A very cold day in a cold zone

I had to work to get my heart started today. I don’t a heart problem. I have a compassion problem. I’m rebuilding my focus on myself, not the person I thought I was, but the incredibly difficult and complicated being that I am. Part of this process is not beating up on myself for losing patience with others or because I desperately want to be heard. This is a challenge of aging well. Just look at what we see in theaters and at work, in relationships. Aging is death in more ways than one.

Desperation is not attractive. I don’t consider myself desperate all the time but perhaps impatient and needy. Undervalued as an intelligent older woman, I strain to tolerate the proclamations of others who would never be interested in what I had to say. If I do barge in I realize it’s more about my needs than to actually help the other person. But this goes for almost everyone, doesn’t it? Not just the bossy elder in me. Damn it, I wasn’t even a teacher and I think I know it all.

Today I had some success in a coffee shop. When I say success I mean that I was able to talk to someone without ruining my or their day. There was a child mentioning to an adult that they wanted to do some theater. I jumped in uninvited to encourage participation in the community theater I am involved in. They did not seem offended. They volunteered that they had no interest in sports at all and had really enjoyed seeing how the stage worked in Hamilton. I also asked another woman about her drawing. Turns out she was making a kind of circle drawing of her year to share with others. The coffee shop, Chickadee Coffee, https://www.facebook.com/people/Chickadeez-Coffee/100092294925175/

is one of the smallest in town but as it is in my neighborhood it is highly likely that I will see people I meet here again. It is a warm, welcoming spot.

I feel compelled to be heard on a few particular topics. Theater is one of them also on the value of community, and my views on aging. Maybe also on the value of my work but I probably would talk about just about everything except the conflict in the Middle East if allowed. I usually approach conversations wrongly by declaring my opinions which run wildly against popular culture without knowing my audience. What better place to do this than on the internet! But I can ruin my day in real life as well! By ruin, I mean, dwell on how I failed to make a connection, maybe even came across as a bully as my tone of disdain is barely concealed when I voice my contributions.

For instance, I happened upon a young man telling jokes a funny voice. I thought maybe he might be interested in doing some voice acting but instead it turned out he was playing a game where one imitates a particular animated character telling jokes and I had just interupted this. Even though I could not have known this I felt really stupid and old. Then there was the young man who started to tell people that improvisation was about being really fast and funny and though I could see why everyone thinks that I had to disagree. Why? Why kill their attempt at connection and demolish their ego, which btw, I did not have the power to do. There are just some things I can’t let go of which I probably need to. I want to stop the mad rush to be the smartest, funniest, most talented person by setting the record straight. Real improv is about slowing down and making your partner look good. It’s about breathing and looking around for inspiration. It’s about mindfulness not about a speed contest and it isn’t always funny, especially if you try to be so. Unfortunately, I am neither the world’s expert on improv nor the best at practicing being slow and mindful. But people are so easily deluded by television like Whose Line is it Anyway where the scenes are chosen from hundreds of improv experiments for their comic appeal. The rest of the boring, unbroadcast scenes are still improv but just not examples of what people want to see. But does anyone want to hear this? Does anyone want to hear about our improv scenes which always included an audience member to keep us honest? Not really. Was I asked to share? No. Would I have been asked to share in one hundred years or one hundred conversations? No I would not be. Is this a case of chronically giving unasked for advice? I am not sure. It certainly is an effort to be included in conversations where I would have been more welcome were I younger. Age gracefully, they say. Easier said than done. Here, on my own blog, however, I can share without being asked and you don’t have to be polite. You can turn the page as it were.

I just need to take better care of myself so that when people start up my engine I can remove the keys. But kind of jumping in has served me well for years. I have met people and made connections I would not if I had let them alone. But my success rate has fallen. I am about to admit defeat. But I have given up so many times at work, in relationships and in artistic endeavors because the atmosphere is too cold. It seems a shame to become quiet at this age. People say go where you are wanted but I believe sometimes one just has to build one’s own fire in the snow.

I feel weighted down like the trees in the photo above. Years of life experience which are both useful and destructive are waiting to be soaked up before I break. There is a cold anxiety to being percieved as superfluous in one’s later years. One does not overcome this by expecting an audience everywhere but perhaps by forgiving oneself for still being a child in this short life. Building the resilience to wait out the cold until the burden melts is a challenge. It will return each winter I presume, but so will moments of beauty and connection in a tiny coffee shop.

Not really the best time to start a New Year

We are in some kind of loop which jars with the idea of a linear temporal calendar. I can still pretend it is a new beginning. I force myself to do this each time I take a prolonged nap and awake regretting the time that slipped away. I went for a morning walk before breakfast just to feel superior and also decided perhaps today would be a good day to recommit to writing. I am semi-unemployed as I wait for my new job to begin which is delayed due to supply chain issues and worker shortages. I have plenty of time. I just need inspiration. I found some.

Last night I chose not to go out to the downtown fireworks in a snow storm despite a special offer of free covid test kits. I was also discouraged by a post begging for more food trucks to show up. A wee bit pitiful. Yet someone had fun last night and I discovered the evidence.

Santa sleeping one off.

Same party, Frosty got locked out after he took a wee outside

Mickey got stoned and the rest must have taken mushrooms

I live up the street from Westchester Lagoon where all sorts of shenanigans happen. Behold the remnants of last night’s pagan ritual of sorts.

Out in the middle of the ice, a firepit left to cool with a sacrificial Christmas tree, protected by wall of broken ice to keep seagulls and other predators at bay.

A Festivus pole

Ceremonial arch surrounded by broken gingerbread house offerings

What appears to be either a jar of urine or Kambucha

Indeed an auspicious evening. It was followed by a medium strength wind storm which pummeled the temperature of 11 degrees F down to zero. Only one species of creatur returned to the lagoon area in abundance on this New Years Day. The Frisbee Golfers. They generally travel in packs but are considered harmless, even introverted. The wind appeared to hold a special attraction for them as their magical discs soared toward the rattling cages. I pray their laid back appearance bodes well for the year.

Meanwhile it is foretold that January will be another month of plague, suffering and death. I ate half a chocolate pudding cake for breakfast to appease my unholy anxiety. Please let my faith in humankind be restored by some small acts this year. Maybe I will have the strength not to watch more Karen videos. May I practice cooking something other than chocolate. I made a good start of it. Not only did I walk before breakfast, I ate a healthy dinner and only participated in one zoom call today. I wrote. Things are looking up, or I could just be at the top of the loop.

Dispatches from an unlikely Covid Hot Zone

Alaska is not a crowded place. Alaskans spend lots of time outdoors. But Alaskans are stubborn and believe that having no taxes and getting a dividend from the government each year makes up for a broken health care system in which insurers would rather pay for the insured to go out of state to get surgery instead of risking care in state. You even get to bring a friend who can stay in a hotel with you until you’re ready to fly home!

Now we have the highest rate of Covid 19 infections in the country. The Native Health Care System started vaccinating people very quickly moving from village to village to avoid a repeat of the 1918 flu epidemic. But it appears that the epidemic hit hardest with folks who voted for Sarah Palin.

What does a Covid hot zone look like? It looks like this – Palmer, Alaska.

A month ago I took some time off and wound up visiting Palmer. Palmer is a conservative suburb a little less than an hour north of Anchorage. For some reason, they were hosting a Psychic fair so I stopped in. It appears the reason that this event was being hosted in Palmer was because Anchorage facilities were enforcing a mask mandate which the psychics, believing they were protected by the healing power of crystals, sound vibrations, touch and intuition, had no use for. This is only the second time in this epidemic that I felt queasy for my own safety. ( The first was at the very beginning when buying sanitizer at Walgreens my cashier got on the phone and told his boss, “I’m not feeling very well today and think I should go home,” just as he was handing me my change.)

Not a single Psychic vendor and only one other visitor at the Psychic event wore a mask. It took place in the old railroad station. At one point, twenty people were stuffed into a small room for a lecture. I had arrived early for the talk but exited the room when I realized I was about to become another statistic. It’s not just conservative political beliefs that can lead to vaccination misinformation but also general wackiness.

I found myself split between believing I was safe with a mask and wanting to flee. I settled on a short tarot reading where the psychic contended that I pushed people away, even though I believe most people would agree I am one of the friendliest, open people they know. I realize that the Tarot is all about projection. Usually I use it to project my issues onto the card and look for new perspective. But I had overlooked the possibility that Tarot readers/Psychics are also all about projection. As a therapist we were taught to be wary of our own prejudices which continually sneak into our work. I’m not sure Psychics receive this particular caveat in their training. The card I pulled was the card of “Protection” from The Urban Crow Oracle Deck. My reader went on to tell me that I was constantly protecting myself from other people and relationships . I know this is not true and when I got home I ordered my own Urban Crow deck. Under the reading for Protection it says instead:

“Crows are fiercely protective of what they cherish……..With everything going on in the world knowing that there is something greater out there watching over us creates a space for peace…It is when we feel at ease that we can create, that we can grow…”

MJ Cullinane, Urban Crow Oracle

Urban Crow Oracle

I believe my reader was instead trying to protect herself from my negative energy. My fear of the masklessness of it all. She showed a not quite crystalline disdain for my masking and my nervousness choosing to physically attempt to whisk the negative energy away from me with her all powerful hands. I feel like laughing now. As a person with high anxiety I have been told to “breathe and calm down” many times. as if after 60 odd years on this earth, decades of therapy, breathing, and medication that’s going to help. But a simple whisking might work wonders. Anyway I will probably never go to another psychic fair, especially in Palmer.

Back here in Anchorage there are many anti-maskers but as we don’t have that many people overall I can avoid them by shopping at odd hours and by seeing friends outdoors. I don’t go into friend’s homes anymore. I work at a Skilled Nursing Facility and we have Covid cases so I have no desire to pass an infection to anyone. I had Covid 19, probably one of the early variants as it was last year and I’ve had the vaccine but I don’t want to take unnecessary chances. Instead we go for walks and play croquet. I have even been doing some cross country running where I am so slow that I am often running by myself near the back of the pack. But I am one of the oldest ones there and really have to watch my ankles, at least that’s what I tell myself when I want to quit.

At the beginning of the pandemic I took up ice cream and cheesecake making. Then, ten pounds heavier, I decided I needed to get out more. I’m glad I did. The outdoors is why many of us move to Alaska. The change in the seasons has been abrupt here with snow yesterday and more expected this week. Like everyone else I also spent too much time indoors looking at Covid news on the internet. But when our mayor calls for emergency funds for outside nurses to help in Anchorage hospitals then refuses to mandate masks and also vows to resist attempts to mandate vaccinations for health care workers I can’t look away.

That’s why I’m writing this today. It was hard to look away from New York City, from Paris and from Wuhan at the beginning of the pandemic because we had no idea how to stop it. Now we do, but we don’t do it. The real pandemic is projecting our own belief that we as individuals “know” either through the voice of God or The Constitution or our own fears/intuitions what is right. Really, I don’t know. I am full of hubris at times but not enough to put others in danger. I err on the side of caution but have developed an attitude, perhaps not always helpful, that a little sacrifice on my part can make the world a better place. Now is not a good time to visit Alaska. It’s not a good time to be sick with anything in Alaska. It’s hard to work in the field of health and be challenged everyday by skeptics. It’s hard to believe that just sending in some temporary nursing troops will fix anything. Just read about us on the internet and see what you can learn from our example.

Midsummer Covid Reset

I should have known we would have another Covid surge but I am so practiced in being positive that I was caught unguarded. I have thus dialed back my expectations from world domination to small walks and outdoor games. I have a trip scheduled for two weeks from now but that could vanish in a Covid second so I have recommitted to living in small pieces, not moments but micro-seconds.

It helps to live in Alaska and to love the outdoors. Here are some micro- impressions of my nightly bike trip. I live near the Anchorage Coastal trail and Westchester Lagoon. On this day, the tide was extra high. Small wavelets were not quite crashing. They were doing that lapping or licking, the rocks at the edge of the trail. We don’t get big waves as Cook Inlet is, well, an inlet.

It was cool, but humid, with a tiny bit of rain. Suddenly the salt in the water became airborne. I can’t usually smell the water as the air is so dry here and there is very little seaweed washing up. Then I passed some wild roses and the salty sweet fragrance met with the sound of the waves, the tiny breeze and sprinkles of rain to make a perfect moment. I would like my room, or my car or my hair to smell like that. It’s just not something they’ve figured out how to replicate yet. I’ll have to settle for an impression of a midsummer’s eve. Yes, I know that was the name of a feminine hygiene product. No, I have no clue what it smelled like. I doubt it smelled like salted roses although some people do put salt on everything.

The colors of midsummer in Anchorage are best appreciated on a muted grey day like this. The greens are almost too much to take in the full sun. One is so impressed with the mountains on a clear day that it’s hard to see what’s right in front of you. Here are some of the everyday miracles coloring the edges of the trail

Wild roses, clover, fireweed, these are all pretty common in Alaska. That’s why I celebrate them. I am no more or less than the tiny clover. I could be wiped off the face of the earth by a tiny virus tomorrow. How sad if no one noticed. Maybe not, I think. It will be alright. The clover is one of many, as am I. It’s the way of the world for summer to pass. At least I can appreciate these moments. Then I can reconstitute them in my heart when I need inspiration to leave my house for the scary but beautiful world. You may want to come up and appreciate them for yourself.

Anxiety woman sees herself in the mirror

I don’t know a single young person who wears capri pants

Not a metaphor. I was at an outdoor sale on a beautiful day. I went into the makeshift changing stall. In all my years I have never seen myself naked in the bright sunlight. I recognized myself but I was more real, more me than at home or in a store. I was lit by the sun and each freckle, sparkle, sag and wrinkle glowed like I was an ivory elf. Yes, I looked old but very alive. Also very white from lack of sun.

There was no hiding myself from myself or thinking the light in here is terrible. Trying on the clothing seemed ridiculous after this. Clothing dulled the iridescence of my thinning skin. I purchased a peacock patterned bike shirt but put away the dress with kittens travelling in space. The dress fit beautifully and was my favorite lilac/blue sort of color but who wants to have to tell people “I am not a cat person,” each time they comment on your dress.

I have old photos where I am thick skinned, thick haired, broad of shoulder and well… Young. Now I see that much of that has been worn away to leave a vulnerable spirit. Someone who, like many of us realized in the last year, should be making the most of life while she can. No waiting to be discovered. Discover yourself. No more desire to collect more stuff except if I get rid of twice as much. I have had more time on earth than both of my parents and mean to travel lightly the rest of the way.

Maybe if I write about it, I can do it. Let go of those books which didn’t cost much but made a difference in my life. No one else will love them as much as I do. Throw out the old running shirts and bras that don’t fit, shoes that are only for show, games I never got around to playing. Swedish Death Cleaning? Maybe. I saw a person capable of living the life of today not just a perennial caretaker, athlete, cook but a piece of living art. I can continue to be more of who I am and less what I was told to be. I will dedicate myself to growing my spirit and eating ice cream. When I eat ice cream I remember how rich I am, as I’m eating the food of royalty. I am unbelievably rich compared to many who came before me or live around me so I better not forget it! When word gets around that I’m so rich I can make some spiritual loans of humor, time and maybe ice cream. Join the pre-post Covid Revolution. Get old and live!

Anxiety Woman reclaims 4th of July parade one step at a time

I LOVE a parade. I’ve started my own parades in my neighborhood and workplaces. I enjoy walking, dressing up and meeting people who live in my community. I like the idea of people being proud of who they are and giving their extroversion as a gift to those who would rather watch. I’m not a big Nationalist. I don’t “March” in the parade. I understand the ambivalence of folks to a holiday which celebrates a war for the freedom of white people while people of color remained enslaved and oppressed. I focus instead on the midsummer festivals that underlie all of these “Independence Day” celebrations. The spirit of celebration is ancient. Christmas was something else before Christ and has become something else since. Bastille Day, Canada Day, all have their baggage but the need to take a break from the never ending circle of work and renew ties with family and friends is eternal.

So the parade in Anchorage is not like a neighborhood parade where you just sign up and they are happy you came. Instead you have to pay a fee to show your company’s civic spirit or perhaps you give a non-profit a chance to shine or sponsor a professional clown. This year the donation was waived because of Covid-19 and I was pretty sure the parade would be smaller than usual due to the lack of groups getting together for anything, let alone to practice for a parade. I asked a friend of mine who is also a skilled clown if she would join me. After some consideration, and the purchase of a lovely costume, she agreed. It was too late to officially register to march, although I tried, and was told they were full. This has never stopped me. I showed up once on stilts by myself and another time on a decorated tandem with a Veteran friend. Yes I am strange but so are the people who deathly afraid of clowns. It’s really hard to get a clown gig when you’re an existential clown, one who expresses adult pathos. Unless of course you are Marcel Marceau, the great mime hero of WWII. He honed his skills leading children silently out of German occupied territory. Hooray for the clowns and mimes of the resistance.

But let me show you the costumes! PartyWorld on Arctic and 38th in Anchorage has a fine tradition of putting a rack of discounted costumes that are holiday themed outside their store. Party World (partyworldak.com) These two were marked 75 percent off!

Everyone looks good in a patriotic catsuit right?

Sexy Transitioned Mario-Anne!

Both outfits are XL and I fit into the catsuit as if I were an elderly Marcel Marceau who has just eaten sausage. C’est Magnifique!

Could this be any less sexy? Yet surprisingly comfortable for a hot day of aerobic exercise.

The Mario number fit me like a too short tee shirt but really shined on my friend who is somewhat shorter.

Perfectly Patriotic!

Linda brought one of those sticks that looks like it floats in your hands, I brought an assortment of juggling stuff and bubbles. We walked downtown to avoid parking issues and searched for a group which would offer us a place in their fold. Luckily Linda is a nurse and she found a fellow nurse who was marching with a group who welcomed us! They were part of The Bridge Builders, an amalgam of Anchorage Cultural groups who represent for the Fourth, also they provide services and socialize. The kids who were staging with their groups got juggling lessons from us and we got practice interacting. I learned it was much too windy to juggle rings which flew out of my control and settled for the non-rolling beanbag balls. We agreed to steal each others hats and occasionally blow bubbles.

One or more of these Philippine Nurses are not like the others, but who cares? We’re building bridges!

The sun shown brightly as we got in line and heard each group announced. There was only one other clown in the parade. He was obviously quite official in his stilts and make up. His introduction stated that he was a professional and the various schools he attended. I guess this kind of thing generates clown gigs. Our introduction. if we had one, would read, “Two clowns, with little or no provenance, wearing sexy Halloween costumes in a family friendly manner, entertain you with their cheap tricks, errors and anxieties.”

I love being an anxious clown. Sometimes I am a bratty clown but today I kept looking up with fear each time I tossed a ball and tried to hide the ones I dropped, looking for them in an embarrassed manner. I would also exaggerate any little success I had with a giant gratuitous bow. I’m really good at embracing my anxieties for comedic purposes. I was told at an Improv class in San Francisco that “No one wants to see your anxiety”, which I immediately knew was false. People love to see other people play with pain, embarrassment. Just consider the success of Fail Army on You Tube.

Oh and as an overly white Alaskan, I got sunburnt. Even though I was covered completely in costume, I underestimated the power of the sun on my nose and lips which are currently covered in blisters. Imagine wearing a mask for over a year then looking up for a couple of hours straight into the brightest clearest sky of the year. I’ve been eating ice cream and drinking soda water since then. Too hard to chew.

Was it worth it? You bet. Reclaiming any holiday after Covid takes a bit of work. Linda had a big cookout. I wore another outrageous, unsexy outfit. I mean it seemed sexy in concept. Here is the exact same outfit on a model.

I looked like a senior tap dancer.

Here’s a bit of parade history I found online. A silent video of The 1954 Anchorage Independence Day parade, complete with what are probably white people dressed as “Indians”, several incarnations of Davy Crockett and women in flouncy dresses. Note that the roads are made of gravel and statehood was still a ways off. Hope you had an excellent holiday too but without the blisters! If you come to visit next summer, consider jumping in the parade,

Anxiety Woman conquers a small portion of The Olympic Discovery Trail

Why take on the entire Appalachian/Pacific Crest/Olympic Discovery trails when you marginally successfully breeze though a small part? I’ve never run a marathon, written a novel or raised a child so why should I become achievement conscious at this late date? I had to scale down my vacation plans of bike touring through Port Angeles, Sequim and Port Townsend when It became clear I had confused the rest and relaxation goals of said trip with test and taxation. Even in my last minute quest to slow down in one of the most laid back parts of the country, I managed to sabotage myself. I limited my biking to one day, from the moment the bike shop opened to 5 minutes before it closed!

I arrived at Ben’s Bike Shop in Sequim with a small backpack containing rain gear, a change of socks, credit card, id, phone and a water bottle. I left with an E-bike, a helmet, map and some snacks but no sense of direction. They tried to show me which way to go on The Olympic Discovery Trail map but even though the trail intersection was only a couple blocks away, I started off in the exact opposite direction. Luckily in Sequim, the Avenues are numbered so I caught my error. Here I come ODT, giant woman on a big red shiny E-Bike with no particular purpose but visiting some Lavender farms and stopping for lunch. I made up a different route to minimize highway time and maximize forest time. Even though my anxiety popped up at each slightly unclear intersection I made it back alive, if slightly bruised and humbled. Thank you Ben’s Bikes.

Ben’s Bikes Sequim | Facebook

I had never ridden an E-bike before. They are heavier than a regular bike but so easy to ride that you can get very far without getting, (or at least noticing that you are), tired. You pedal, it silently assists as if you are on a tandem. Only there is no one on the back telling you, “I think we had better turn around now.” I LOVE the freedom of a bike. I never understood why anyone would wear earphones while biking or running. Why would I want to miss the sounds of the leaves and the birds, the voices of other bikers hailing me, which they all do. It’s a slow, friendly way to get to know a place.

Up here in Alaska everyone asks about what animals you saw, its a habit. Sequim is a farming town so I saw mostly domesticated critters on the trail. A horse, some puppies, this guy..

1st exotic animal sighting in Sequim

I scared some quail out of the brush then was a little scared myself by this sign.

Can an E-bike out run a cougar? Let’s not find out.

This sign was near a farm/park sort of center I did not visit. But as I passed a young man in full cow hand regalia, including hat speeded out of the exit on his racing bike, perhaps going home for lunch break. Lots of cows started appearing as I began to leave the forested area and stands like this one popped up.

I passed by several of these trail side stands. If I had somewhere to cook the eggs I would have tried a couple of each!

Flying through the woods on a magic bike greeting every passerby with a smile, this is my life. Really, I live for this in Alaska as well. The trails in Anchorage are more familiar to me but loaded with unpredictable, injurious wildlife. Here there were only cows, quails, llamas and the occasional cougar. The sun came out, the rain came down, the wind came up then the cycle began again. I moved into the grasslands. Ahead was my lunch stop, a small family run store with a picnic table on the front porch. I couldn’t help but think of what had happened nearby recently in the town of Forks on the other side of Olympic National Park. A multiracial family had been harassed in the parking lot of a store. They were accused of being “Antifa”. They were then followed and boxed in by trees that were cut to detain them at their campsite. They were only vacationers from Spokane!! This is the kind of thing that makes me realize I could not live here. I don’t think this could happen in Alaska. No matter how right wing Alaskans appear they are just not organized enough to make this kind of hate happen. Don’t get me wrong, a whole bunch of people will show up to a meeting to talk about how bad another group of people are but they can seldom coordinate a time and place to meet later on to do physical damage.

Hundreds in Washington apologize to family in bus camper caught up in unfounded antifa scare – Anchorage Daily News (adn.com)

I ate only half my lunch and visited Victor’s Lavender farm down the Old Olympic Hwy a bit. They had a nice outdoor store situated in an old cow shed. Victors is a pretty big operation seeing as the next farm I saw was also owned by them.

Victor’s Lavender Farm in Sunny Sequim Washington (victorslavender.com)

Now I found myself at the intersection of Skinny Dick Road. The street sign would catch just about anyone’s eye. I decided to follow it to the Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge. I took a break and spoke to a woman and her mom who had spent some time in Boston then dug out all the change from previous excursions which had collected in the pockets of my pack. It costs $3 to walk in The Refuge. Everyone was scrounging. No credit card machines. It was certainly worth the money. The Dungeness Spit is the biggest attraction and it did not disappoint. Warnings were posted to avoid the waves and look out for the tidal changes so you wouldn’t get stranded. I worried a small bit that someone might steal the E-bike but I locked it with the sturdy lock they provided and it was safe when I returned. I just like to keep a little worry in my pocket, but sometimes it wears a hole in my shorts.

Home – Dungeness – U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (fws.gov)

By now it was time to head back so I improvised a route from my trusty map. After about 20 minutes I found myself in front of The Olympic Game Farm – “Where wildlife comes right up to your car!” I could see some deer and birds inside the fence but I was unsure how to proceed so I stopped and consulted my map. I must have been more tired than I thought. It was about 4:30 pm. I can usually hold a bike up with my legs while I look at a map, but not this time. It fell, bruising my calf in a spectacular fashion, and, being a heavy bik,e it bent the fender support so that the wheel would no longer turn. For about 15 minutes I struggled to fix it then decided to call Ben, of Ben’s bikes. Ben and an assistant were there within another 15 minutes and adjusted the fender back. While I was waiting for them an eagle soared overhead and I ate the rest of my lunch. Had I done this beforehand I might not have dropped the bike. Before they left which route I should take back. They said just keep going straight, which is of course what most locals say, forgetting there are name changes on the roads and forks and such.

I tried to be speedy and follow them but even on super cruise assist I could not catch their truck. It began to rain, but I just kept pedaling until I had some inkling that I was nearly back in Sequim. I had to improvise directions a few times and pull over once to ask some teenagers but I got back before the shop closed which was my ultimate goal. Only then did I realize how tired I was. Not just mentally but my hands and feet ached. I guess I can’t really claim to have conquered this trail as it conquered me. Most of my anxiety was left behind, especially after I got a delicious pizza. They said I biked 70 miles but I think not. I’m not much into counting anyway. I would recommend this ride for beginning bikers and intermediate ones but this is not a racing trail. You have to be aware of horses and rain, two things that could make you drop your ride. Of course you could just drop it out of anxiety believing you were lost. That’s happened, or so I’ve heard.

Port Angeles: Working City with relaxing nooks for unrelaxed visitors

It’s a very short public bus ride from Sunny Sequim to Serious Port Angeles. I got dropped off right by the Visitor’s Center where, as there were no other tourists, Muriel had all the time in the world to orient me. The ferry terminal transport to Victoria, BC has not yet reopened blocking travel to and from our quirky but industrious Northern neighbor. Muriel said the working people action was down the other end of the port where a ship was being loaded with lumber. First I stopped a block away at a gluten free, hippy place for breakfast. The restaurant she recommended was called The New Day Eatery. They were training new employees. At 11:15 am the menu changes from breakfast to lunch so I had a lavender/chamomile tea and tuna melt while listening to the captain call orders to the new mates. For a health food restaurant they were not very laid back. I like good customer service but what was missing were smiles and joking. They took themselves very seriously, like vegans. I couldn’t help but think that everyone needed a good shot of gluten. That is a little mean. They were trying very hard and the food was good. Just not fun.

I’m getting ahead of myself but the next day for breakfast I found a place which was not disappointing in the fun department. Shirley’s Cafe bills itself as a museum as well as a restaurant. The walls are full of old logging photos, the ceiling is covered in license plates and, on the hour, a tiny train runs around the top of the walls. Everyone working there looked to be my age, meaning they looked like career food service people and were quite pleasant. I thought about taking a photo of my breakfast but I feel foolish. It’s like taking photos of your money, or new socks. Nobody cares. Instead picture a plate sized Belgian waffle covered with whipped cream and strawberries similar to those found in every IHOP , I ate the whole thing very quickly. Then I ran to the bathroom to expel yesterday’s tuna melt. Too much information? It was not The New Day’s fault. I should have known that warm mayonnaise is Kryptonite to my body. Breakfast is served all day.

The Locals Cafe for Breakfast and Lunch in Port Angeles! – Port Angeles Cafe American Food (shirleyscafepa.com)

I’ve worked as a floor sander and refinisher so I regret but assume the responsibility for the death of many trees. I love wood but I wonder how sustainable the timber industry is. On the Tuesday I arrived I would say every tenth to every twentieth vehicle arriving downtown was loaded with timber. The amount of logs being loaded onto the freighter must have equaled acres of trees. Also amazing is that, in the historical photos from Sally’s cafe, the logs were enormous. One trunk would fill a truck where twenty fit today. It also smelled delicious. People always say “You can’t have two feelings at once.” I always have two feelings minimum at the same time. Today it was awe, nostalgia, regret, sadness. I love forests more than I love wood but I also appreciate the desire to have a good job. I appreciate my own role in abusing the environment so I will continue to work on that before taking on the redesign of an industry I know little about.

I decided to check out Sound Bike and Kayaks. Maybe I would be better off biking up to The Olympic National Parks Visitors Center. Apparently not. They don’t rent bikes here. They rent Kayaks. When I asked if there were other bike rentals in town I was told yes, but they are five miles away and rent only mountain bikes. I do not look like a “Mountain” biker to them, I thought, I look like what I am, an old out of towner. I would surely liked to throw some mountain bike jargon in their faces. ” Naw,” I would say over my shoulder,” I took in some chunky trails on my 650B yesterday. Was really looking to put in some triathlon training miles today.” The staff walked away me despite being the only customer in the store. Perhaps a “Locals only,” or “Hospitality Impaired”, sign would have been helpful? Who runs a bike store near an International Passenger Ferry Terminal and doesn’t rent bikes? Then it occurred to me that this was their reason for not catering to tourists. Maybe they tired of watching car after Canadian car offload and drive right out of Port Angeles. Maybe they were like folks in my hometown of Manchester by the Sea who resented the presence of people taking up parking and towel space at the beach .I note that this establishment was very near The New Day Eatery.

I dropped of my pack at the Not Quite aptly named Riveria Inn before starting my walk to the park. The Riviera is a serviceable motel, well located with a spiral ramp from first to second floor. It’s good I left the pack because I got lost. Even though I kept looking at the map, I continued up hill on the wrong street unaware of my clearly marked error. Near the top I met two ladies who were walking down a steep grade with walkers. They were looking for the supermarket. This concerned me as it was at least a 7 minute walk down and a near impossibility for them to ascend with groceries. I hoped they would call a cab to get back. I was also looking for a sculpture park which is located not far from the park entrance. I finally had no choice but to leave the street I was on because it ended. I turned left because it appeared less steep and this was the correct choice. A deer stared me down on the sidewalk and I was in The National Park.

Not quite as nervous as I am

So this was where all the tourists convene! The parking lot was popping with people of different colors, carrying bear proof containers and small humans. License plates from different states but not from Canada decorated the cars. Inside cheerful government workers asked me how they could help me, gave me information about hiking and applauded my walking ascent to The Olympic National Park Visitors Center. I was soaked with rain on my approach but as I began to hike the trails the sun came out. You are probably familiar with that smell of earth and foliage after the rain and the sun reflecting on rushing water and wet leaves. It was all there. A perfect destination for someone who just spent an hour worrying about being lost. It’s never a good sign when I realize I have been swearing at myself in my head. This foray into the park cleared my head before I began my descent into The Sculpture Park.

The Rangers told me to follow one of the main streets, look for the Elementary school then across the Street I would find metallic deer similar to those outside the Park Entrance. I found them and the very cool, hippy sculpture park, much cooler than the one in Seattle which looks like construction remnants rusting on the shoreline. The indoors museum is called The Port Angeles Fine Arts Center but the Sculpture park is called Webster’s Woods.

a rocky creekbed

Sometimes my brain feels like this

Port Angeles Fine Arts Center – Home (pafac.org)

I would call this day quite successful for an anxious person. I promised myself a treat as I made my way down the hill. I found, two blocks from my motel, Pofokes Pizza. Basically it was a man in a parking lot tent inside of which was a beehive oven full of flames. For $15 cash, I got a cheese pizza and a soda. The mixture of cheeses was delicious as was the tender and smoky crust. It gave a nice taste of character to the end of a day in Port Angeles. Make sure you check out Doug’s downhome video ad on his website.

Port Angeles Artisan Outdoor Wood-fired Pizza – Pofokes Pizza, Oven Plans & Kits

I already spoke about my breakfast at Shirley’s Cafe the next day. So I’ll just touch on a couple more stops. I wanted to sit and read by the water so I stopped in to the very cheerful Port Book and News where I picked up a copy of Earth Abides by George R Stewart. Written long ago it tells of the aftermath of a great pandemic and the fate of humanity. Great read. Service was pretty damn good as well. Although they did not have a public restroom, the staff made sure I found the nearest one at the health food store a block away.

Port Book and News (portbooknews.com)

I love a good health food store but some of them can be overwhelming. This was one of them, cavernous, thirty kinds of everything, concrete. But I did find my best food discovery yet here at Country Aire Market. That discovery was Bedford Sodas, from Port Angeles. I only tried the ginger beer and the Marionberry Creme soda but I would have been willing to have a case of each shipped to Alaska. But all Alaskans, know what is coming next. They only ship to the contiguous 48 states! Damn this is good soda. You can taste the flavor not just the burn of citrus acid which passes as fruit in most drinks. Yum!

Bedford’s Sodas: Home (bedfordssodas.com)

I ended my visit by walking The Olympic Discovery trail near sunset. Several people were out but it wasn’t crowded. There was a fenced off beach about a half mile South of town by a burned out pier. Luckily there was a path around said fence and I skipped rocks til it was time to catch the bus. As I was emerging from the brush I saw a couple of pre-teens looking back down the paved trail at their parents. “Did you want us to turn around?” they called to them. I walked by them saying “It would be a shame to turn around now without checking out that path to the beach.” After a few steps, I turned around to watch them disappear from sight. Another 20 yards and I saw their parents follow. They were lucky I wasn’t a real freak, just another tourist wanting to share their relaxing nook. Visit Port Angeles, explore, find your nook or your niche or your quiche. Just by enjoying yourself you make it a better place.

Port Townsend for the Poorly Prepared and slightly anxious

I did plan my trip to the Olympic Peninsula but looking back it was a plan from Outer Space. There was no down time. I would be on the bike or walking around to see things, then like a true Marathoner, I would drop dead. Based on my own daily work/ home rituals I would expect no less. So instead I let myself sleep in, I watched all of The Hunger Games again on MeTV and took the bus to both towns. I did get on a bike one day but it was an electric bike! I might as well have rigged an Ipad on the front and brought donuts.

Port Townsend has lots of water and Victorian houses. They sell English Pasties, the kind you eat. I got on the Greyhound, aka Dungeness Bus line at 6 am in Sequim and at 7 am was anxiously baffled that the bus driver was not going to drop me off anywhere near Port Townsend. After he made clear he had no idea where he was going, (consulting his pack of index cards), he was roughly assisted by a friendly passenger. She assured him that “We never stop at Four Corners or in Port Townsend but if you must. We just passed Four Corners. ” It said nothing about this supposed Four Corners on my ticket but a brief scan of the greyhound schedule indicated this was indeed the stop. She was in a hurry, I was lost. I tried not to show her how much I resented her help. Happy Holidays!

Such a nice deserted gas station and bus shelter. I read the schedules and felt sick as it appeared the next bus was in two hours. I used the Port O Potty. as a poor substitute for my intended Port of Call. Emerging, I observed a man waiting in his car. He assured me that the number 6 bus would get me where I wanted to go. In about 20 minutes a bus arrived and I stood up. The back door opened. I waited by the front door but the driver merely closed the back door and drove away. Yah, I felt dumb, but I had never seen that before. I realized it must be a Covid thing. But then how do people pay? I decided to hitch into town. It’s a hippy town but unlike Berkeley, they drive really fast. There was no shoulder just enormous trees that I would have to dive into if someone took a dislike to my blue hair or plaid leggings which said Victoria’s Secret in gold on the side. I made it about a quarter of a mile before I decided my life was worth more than a trip to Port Townsend.

Luckily an welcome stranger awaited me back at the shelter. He quit heroin twenty years ago by walking here with his mother from Idaho. He took the bus everyday to wash dishes at a bar/restaurant, preferring the day shift to avoid the crazies. Almost every bus coming into Four Corners did a loop to Port Townsend and the buses were free due to Covid. Me and my new bud arrived in Port Townsend at 8:15 am. I was suddenly delighted and planned my free ride back while eating a big old square of fudge I had packed for just such an anxiety provoking incident. It still amazes me how I quickly I can lose my serenity but then with years of practice I can at know it will come back at some future date.

The first Landmark that I recognized was the paper mill.. This was the inspiration for an exhibit at The Jefferson County Museum of Art and History in which paper produced here was fashioned into jeans similar to those worn by timber and dock laborers.

Karen Lené Rudd: Port Townsend Paper.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I had no idea that museum was open for business today. I took in the length of downtown in an hour or so. The buildings are impressive, sturdy, Victorian. But looks deceive. This part of town was full of bars, brawls and bawdy houses back when there was a Customs House here. Ships were forced to make a call here before travelling to Seattle. Then there was a railroad rush. Respectable citizens lived up on the bluff. These respectable people made all their money through the labor of the lower classes. All that remains both up and down the hill are pretty buildings which now look down upon each other in a solely geographical way. Not a brothel to be seen at 9 am but later on I found the best store I didn’t know existed. A pirate store! Unlike Dave Eggers Pirate Supply store on 826 Valencia St. in San Francisco, (which I REALLY LOVE) 826 Valencia Stores,It started out as a curious way to lure kids into his reading programs. This store, World’s End is not as realistic. But, I always say aye to anything pirate.

THE STORE | worldsend (worldsendporttownsend.com)

One establishment that was not open as I arrived and I wished I had stopped in was Quimper Mercantile. Right at the edge of the harbor it appeared to be an old timey but useful, thriving, carry over from days past. Either my inherent sadness, love of history or sense of irony drew me to take a photo of this building instead which symbolized most completely the transformation of Port Townsend. This building is in Seattle, but captures the essence of gentrification.

The Jefferson Museum of Art and History was, the most interesting thing in downtown besides the transformation of the place itself. Located in the old court house, it has was small but outstanding. Besides the paper exhibit , there was, in the courtroom, a series of boxes laid open which explored the nature of humanity and the environment, with a local focus on the timber industry.

Unwrapped
Peggy Smith Venturi

Treasures in the historical section downstairs included this ancient hearse and the original jail.Exhibits (jchsmuseum.org)

Up on the bluff I met local folks which is always for me the best part of visiting a new town. They were just out in their yards gardening or checking their mail but I find that most everyone wants to answer tourist questions. One lady directed me to the old post office which had a teeny tiny postal museum. I had my first contact with historical trail here. I asked another man about the giant remnants of a tree in his front yard. He told me how it had grown old and one day just fell taking out a truck and several cars with it. He hoped to have someone sculpt a face into it. I also received an invitation to his summer solstice party with a Frank Sinatra theme. I forgot to ask him if he was single. Even though I’m not a fan of Frank Sinatra I sensed a kindred quirky spirit. There were not only lovely buildings up here but quaint old timey touches like this swing out front of someone’s house where I rested for a bit.

The Cicmehan historical trail focuses on the history of the S’Klallam people in Port Townsend. Not only did the rich exploit working class but the native people really got screwed. Here is what the City of Port Townsend has to stay about the chief who realized that his people were defeated before they even started fighting.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chetzemoka

Basically they took him to San Francisco and showed him how much power, wealth and military equipment they had and he pleaded for peace. They couldn’t pronounce his name so they called him The Duke of York. It’s depressing but vital information to reflect upon. I did not get to do the entire 12 mile trail but here is the jist of it.

House of Seven Generations – Chetzemoka Trail Exhibit Menu (jamestowntribe.org)

Back in Sequim, I met a member of the Jamestown S’Klallam tribe. There is still conflict between cultures. People who are not part of the tribe are jealous of the casino and resistant to tribal plans to build a methadone treatment center.

Of course there is way more to Port Townsend than I observed over my 5 hour stay. Like the deer. I don’t understand all the deer, everywhere. Have these people not heard about Lyme disease? They are very cute though. Visit and see for yourself.

I left Port Townsend considerably less anxious than when I arrived. I recommend it not for its ice cream or English pasties but for the opportunity to appreciate the changing facades of history. I learned about my reactions to and investment in the past, present and the future. I learned I can be judgemental about privilege, and equally unaware about my part in history as a tourist. It might be more relaxing to try be like the deer and just frolic.

Escape from Alaska

Nothing wrong with Alaska this time of year, cool, green, with days that go on forever. Unless you’ve been  trapped there for a year and a half with your only vacation being the two weeks you had off sick with covid. I wanted out, at least temporarily.

I thought I would take my first trip to see my family but they were all busy so I chose instead someplace  quiet  where I could breathe and decrease my hyperactive response to tension. Thus, Sequim, (pronounced Squim).

Sequim is a small town on the Olympic peninsula  of Washington state  full of lavender  fields and people over 60. No stress, like a giant scented pillow.  To get there however , some stress was involved. A plane, a train, a day in the urban madness which is called Seattle  followed by a bus ride and a surprise ferry trip, these were all manageable.  The state of my digestive tract was not.

Please do not let me eat chopped lettuce ever again. Tear it out of my hand and throw it up in the air like confetti.  Feed it to a ravenous fluffle of rabbits  or stuff it down your pants. Just keep it away from my digestive organs. It’s usually too late by the time I figure out where the nearest toliet is. I know there is an app for this but I’m  not really good with gps when I’m sweating and clenching. I looked around, saw a towering Macy’s  sign. Unfortunately, for all the workers and myself, the store had been shuttered. Strangely, Nordstrom’s  was still jumping so I lunged past a thousand dollar jacket covered with brightly colored pins and patches  to meet my loud and unsavory fate. Next stop, drug store for imodium.

Now that it was safe to travel away from the Seattle bowl, I decided to try a museum. A hundred people were lined up for their timed visits to the aquarium  and Mick Jagger’s  screams emanating from The Museum of Pop Culture soured my stomach further. By the time the woman on the curb rejected my change and demanded “Bills  only”, I was ready to sit out the rest of the day at the train station. On my way back I saw a rat and I laughed. I don’t see many rats in Anchorage. We have bears.

Very close to the rat sighting

On my way to the train I saw…

Flowers at Pike Place Market, a strong contender for Best Covid Breeding Ground, Consumer Division.

At the waterfront

Gulls far larger than you will ever see in Alaska because they live next to a seafood restaurant

Like the gulls, I consumed some crackers. The chowder they came in was so bland that they even call it “White.”

The  Seattle Amtrak station is beautiful and deserted.

The bus was equally deserted as I was the only passenger. I imagined a trip over the bridge in Tacoma but was surprised by a front seat on the vehicular ferry.

It was a beautiful ride  provided by Dan the swimming, word game playing bus driver who has lots of seniority and a big vacation coming up.

My lodgings in Sequim have a view of the DQ out the front window and of the snowy peaks of Olympic National Park out the back. People in Alaska are always saying everything is bigger up there but it just isn’t  so. The flowers and the trees are bigger here.

The people are very nice as well. The innkeeper is taking care of her mother who has dementia. The lady at the diner asked me if I would like to have something delicious to drink with my meal. The young man who cleans the rooms waved at me while crossing the street. Things smell good here, like juniper and lavender but you can tell they have been hit hard by the covid. Stores are closed. Farms are half dug up for condos.

• 

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The farm building is located directly between two developments with no acreage.

I leave for Port Angeles today but will be back to Sequim for some bike riding. I need to relax more so I’m thinking of renting an electric bike. Let’s hope it goes better than my motorcycle experiment. I’ll let you know.