehicle something like an extra large golf cart filled with six cops in formal uniforms as if they had dressed up to join a parade.
I walked around the palace only once before I crossed the street and stood in the center of the drab concrete-paved square, where I took a dead center picture of the Potala, a beautiful sprawling red and white building with flat roofs and Buddhist banners; at the very top, there are ornate pointed gold roofs over the tombs of the Dalai Lamas. Most of the present palace dates to the seventeenth century, and it is all in traditional Tibetan style, with walls slanting inward and with black-framed glass-less windows. The building is thirteen stories high, and earlier on my vacation I had enjoyed a tour and climbed many stairs. I had stood in the courtyard, looked up at the Dalai Lama’s look-out window, and imagined a much younger Fourteenth Dalai Lama looking down upon the courtyard, as he had before he went into exile in India.

Strangely, after my camera snapped a picture of the Potala, a cop seemed to yell at me from some distance, but I didn’t understand what he said. I looked at him for a moment, but he stood perfectly still in the square, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture of the Potala, to see what he would do. He didn’t do anything. Since I wore Tibetan clothing, perhaps he had at first mistaken me for a Tibetan. I soon crossed the street and happily circumambulated the Potala three more times. I remained equanimous even when I reached the left side of the building and megaphones blared out music from a shop and advertisements from a cart full of merchandise. I did not feel annoyed when I was at the back of the Potala and could hear pop music blaring from the park that includes the Naga Temple. Under the circumstances, I would have preferred to listen to Tibetan Buddhist monks or nuns chanting.

I was ready to head out toward the Jokhang Temple, when I noticed numerous blue uniforms standing around the street corner, so I jaywalked and moved on. I headed for the vicinity of the Barkhor, an alley or path that circles the Jokhang Temple, the most significant Buddhist temple in Tibet. I had lunch at a café near the temple and went to my hotel room to write in my journal and take a nap.

Around 4:30, I returned to the Barkhor and began a walking meditation around the Jokhang Temple. I was in basically the same mental state I had experienced while circumambulating the Potala. So much walking meditation, perhaps combined with the thin air, is enough to put me in a calm, content, and peaceful mood. In the past week, I’ve walked around the Jokhang and stood on its roof, and this was the first time I noticed police standing around the Barkhor, the paved and crowded circumambulation route for the Jokhang, where pilgrims from all over Tibet walk around and around, much as they do around the Potala. Espying the police reminded me what day it was, but I remained equanimous and continued my walking meditation while out of curiosity keeping an eye out for cops.

Some of the police wore navy blue uniforms: badges, caps, and all, like airline pilots. At first, those were the only police I noticed. I decided to circumambulate six times rather than only three. Next time around, I noticed not only several uniforms but also cops wearing navy blue, with navy blue windbreakers. Both kinds of police either stood around watching the steadily moving crowd or sat on stools or benches around the Barkhor. After that, I started noticing what I suspected were undercover cops, and one of them said, “Hello!” to me like anyone else. I am so sick of that word, which almost every Tibetan apparently knows, but I smiled faintly and said, “Hi.” I only saw three other Westerners the whole time I was circumambulating, and they all looked to be cheerfully shopping.

When I had walked around six times, I was about to depart through the large paved square in front of the Jokhang, when a police siren jolted me out of my walking meditation. A small police van drove onto the square, which is normally reserved only for pedestrians. Like many others, I stopped to gawk, as I noticed two white cop cars and a huge crowd of police in navy blue uniforms standing, many of them forming a wall facing the temple. Brimming with curiosity, I joined the growing crowd, in which I was the only Westerner. This would have been a great time to be fluent in Tibetan, so that I could have understood what people around me said. To the right was a white vehicle and a large number of people gathered; many blocked my view, but it looked like most of that crowd was young, perhaps teenagers, and they were just standing around staring. In front of them stood cops in full uniform.

My first thought was that a political demonstration had begun, even though I had assumed that nobody would demonstrate unless they were suicidal. But as I observed the crowd of cops in the center, most of whom from what I could see formed a line, I thought maybe they were attempting to incite the crowd to riot so that they would have an excuse to get ugly with the crowd. Finally, I came to the much more likely conclusion that this was all a power-tripping display. Nonetheless, putting on this display is just the thing that could encourage Tibetans who believe in freedom and who are loyal to the Dalai Lama to put on a political and hopefully nonviolent protest.

Twice while I was part of this gawking crowd, a cop approached the cluster of people around me and yelled something while holding up his arms as if to push the people in front, and the crowd started to back away and disperse, but other people walked up and took the place of those who walked away. I finally decided that standing around and gawking like this was silly, so I turned away and continued circumambulating the temple and observing the police.

I have to admit that at this stage I was feeling rather less equanimous and was more interested in observing the police than in mindfully walking. Cops still stood or sat here and there around the Barkhor. Walking around the left front side of the Jokhang, I saw a cop standing on a wooden bench and holding onto the roof of a merchant’s booth. Eventually I heard a siren again, but this time I was not in front of the temple but rather surrounded by booths and shops behind the temple. A white police van with a blaring siren moved toward the crowd, counterclockwise, same as the golf cart-like vehicle I had seen while circumambulating the Potala. I have no doubt that this is deliberate, since Buddhists traditionally circumambulate temples clockwise. The crowd stepped out of the way of the police van and gawked. I kept looking back at the van, and it turned around behind me. This senseless driving around with a siren when there was no emergency struck me as ridiculous, and again the phrase “power-tripping display” came to my mind.

On another round, I saw a couple of young monks and maybe two other people standing in front of a wide and colorfully painted gateway, like the driveways to hotel courtyards in Lhasa. I stopped next to the monks and was quite astonished at what I saw. On the other side of the gateway, two white vehicles were parked with their right sides facing the entrance. A couple of little kids in pale blue school uniforms stood in front of the headlights, and next to them stood a military officer in a green uniform. Facing the children and the officer were at least four rows of green-clad soldiers, all squatting close to the ground, as if frozen in that position, and wearing helmets like motorcycle helmets but apparently used for riot gear. This was too bizarre! Nobody was rioting, and I had yet to even see a single protester. After gawking with my mouth hanging open, I looked up in search of a sign over the gateway and soon spotted a little square one overhead. It said “Police Station” in three languages.

I circumambulated a total of twelve times, not stopping till it was about seven in the evening and merchants had begun to take down their merchandise from the booths. I truly did not expect a demonstration to take place and therefore decided I had seen enough. I assumed that the rest of the evening would look much the same: the police and soldiers would continue their power-tripping nonsense, while the crowd would merely gawk and keep walking rather than protest or riot.

2
Today is the day after Tibet Uprising Day, and I have returned to Kathmandu, where the power is of course out; if the power were more reliable, I would go to the Cybercafé, type up my eyewitness account, and e-mail it to the International Campaign for Tibet and anyone else. Under the circumstances, I shall have to wait a few days, till I have returned to the United States.

In the morning, I was in the jeep with the driver and my tour guide on the way to the airport. Along the main drag, Beijing Road, we saw many green military trucks and green-clad soldiers, some still wearing riot gear helmets. The guide told me that monks at Drepung Monastery (which we had wandered around earlier in the week) fought with the military, and laymen joined in. The same thing happened at the Jokhang, perhaps only shortly after I left the Barkhor. I said, “I left the Jokhang around seven.” My guide also said that Drepung is now closed to tourists. On the outskirts of Lhasa, a military convoy was coming out of a base and we passed some of the vehicles; I counted at least nine trucks.

At the airport, a friendly guy in a uniform was stamping my passport and asked, “Was this your first visit to China?” I found the question startling, since I wasn’t in China, but I didn’t see any point in arguing and replied in the affirmative. He then asked, “Did you enjoy your first visit to China?”

I said, “Yes, it’s gorgeous! Maybe next time I’ll learn the language first.” I felt slightly ashamed of not arguing, of not righteously correcting him by pointing out that I haven’t visited China yet. But I do not like confrontation and did not know how to articulate such words. I had to be content with writing my eyewitness account and sending it to the media and to such organizations as the International Campaign for Tibet. It was a small bit of activism, but it was much more useful than arguing at the airport.

Greetings from Kansas

I arrived at this musty house and threw open lots of windows at about 3 pm, and my Journey to the West (well, the first step, that is) is complete. I'm sweating and tired and grumpy and tempted to turn on the air conditioner even though I don't normally do that before July. There is so much around here that still needs to be packed...or left behind. At least sorted through. I have approximately one month before I'm loading a moving van to take to Portland. I wish I could fastforward and already be in the apartment in Portland.

In Phoenix it was pretty funny when Jennifer was appalled that the gas was up to $4.09 a gallon, when just yesterday it was $4. I said, "Wow, is that all?" thinking of the gas station in California where I spent $4.49 a gallon. The greedy and environmentally destructive oil industry is such a mega motivation to sell my car and use public transportation (not to mention let my feet do the walking).

It's hard to see a computer screen through a cat, so please excuse any typos.

Yesterday evening I stayed at a basic hotel in a Texas town called Darnhart or something like that. The hotel was $5 cheaper than the Econolodge that I stayed at in Albaquerque while traveling out west, but the ice machine didn't work; fortunately the room had a fridge and I filled bottles with water and left them in the fridge overnight.

I've only seen a little of Oklahoma, but what I have seen suggests that it has many towns that consist of a handful of trailers and a mill.

I stopped at a tiny Kansas town to buy gas, even though the location is best known for having the hideout of a famous 19th century gang--the name begins with a D and I've forgotten. Brain fart. Anyway, I decided it would be safe to stop there as long as there aren't any more recent gangs. The pumps were archaic and I had trouble figuring out how to use them; I also had to go inside to pay, because the pump had no card swiper.

It only took me a total of eighteen hours to get from Phoenix, AZ to Topeka, KS.

A purring cat in desperate need of petting and brushing keeps getting between me and the computer. Not pleasant to have a shedding cat rub against your sweaty face.

Departure from Phoenix

This morning I left Phoenix and drove ten and a half hours. There’s a town in Texas called Dalhart, population slightly over seven thousand people. This is where I-54 turns—I had to turn left onto Denver Avenue, which is also 54 East. There’s a basic little hotel on the corner, as soon as you turn left…and that’s hwere I am. Going to be in a few minutes—though I’ve already lost two hours and the clock says it’s 9”30 though it feels more like 7:30. (Phoenix is on the same time zone as CA and OR, at least for six months of the year.)

Last night, I had the Ikea shopping experience with Francis, Jennifer, and Malcolm, and made a wish list because there’s an Ikea store in Portland.

Last night I also thanked Francis for treating me so well, and he said, “We’re family. Our mom’s side of the family are a bunch of dicks, but relatives don’t have to be that way.” Very true. Living in Topeka and having so much contact with my mother’s side of the family, I’ve become over the past few years accustomed to thinking of relatives as an abomination and as my worst enemies. Francis has reminded me that this doesn’t have to be the case and that I’m generalizing.

I’m so looking forward to being back in Portland!

Dreaming in Phoenix

I had a dream in which I was walking on a concrete or grey stone path. It had four steps that went down, and I stepped mindfully, and then the path curved very slightly, and alongside it on the left was a long dark wooden arbor with very green plants covering it and covering a wall on the left side. One or two foot tall colorful creatures, like plaster statues come to life, were headed under the arbor and transformed into tiny brown birds, perhaps sparrows.

I woke at 6 am and took a walk from 6:30 to 8 am. When I got back, Francis was still sleeping and Angelkitty was on the bed with him, but she’s a scaredy cat and quickly, after one look at me, got up, jumped down, and hid under the bed.

Back in Phoenix

It only took me five hours and fifteen minutes to drive from the Los Angeles vicinity to Phoenix, and I only stopped at two gas stations (and my tank was still almost full when I arrived in Phoenix).

As I was leaving the Los Angeles area, there was a dust storm, something I don't think I've ever experienced firsthand. I rolled up the car windows. The trees were dancing and dust and debris was flying at my windshield, and the sky looked sort of foggy in a beigey sort of way. I've read that Tibet has dust storms during a particular time of the year. And then of course there's the Dust Bowl. I went through a great deal of wind and flying debris throughout the trip to Phoenix--it's extremely windy here, at this very moment, and there's a weather advisory out. I mostly kept the car window closed and the air conditioner turned on during today's drive. Besides the wind, there were lots of purty mountains and palm trees.

My brother was at home when I showed up, and I took a shower and changed before we went out and picked up Malcolm (my six-year-old nephew), and we went out to eat at a buffet restaurant called Sweet Tomatoes. Francis had asked me what I wanted for supper, and I said, "Something that involves broccoli and/or cauliflower." Sweet Tomatoes was a good choice--there's a big salad buffet with broccoli and cauliflower, and I also had steamed vegetables that included broccoli and cauliflower. Yum.

I was expecting it to be over a hundred degrees here, and normally it would be about 110 degrees Fahrenheit, but instead it didn't reach a hundred today and is currently 89. When we left the restaurant, it seemed nice out--I'm sure the wind makes it feel cooler, not to mention the sun had begun to set. It's supposed to be 99 on Friday.

Attack of the Mutant Tumbleweeds!

Now that I have your attention....I thought that subject line sounded better than "Greetings from someplace else in California!" which is what I was about to write. It's actually Corona, CA--I'm at my cousin Teddi's house. I showed up considerably later than I expected, because when I got to Los Angeles the traffic became strangely slow and congested. I guess this city doesn't have a subway system. Hectic. It only took me ten and a half hours to drive from Portland to Val's house a little south of San Francisco, so I showed up about three hours earlier than I expected. For the trip today, it felt like it took me the same length of time. Actually, it took approximately eight hours, not the six that it was supposed to take, but that was in part because the bridge was out on 129, so I ended up backtracking on the highway and using the Mapquest directions; and later on Hwy 46 the traffic came to a complete stop due to construction. I don't really think Mapquest is omniscient, but given that it didn't want me to take those routes, I almost have to wonder.

I had no idea there was such pretty scenery near Los Angeles: I think Los Angeles and the first thing I think of is pollution. Nasty. But no, there are some green dramatic mountains, and something called the Angeles National Forest before you actually get to the city itself, and there's a beautiful lake called Pyramid Lake, probably because of the weird triangular trellised formation in a mountain on the lake. It scarcely looks like a natural formation.

Oh, yes, I have to mention this:

As I was driving toward Los Angeles I saw tumble weeds in a field, and they were bouncing around like gamboling gazels, and since they were approaching the highway, I slowed down...although not quite enough. The tumbleweeds attacked my car! They bounded out of the field and into the highway, and a couple of them hit the front of the car, and one smacked into the windshield and then flew up above the roof of the car. It didn't damage the windshield, but it sure was startling.

Six dogs live here. I'm glad cats don't bark. There's also a black cat that lives upstairs and came mewing down and was all cuddling and purry on the living room floor--actually, he wanted to go outside, but I just pet him and gave him a massage. The dogs bark if I'm on the other side of the gate (in other words, beyond the kitchen), and they even rather oddly barked at me when I was out in the back yard. One of them is a basset hound (I first typed "basset house" perhaps because this is the biggest basset hound I've ever seen). The others are a big poodle and a small poodle and a terrier-type creature and something that looks like vaguely like a Muppet. Oh, yeah, and a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. And there are coi in a little pond in the back yard, and there's an aquarium with some more fish--it's 13 in the pond and 9 in the tank.

Tomorrow I'm planning on leaving at approximately 10 am to head for Phoenix and crash at my brother's apartment again.

More on the Grand Day Out in California

Last night we went to Val's insight meditation center, and we had a 45 minute sitting followed by the dharma talk from the above-mentioned Sri Lankan monk. He wore brown robes instead of orange, but he had a charming smile. And his voice reminded me of Mukesh--people from Sri Lanka, surprise, talk like people from India. I'm sure the language is very very similar. Anyway, he told us stories about the Buddha that I wasn't familiar with, like the one about a monk who decided to go ask for alms in the evening because that's when people take the time to make rich food. The Buddha didn't argue with him, even though this was against their vows, and when the monk got a bowl full of rich food, someone dumped dirty dish water on him, and some of the water got in the food and ruined it. The visiting monk also talked about his childhood and his dysfunctional family, during a question and answer session, since someone asked about behaving compassionately with her teenage kid. And after all this, we each went up to the monk and he tied a multicolored blessed three jewels ribbon around our right wrist. He had knotted the string by hand, rather like a crochet chain. It reminded me of Sarnath.

Oh, yes, also Val introduced me to a couple people who went on Shantum's pilgrimage previously. And they knew some of the people who I met on the Dharamsala trip--in particular Paula and Richard, Manny, and Kathy. It was one of those "it's a small world" moments. And of course Val and I talked about the pilgrimage and India quite a bit. She and her husband and the couple I met at the meditation center are all going trekking in Bhutan and Nepal, and it turns out that in Kathmandu they'll be staying at the Vaishali Hotel, the one where I stayed.

Greetings from California!

I'm visiting Val right now, in the vicinity of Santa Cruz, CA. She took me on a tour of a Tibetan monastic community called the Medicine Buddha, which was pretty much out in the woods (like redwoods), with winding paths and prayer wheels and a temple with a big gold Buddha and murals telling the life of the Buddha and children rehearsing for a play. And there are seven special places where there's a wooden sign in front of a bench, and the sign has dharma quotes from a book by the Dalai Lama called Lojong something something. There was also a little pond containing timid little coi.

Then we stopped at a little cafe and got snacks and beverages and took them to the beach, where the water was very blue with white waves along the sand, and we were actually on a cliff overlooking all this, and there was a concrete ship rotting away in view of us, just off a pier. Not a safe place to climb on anymore, rather like a condemned building. I rather enjoyed seeing seagulls and watching doggies playing in the waves.

We went to an idyllic place that's actually a nursery, and it's called the Bamboo Forest (I kept thinking the Bamboo Grove, because that's a place we visited in India, an early monastery of the Buddha's). It had a shop where you can buy bamboo mats and pottery and bamboo fences. There were also paths into the bamboo woods, with a wide range of bamboo--I had no idea it came in so many thicknesses and colors. There was a pond with a waterfall and a gazebo, and in the pond grew what looked remarkably like lotuses. They may have been water lilies, but they sure looked like the lotuses we saw in India.

Tonight I'm going with Val to her sangha, Vipassana Santa CruBhante Seelagawessi who's from Sri Lanka. This is so exciting!

Tomorrow I'll be driving to the Los Angeles area and visiting my cousin Teddi, before I head for Phoenix the next day.

The Rose Festival

Yesterday was the start of the Rose Festival, which is a really big deal in Portland every year: although it isn't June 21, it marks the beginning of summer. Parades and festival-like stuff abound. After waiting by the phone at the hostel for some time, I found out that I was accepted for the apartment, but she was with a client and said she'd call me back. She got really busy and didn't call back, so when it got to be about 1 pm and I was still sitting by the phone (reading my new book by Ursula K. LeGuin), and so I called again, even though I hate to nag, and she apologized profusely for not calling back and arranged for me to come sign paperwork and pay a deposit on the apartment the next morning (which I indeed did this morning). The next time I looked at a clock, it was already 1:30, so I had lunch at the hostel before wandering off.

I walked to the big main downtown library again, this time not getting distracted by astronauts roaming the streets but rather by shops and art galleries. I wandered in but, believe it or not, never bought anything. It's not like I had $2,000 to buy an antique Tibetan cabinet, anyway.

I was walking past a big antique store and noticed, to my astonishment, some brightly painted Tibetan cabinets inside, so of course I had to wander in--the store was full of stuff like that (I tactfully refrained from asking how they got these Tibetan things) and also some stuff from China, India, and Nepal. If I ever become a millionaire, I'm returning to that store. Yeah.

The next place to distract me and lure me in was the Lawrence Gallery, really the back garden entrance, because it was real purty and had a water fountain. So I wandered around in there, and it included a regular art gallery with some fascinating artwork and some more conventional artwork that I didn't find so fascinating (there were a few originals by Salvador Dali and Picasso, otherwise contemporary artists). The other part of the building was a free trade international crafts gallery, and it had lots of enticing things, like handcrafted dolls from Guatemala and puppets from Rajasthan, India. I decided I'd go back there after I, like, move to Portland and, like, get a job. I may have wandered into a few other places after that, but fortunately for my checking account, none of them were bookstores.

I got to the public library, spent one hour there on the Internet, and then headed down Yamhill Avenue all the way toward the Waterfront Park to enjoy the Rose Festival. It was, amazingly, bright and sunny and close to 70 degrees, and it never rained the entire day. I'm not making this up. But I wielded my umbrella anyway. Walking around downtown Portland with a tall cane-shaped umbrella, I feel like I should be wearing a top hat.

There was a $5 entrance fee to get into the park, or specifically the temporary WaMu Village, where there were lots of pavilions and games and roller-coaster type stuff. If you can imagine me wandering around and looking bemusedly at amusement park rides....well, that part was boring. However, there were a couple of stages with live music. Before I got to the live music, I sat through a clown act that was more for children but turned out to be funny anyway, and it including a performing dog.

Attending a concert performed by a group with seven varying xylophones, drums, and gourds was worth the $5. That may sound odd, but it was Carribbean/African music and was quite lively. A local rock band called Amadan (rhymes with Ramadan) was also a delight. They seemed Irish, but they were local Americans anyway. It must be because they included a fiddler or violinist who performed some rather Irish-sounding tunes. And maybe they looked Irish because of their hats, and the drummer wore suspenders. However, their tatoos didn't look Irish. During this Bacchanalian celebration, it occurred to me that the intense guitarist looked like a short Bono sans sunglasses.

There was also a big tent with a dinosaur exhibit, but none of the dinosaurs were alive. I could hear roaring and they certainly looked realistic, though. The tent next to that was full of "exotic animals," most of which had been rescued, but despite the rescue part I found it very distressing to see the toucan, porcupine, and wildcats inside cages and not having enough space. And whenever a marching band went by, I could tell at least one of the cats was annoyed with the noise; Cosette pulls back her ears if she hears a recording of bagpipes, and that was much like the bobcat’s reaction to the marching band. There was a baby Bengal tiger that seemed rather content, and people went into the cage and played with it. How cuuuute! And a bobcat had a grey tabby for company.

Oh, yes, there was also a beautiful view of the river, and after dark fireworks were set off from a barge. (Those of you who live in St. Louis probably think that sounds familiar. I saw many boats before the fireworks, and swish swish of the water and a couple of mallards who like popcorn. While it was daylight and I stood by the water, people on boats waved at people onland.

Anyway, I've paid the deposit on the apartment, and I'll be, briefly, leaving Portland early early tomorrow morning.

Southeast Portland and the Japanese Garden

This morning I waited near the phone for a long time, and I found out that I've been approved for the apartment! The landlady was very busy with appointments and people coming by (there were like three other apartments available), so it's not until tomorrow, at 11 am, that I have an appointment to sign papers and pay a deposit to hold the apartment.

I've added one more night to my stay at the NW hostel, so I'll be leaving Portland (temporarily!) on June 1st, show up at Val's house that evening and spend at least one night there, before I visit my cousin Teddi in Los Angeles for one night, and then I'll next go to Phoenix and crash at my brother's apartment for a few nights, before I spend one night at a comparatively cheap hotel (probably in New Mexico) and then return to Topeka. And then it'll be the last of my packing and figuring out the moving van thing. My brother and dad will be helping.

I told the landlady I'd move in on July 12, and that's when I pay the rest of the first month's rent. It'll probably take about a week to move out there, like from the 6th to the 12th.

My favorite neighborhood is SE Portland--the Hawthorne Hostel is in the bohemian neighborhood, and I never got tired of wandering there. And the whole neighborhood is like a botanical garden!

I neglected to mention quite a number of things about that neighborhood, but here are some. I ate lunch at an entirely vegetarian Thai restaurant (I'm trying to be frugal, and that was the only time I ate out at a restaurant), sipped tea in the very atmospheric Tao of Tea before going across the street and seeing The Spiderwick Chronicles at the Avalon and looking around at the pinball machines after the film--I thought for sure I'd have a dream about goblins playing with a pinball machine. And I wandered into a cat lover's store and petting a couple of fluffy kitties....well, you get the idea. I also made myself at home in the hostel--it's an old house where each room is brightly and differently painted, and there was a cat, and I attended the Sunday brunch.

I was at the very Zen Japanese garden the other day, and here are some photos I took there.

Astronauts on the Streets of Portland

While taking a walk downtown toward the library this morning, I passed a door just as someone dressed entirely in astronaut gear, big round thing on the head and all--stepped outside. It was hard to refrain from giggling. When I was just a few feet from the steps up to the front door of the library, I saw a whole bunch of these astronauts. On the back was something about a space museum--it seems they were hanging out in front of the library and advertising for this musuem. After I followed one of the astronauts into the front lobby, I made eye contact with a woman who was amused at the astronauts, and we burst out in giggles.

It's normal to see beggars and punkers and backpackers on the streets of Portland, but this would weird out just about anyone. I think I'm going to like it here.

Tonight I met Ursula K. LeGuin!!!

Since my apartment application hasn’t passed the test yet, I walked to the downtown public library and spent an hour on the Internet there. Afterwards, I headed back in the direction of the hostel and sat down on a park bench and took out a couple of granola bars and a bag of almonds. A guy crossed the street and walked up to me (or jogged up to me) just to say quite earnestly, “I like your hat and your sparkly bag.” I laughed and thanked him. (I was wearing my Kashmiri hat that I got in Dharamsala and carrying the hand embroidered mirrorwork bag that was one of Shantum’s gifts care of the Ahimsa Trust.) Despite my laughter, he continued to have a serious look on his face and walked away—I hope I didn’t offend him with my laughter.
In Portland I have gotten a lot of compliments and smiles because of my bohemian clothing. Black is very popular here—and sure I used to wear black all the time—but I think the grey skies are a big motivation to wear colorful clothing. Maybe, who knows, after enough people have seen me wandering downtown Portland, I’ll set off a trend.

I met Ursula K. LeGuin!!! Did I mention that? After I got back to the hostel, I should mention, I checked to see if I had any messages by the phone, and I didn’t, so I decided that rather than driving to Beaverton just to go to the library for a job application (Beaverton, incidentally, is a suburb that’s very close to my prospective apartment), I’d wander around 21st and 23rd Avenues, since everyone says they’re great places to wander. Both streets are full of restaurants and bars and fascinating boutiques. Not to mention pedestrians and dogs on leashes. Just the dogs were on leashes, not the pedestrians. Not many pedestrians, anyway.
As I wandered and shamelessly window-shopped, I spotted a shop, in a Victorian house, called New Renaissance Bookstore, which basically is a spirituality bookstore with particular emphasis on Paganism and Buddhism. I wandered all over the store and asked for a job application (I think that was before I noticed a pigeon had pooped on my espadrille) and the woman behind the counter explained that they don’t have job applications—just bring a cover letter and resume, and she gave me the name of the manager to address in the cover letter.

Later, I was walking down the sidewalk again and spotted another bookstore: 23rd Avenue Books. So I crossed the street to go ask for another job application, and I was astonished to see a sign out front announcing “7:30 Tonight Ursula K. LeGuin.” It was about six in the evening at this point. I wondered if that really meant that Ursula K. LeGuin herself would be there or whether it was just a readers group or some fans reading something by her. I went inside and saw a sign, not to mention a pile of copies of her latest novel, Lavinia. I asked about a job application and got much the same answer as before, and like with the other bookstore I mentioned that I won’t move to Portland till July and will turn in my resume then. I also said I’d be back to see Ursula K. LeGuin.

As I continued walking up the street, it occurred to me that I had enough time to walk back to the hostel, use the restroom, change my shoes, and leave the magazines I was carrying behind in the dorm room. So I did all that, walking kind of quickly (though I stopped to pet a couple of happy Dachshund puppies on the way to the hostel).

I returned to 23rd Avenue Books at about a quarter after seven and noticed signs saying “Event” with an arrow, and I noticed a woman carrying the book Lavinia and going into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the next shop. I followed and found myself in a little courtyard with folding chairs, a podium, and a microphone. Several people were already waiting, and most of them had a copy of the book. I went back down the alley and into the store and asked for a copy of Lavinia. When she sold me the book, the woman behind the counter got out circular blue stickers and, pulling one off the paper, said she’s sticking it on the book to indicate that it’s sold. I said, “Oh, I noticed that on people’s books, and I just thought they were library books.”

I returned to the courtyard and sat down about five rows back. I looked around, got up, shrugged, and sat in the front row just slightly right of the podium. The suspense of waiting. A bookstore employee—a young guy in jeans and t-shirt, definitely not in the Barnes and Noble dress code—went to the podium and introduced the audience. He said he would give a bio of her but pointed out that he won’t bother because he’s sure we all know hwo she is, since we showed up here.

And then there she was, a little old lady in a black wool blazer and pants and an orange shirt and green jade necklace—actually, she sat at a little table to the right while the bookseller made the announcement (like, she was about three feet away from me). Oh, yes, he ended by saying, “Here’s Ursula K. LeGuin, so clap and yell to make her welcome.” Yes, he really used the phrase “clap and yell.”

She went to the podium and said that she’d briefly explain what the book is about and then read an excerpt that isn’t at the beginning, so we “wouldn’t get bored.” She added that afterwards we can ask questions, and then she’ll sign books. She said, “the book signing is the boring part for me.”

The excerpt she read was really wow—the book is about a minor character—or rather a character who is only briefly mentioned--in The Aeniad, Lavinia, and it’s all written from her point of view. She was a king’s daughter and her parents want to marry her off and have a list of suitors, but she isn’t interested in any of them because a poet’s ghost (Virgil) meets her in a garden and prophesied that she’d marry a foreigner. Her mother is crazy and threatening and pressuring Lavinia to marry her cousin.

Before she read the excerpt (which she stopped reading at a very climactic moment, to get everyone eager to read the book), she explained that at the age of seventy-five she decided that she wanted to read Virgil’s Aeniad, and she wanted to read it in Latin because that would be better than English. She had taken Latin in college, and now she got out the old Latin grammar books…and found it really boring, so she got a copy of the Aeniad that has Latin on one page and English on the facing page. She got carried away and thus wrote this spin-off.

LeGuin lives in Portland—she said she’s lived here since 1959—and someone in the audience asked her what’s her favorite restaurant in Portland for breakfast. She said that breakfast is a meal that she likes to spend reading a newspaper and not speaking to anybody.

Someone else asked her what direction she thinks Portland is going in the next twenty years. She said that she doesn’t think about the future and that people ask her about the future because she’s written science fiction, but she doesn’t think about it. She said that she’s a born and bred Californian and that she tends to miss California weather—she looked up at the pale grey sky as she said this and added that this evening’s weather is pretty good (in other words, the grey sky wasn’t dripping). She talked about how every city has many people and there will be too many people and a shortage of resources and how we’re currently aware of the oil’s future shortage. But she commented that overall Portland is doing a good job.

I didn’t mention yet: one of the questions was about Lavinia’s mother, the way LeGuin portrayed her, since she’s abusive and nuts in the novel. LeGuin explained that it’s the impression she got from Virgil, and that it’s hardly surprising that she’d go insane, since she was a queen in ancient Rome who’s sons died, leaving her with no male heirs.

LeGuin went on to say that other characters could be insane, too—like Lavinia’s dad, crazy with grief. “Who knows, maybe Lavinia herself was insane. She talks to unborn poets in gardens!” (That referred to Virgil visiting her as a ghost.)
Somebody in the audience said, “So do you!”

When it was time for the book signing (after much clapping) the bookseller explained how she’d do the signing, as she moved back to the little table and sat down. Basically, he explained where the line should snake around. I was toward the front of the line. When it was my turn, I gave her my book and said, “I’m Susan.” As she was writing, I said, “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight, until I was walking past the bookstore at six o’clock this evening.”
She laughed and said, “Good. That means there was a sign out front.”
So here I am with this autographed book…and I’ve been too busy writing this journal entry to get back to reading the book! But it’s time I go ahead and do just that…

Portland was like a science fiction and fantasy convention all day—from astronauts roaming the streets in the morning, to the spirituality bookstore, to Ursula K. LeGuin’s reading. And given the people you see on the streets at any given time, it’s like a science fiction and fantasy convention every day. When it comes to clothing and personal style, anything goes.
I wandered 21st and 23rd Ave a little more after the reading—it was a late sunset—and I came to an odd gothic-looking tattoo shop that sold a lot more than tattoos. In the front window were dummies in punkish black clothes, and also a mirror display that included Dr. Who action figures: two Daleks and a Cyberman.

Portland, Oregon

I had a vivid dream that was a disturbing cross between high school graduation/awards night and getting laid off from my job. There were many rows of folding chairs and a podium and it was in what looked like my high school cafeteria—white tile—and next to me was Kelly (from high school). I would say things like, “Aren’t we getting diplomas?” and she would reply, “They don’t do that anymore.”
“Aren’t we getting awards?” I asked.
“They don’t do that anymore,” she said.
What an anti-climax—I felt disappointed. After the ceremony was over, we as a big group of people were walking away, and I was walking away with Karen (one of the proofers at work), and we were talking about my losing my job, and I had that sense of insecurity and uncertainly and fear that I get when I think about my unemployment and how much trouble I could have getting another job.

Later, I showed up at the Art Museum (walked there from the NW Hostel downtown) and mentioned the fact that I was laid off and will move to Portland in July and probably get a job before becoming a museum member. The young woman behind the desk said that she just talked with someone about what it would be like to be laid off, and the response was that it’s “like graduating from high school. You’ve been there a long time and you’re glad to be free, but simultaneously there’s the worry and uncertainty about being unemployed.” Uncanny! I said, “It’s funny you say that,” and summarized the dream by saying, “I had a dream just last night that combined high school graduation with my job layoff.”

The museum, incidentally, is a beautiful place with a lot of contemporary art and a lot of Chinese sculpture--the kind that has been excavated from tombs--but I saw horses and camels much larger than any I've seen at other museums. A horse pulling a cart looked about lifesize. I've switched hostels in Portland because the Hawthorne Hostel only lets people stay for a week...unless they're interns who are working there. Hey, that's not a bad idea.

I'm currently waiting to hear back from my prospective landlady to find out if my application passes muster. If it doesn't, I might drive a moving van to a storage space, drop off my stuff there, and live in a hostel until I have an apartment. After I had already applied for this one, I did come across another apartment building while I was taking a walk--it had a big "for rent" sign and a phone number, and I wrote down the phone number. It was even in my favorite neighborhood, SE Portland, and not far from the first hostel. I really made myself at home there--it's a Victorian house painted in bright colors, and the people were very friendly and from many different places and there was a lot of blaah, blaah, blaah.

The downtown hostel where I'm dwelling now is much larger and not as friendly, but there's free bread and pizza and it's a fascinating old building with tall ceilings and bathtubs that have feet. The NW is also impressive--it's much bigger and more like a dorm than a house, and people haven't been chatty. But every hostel is different. I've been making use of the long tables to sit and read and eat. The Hawthorne had free bagels, donated from Noah's bakery, and there was a wonderful potluck Sunday brunch (the tofu scramble was especially good, and although I didn't cook anything, I did help with the dishes).

After I got the parking permit from the front desk to hang on my rear view mirror, I moved my car. That was yesterday morning, and I haven't moved it since! Lots of walking. I have stopped by at my car, like for granola bars and an umbrella. Portland people don't bother with umbrellas and tend to smile at you when they see you using one. Anyway, the guy at the front desk was very helpful and gave me a good map of downtown that I've been using ever since--it got me to China Town (I had bad vibes there and a crazy guy yelled across the street--the neighborhood is nothing like the one in San Francisco!) and the Chinese Garden (a very beautiful and serene place, and I was nearly locked inside.

I took some photos in the Chinese Garden.

I'm currently registered to be at the NW hostel till May 30, and I'm waiting to hear back from my prospective landlady, whether or not my application is accepted. Suspense. After I find out, I'll go back to the apartment office to sign paperwork and make a deposit to hold the apartment. Apartment hunting is stressful. Anyway, I'm hoping that will be settled by May 30, so that I can be on the move again in a timely fashion.

An Apartment in Portland

Volunteers for Peace vfp.org (volunteer work in different countries)

At last today I toured an apartment I can truly see myself living in, although it’s not in this rather botanical neighborhood of Southeast Portland, and it’s almost in the suburb Beaverton, close to the city limits. Still, it’s a very green and quiet area, even if it’s more suburban, and the apartment itself will be satisfactory.

The landlady showed me two one-bedroom apartments, all of which are the same size and format. A balcony overlooks trees and bushes and a creek—and a storage compartment is on the balcony. The kitchen is small but more spacious than the others I’ve looked at (the same goes with the apartment in general). The landlady called a small carpeted area, just beyond the kitchen, the dining room, and there’s a big carpeted area for a living room—the balcony is off there. The bedroom is a completely separate room with its own door, and it’s smaller than the big living room and has a wide closet. In the hallway is a closet containing the water heater and enough tiled floor to keep a kitty litter box. The bathroom is small but has a tub rather than a shower stall (the closet-size apartment I first looked at only had a shower stall). This apartment has lots of possibilities, and I still want four tall bookcases. Even with all my books, I can still see it as easy to get all my stuff in this apartment, especially now that I’ve gotten rid of so much.

My plans involve living more frugally, but this will be a challenge.

I’m thinking that if I don’t get accepted for this apartment, then I’ll take the moving van to a storage place and stay at a hostel, as a friend back in St. Louis suggested. Actually, my dad will be with me then, if all goes well, so he’d be able to help out in person. This apartment that I looked at today is about twice as big as my brother’s apartment in Phoenix.

Greetings from Portland, Oregon!

I'm here at the hostel and the Internet and/or AOL is incredibly slow, so this is just to say I'm here. I drove from San Francisco in one day and am exhausted.

Greetings from San Francisco!

I figured "San Francisco" would look more impressive than "somewhere near San Francisco." It's a town called Cocati, which is just a little bit north of San Francisco, on the other side of a very long bridge with an amazing view of water and islands and hills and a big long white cloud hiding San Francisco itself.

Anyway, I'm at Marsha's house--she's one of the people I met in India on the second trip and went with to Dharamsala, and she has this amazingly clean I mean beautiful house with a silk rug she bought in Agra, India. And quite a few Buddha statues here and there.

In Phoenix I got my kitten fix: three fluffy little white kittens and one black tabby. Just about six weeks old. Oh, yeah, their mom (a completely white little cat with pale blue eyes--I suspect she may be some sort of purebred) took the babies into Jennifer's parents' yard, and now they're temporarily living with Jennifer.

She and my brother Francis also treated me to lots of great food and a trip to the Phoenix Art Museum, which has some wonderful Sri Lankan Buddha statues. I left my brother's apartment in Phoenix at 6:22 this morning and arrived here at a little bit before 7 pm. That was a long drive. Every time I stopped at a gas station to spend a gratuitous amount of money on gasoline, I felt as though I were in an oven; I think it was at least a hundred degrees everywhere until I got to the San Francisco Bay area. I've gone from looking at cacti and palm trees and sand, to looking at palm trees and sand, to looking at palm trees and lots of green stuff...and even water! There's, like, an ocean here!

I'm exhausted. It's time to stop writing. Tomorrow I'm going to hang out in Berkeley and spend a second night at Marsha's, and the next day I'll drive up to Portland, Oregon.

Phoenix, Arizona

On Wednesday I began my Journey to the West.

Most of the mountains I saw in New Mexico were sprawled out and squat, but they were pretty colors under the vast cloudy sky: some mountains were pink or terra cotta, and some were striped terra cotta and pale green dotted with dark green shrubs.

After driving for eleven and a half hours the first day, I spent the night at an Econo Lodge on the outskirts of Albuquerque, which was fine except for having Spongebob Crankypants, a grumpy old Irishman, at the front desk in the morning. But there was continental breakfast and a big soft bed. Too soft for doing yoga, I found.

The next day, I drove through some breathtaking landscapes, including what I think was called Prescott National Forest, where the highway curved through the mountains. That must be the first time I ever cruised downhill at 75 miles an hour. Wheeee! (Note: the speed limit was 75, and it actually wasn't raining.)

I reached the "Phoenix City Limits" sign at about one pm Mountain time and got to my brother's apartment about an hour later; my Mapquest directions were a bit whacked and I had to stop for directions. So it took me about nineteen and a half hours to drive from Topeka, Kansas, to Phoenix, Arizona.

It also turned out that I didn't have my brother's current phone number, so it was useless using a tea shop's cell phone, but fortunately someone who worked for UPS had just stopped there. So although I had told my brother I'd show up in the evening, I showed up in the afternoon and camped out in front of his apartment. The guard cats looked out the window and meowed at me periodically. Neighbors walked by and greeted me. I went up a half flight of steps and watched doves fighting on a Spanish tile roof. I went back down and continued reading a book.

It rained slightly (which is weird, since this is a desert and it's not monsoon season). As soon as it stopped raining, huge gusty ornery wind made the palm trees dance and threw dirt in my face. I heard popping noises, looked up at a palm tree on the other side of the swimming pool (yes, my brother's apartment faces a swimming pool) and I saw yellow and orange balloons popping in the tree, and another cluster of balloons flew off and exploded in the air. I guess flying debris popped them.

My brother Francis showed up after 5, and we went out to a pizza place where we met up with my nephew Malcolm and my x-sister-in-law Jennifer, who has lived in Portland, Oregon, so we talked about Portland. Because of the shockingly high rent in the San Francisco Bay I've decided to move to Portland instead, and Jennifer told me about some of the neighborhoods and said she can definitely see me living there. I mentioned the neighborhood that includes apartments that only cost $285 a month, and she said that's a high-crime area. I decided that I'd rather pay $450 a month for rent than dodge bullets every time I step outside.

My brother's apartment actually makes me feel like a clean freak, which is pretty scary since I'm the Anti-Housekeeper; but my brother has a six-year-old son, and his apartment is like a big toy box. Since Francis is working today, I'm going to stay through Saturday and we'll go museum hopping (oh, yeah, and it's supposed to be 96 degrees Fahrenheit tomorrow), and I'll leave Phoenix Sunday morning to head out to the Bay area.

The Beginning of My Journey to the West

I am in the process of traveling to Portland, Oregon, in order to see how I like it and find an apartment. I’m taking a long route because I’ll be mooching off friends on the way to and from Portland.

Today I drove eleven and a half hours, from Topeka to the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico. I’m at a hotel (Econo Lodge) in a state I’ve never visited before. I started in Kansas and have been to Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. That’s four states in one day! Well, I’ve read there are thirty-six levels of deep meditation….

Albakoykee—that’s how Bugs Bunny pronounces it with a Brooklyn accent.

It’s so nice to be in a hotel, but it’ll be even nicer to be in Phoenix with my brother Francis. I’m dizzy from driving so long, like after riding a sleeper train in India or the Tube in London or riding a plane across the Atlantic. That constant motion stays with you even after your feet are finally on the ground.

The scenery I witnessed in Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas was drab. Boring. Flat Fields and Big Skies. If you drive through western Kansas and the parts of Texas and Oklahoma that I’ve been through today, you’ve got to listen to tapes or CDs, preferably some rocking tunes. Just to stay awake.

After I entered New Mexico I finally encountered some satisfactory scenery. Under the vast sprawling sky was rolling landscapes with green pompoms dotting it—shrubs. Eventually I saw some genuine trees. Finally, I came to mountains, although compared to the Himalayas they scarcely seemed like mole hills. They’re elongated and so squat, it’s as if the fabled ogre/goddess pinned down by the main temples of Tibet finally got loose, got up, and angrily stomped on the mountains. As I got really close to Albuquerque, the mountains were taller and more curvaceous, like about the size and shape of the mountains around Rajgir, India. But of course, comparing the mountain range around me to mountains I’ve seen in the past is not living in the present moment.

Back in Kansas, Toto

The flight to Kansas City was amazingly brief, in contrast with the long and cramped flight from Doha to Washington DC. I set foot in the very familiar airport and almost immediately spotted Elaine, who gave me a hug and drove me to my house. We talked aoubt the trip—particularly Tibet Uprising Day—all the way to Topeka.

I stayed up till past 5 am, finally typing up my handwritten eyewitness account of Tibet Uprising Day, which I e-mailed to the International Campaign for Tibet, Amnesty International, and a bunch of people I know. I also e-mailed a variation to the president of China and the Chinese chair of the Beijing Olympics. I may or may not be banned from China and Tibet. Oh well. I also have reason to believe it will be a challenge to adjust to the time change.

Airports, Continued

Now I’m at the Washington Dulles Airport. I was in a really grumpy mood by the time I finally spotted my suitcase. Too many airports and too many airplanes. Next time I’m definitely only going to one country, unless I’m crossing borders in a tour bus or on a ferry. And my luggage is so heavy—but that’s my own fault, thanks to buying so much in Nepal. On the bright side, I bought lots of gifts. I was doing so well until those last couple days in Nepal.

Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.

The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.

I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!

At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.

Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.

It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.

In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!

But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.

When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.

Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.

I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.

In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.

I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.

Airports

I’m at the airport in Doha, Qatar. There’s just a fifteen minute delay on the next flight—it’s scheduled to leave at 11:50—but that’s not going to be a problem—it’s not a drastic enough delay to prevent my getting on the next plane—tap wood.

Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”

“Why so short?” he asked.

“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.

Last Morning in Kathmandu

It’s a bit after 10 am, and Naresh called me from the lobby to say that the flight has been delayed one and a half hours. Maybe I should run over to the Internet café and send a message about the delay, although I’ve already checked out and my luggage is at the front door. I went ahead and checked out because when he called my room, I figured this time he was an hour early, like yesterday’s driver with the red car. Oh, yeah, it also turned out that his boss sent a message, saying he’s sorry about the dinner engagement. Whew, I’m glad. I said, “It’s OK—I wasn’t crazy about being out after dark. It’s fine with a tour group, but alone it’d be kind of scary.”

Before that, I had a delicious breakfast (except there was no rice, and the fried bread was overdone and crumbled), went back up to my room to brush my teeth, and set out to wander the streets and possibly do last minute shopping. I used up the last of my 1000 Nepalese rupee bills. Shameless. The Horizon Bookshop was still closed, so I went past them. I picked up a Ganesh and Sarasvati at one stand—they were both very very tiny but with lots of detail. I had told the pushy (male, of course) merchant that I was looking for a Bodhisattva statue, particularly Avalokiteshvara, and he insisted in trying to sell me a Shakyamuni Buddha, and I was refusing, when I caught sight of the two little Hindu deities and said I’d like to get them; he still tried to sell me a Buddha also (and I think he was weirded out that I’d be interested in Hindu deities), but I stuck with my choice, despite the pressure to buy something else (something more expensive).

I spotted Barnes and Noble Booksellers—of all places! It was a tiny store that looked very Kathmandu, not very Barnes and Noble; two sides were open to the narrow hectic street, no doubt with roll-up garage doors, and it was a tiny little shop with many piles of English-language coffee table books on a couple of big tables in the center, and with many books and postcards along the walls. I crossed the gutter and went in because this store had the Dalai Lama postcards I was looking for, so I got them and a couple of extras, but then—naughty me—I started browsing in the books, because a coffee table book about Nepal attracted my attention. Next thing you know, I picked out not only the Dalai Lama post cards, but also the book on Nepal and a big coffee table book on Indian embroidery. Naughty, very naughty.

After that, I headed back toward the Vaishali Hotel, turned, and headed back toward the shop where I bought the two Naga statues, because I really wanted an Avalokiteshvara statue, at least for Elaine, if not for me. After being accosted countless times by wallahs and shoe shiners and a little beggar and before this onslaught continued (I swear salespeople in Nepal are truly pushier than in India), I came to the shop, where a smaller Naga was in the place of the large one I got for Elaine. I went inside and saw two Avalokiteshvara statues with a thousand arms and eleven heads each, and they were about the same size as the big Naga. So I got one for Elaine, and one for me. I definitely have done enough shopping and don’t need to do any in Delhi!
Actually, when I get to Delhi, I won’t have time for shopping and just want to relax at the guesthouse. I get the impression that it has good ambiance and I’ll be happy to hang out there. I also have in mind using the last three or four photos in my second disposable camera.
I’ve gone to the cybercafé and sent a message to the guesthouse, and now I’m back to writing in the hotel lobby. It’s about 11 am.

I have little time to dilly dally in Delhi. Actually, I’ll just hang out in the guest house and get some sleep and a shower. I’ll need these things before experiencing many hours of flights and airports.

Incidentally, I had trouble understanding Naresh’s English (that always embarrasses me), and he was a bit…overfriendly, I thought. I realize that when guys in India or Nepal ask, “Are you married?” it doesn’t automatically mean that they’re flirting, but I was still suspicious. Such as when we were leaving the airport and he had his arm draped across the back seat behind me—little things like that. That was his typical way of sitting in the back seat with me, with his arm draped along the back, and I rather wished he’d sit in the front with the driver. In order to get me to look out the window at something, he would tap me on the shoulder; once he reached over and almost touched my hand in my lap, and I quickly moved my hand away. I think that by the time I left Kathmandu the final time, he knew I didn’t like overly familiar behavior. I hope he’s married and has kids, especially since he has my e-mail address.

Later--
Things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.

“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He probably wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka.