I finally got around to moving this site from my long-standing host to one that should be faster, cheaper, and more reliable. Goodbye iPowerweb, hello Namecheap.
Also took the opportunity to move from my old custom theme to a more modern one to make it easier to maintain in the future. Looking into upgrading from Gallery version 2 to 3, but the wordpress integration plugin I use hasn’t been totally updated yet. Onward and upward.
Despite having lived here for nearly four years, Ruth hadn’t ridden a cable car. We fixed that when a friend of hers came to visit.
It’s mid-February, and there’s still no snow in the mountains. It is, however, warm enough to sail. I sometimes lament the lack of seasons, but today I learned to make the most of it. Our friends rented a boat from Spinnaker Sailing, and told us to show up at 10am at Pier 40. We took BART over, got supplies at the ferry building, and set off for adventure. I’ve taken a dunk in the Charles on a few previous sailing trips, so I was glad we had an experienced captain. The weather was perfect, the sun came out, and the wind held steady. Went under the Bay Bridge and around Alcatraz island, getting a great view of the city, the bridges, and a few friendly sea lions. Had a great time drinking mimosas in the sun; not skiing, but still a pretty solid weekend.
After a multi-family christmas in North Carolina, Ruth and I ventured to Baja California for a relaxing beach vacation. We found relatively cheap flights to Cabo on Delta and Virgin, and booked a kayaking excursion with Mar Y Adventuras which dealt with all the logistics and equipment.
After flying from Charlotte to Atlanta to Cabo, and snarking at the rest of the tourists, I was ready to get away from the unwashed gringo masses. We took a bus from Cabo to La Paz, which was filled with older folks heading to their sailboat moorings, and one guy who watched several episodes of Friends without headphones, subjecting the rest of us to the horror of the laugh-track. I was getting nervous about the kind of trip I had signed up for.
Arriving in La Paz, one of our older bus-mates, with a glint of nostalgia in his eye, told us to make the most of our youth and “do silly things”. We walked along the beachfront Malecon to our hotel, stocked up on supplies (liquor, beach blanket, and a floppy old-man hat), and thought about how to infuse our lives with more silliness. Echoes of Steve Jobs’ advice to “stay hungry, stay foolish.”
In the morning, we met our small group of fellow adventurers and guide, rented gear and set off. A quick bus and boat ride later, and we were on our desert island, Espiritu Santo. It looks like a slice of Utah canyonlands dropped into the azure sea. It’s a national park with zero development, but the tour company has a semi-permanent base setup each season with tents on the beach, a kitchen well stocked with food and beer, and a toilet with the best view I’ve ever had. We had a quick introductory paddle, then settled down to drink beer and watch the sunset.
The next day, we took the boat to the north end of the island, where we entered the water to frolic with sea lions. They are friendly and curious creatures, but we were warned that without prehensile limbs, they tend to investigate with their mouths. I wasn’t bitten, but one played chicken with me and gave me an eye-to-eye experience. They are incredibly playful, and I had fun diving down and mimicking their graceful movements in my clumsy way. Ruth preferred to stay on the surface, but also got close enough to rub fins. It was awesome to get so close to these wild animals, and I may have a hard time restraining myself next time I go to Fisherman’s Wharf.
After lunch, we got back in the kayaks and paddled along the coast to a small inlet. We beached ourselves on the rocky shore, and hiked up an arroyo. The landscape is starkly beautiful, but most of the flora and fauna is fairly aggro. As we were hiking, Roman stopped to point out a dried cactus that scorpions like to live in, and a “tarantula hawk” wasp. Also called the Caballo del Diablo, it kills spiders by stinging them with a paralytic, then laying its eggs in it so the young can eat it alive. Apparently its sting is also one of the most painful possible (4 out of 5 on the Schmidt Pain Index). I took a photo with my zoom lens and gave it a wide berth.
For New Years Eve we popped a bottle of Cava, drank rum under the stars, and went to bed at 9pm. The visibility in the night sky was incredible, as clear as anything I’ve ever seen in Vermont or Montana. With no humidity or light pollution, the constellations appeared to be painted on the sky, and I impressed Ruth by knowing a few and making up many more. Stumbling out of the tent to pee after the moon had set, I had as brilliant a view as any reveler in Times Square.
The next day, we kayaked some more to a mangrove swamp, and had lunch in a cave. The wind was starting to pick up, and we were both getting a little tired of paddling. I don’t think it’s my new sport, it felt more useful as a means to an end than as the point itself. We got a ride on the skiff back to the camp for early margaritas and a nap on our beach. When the other paddlers returned, they noted that the wind made the trip “a little sporty”, but that they had still done the estimated two hour paddle in 1:40. I think we made the right choice.
Our final morning on the island, we packed up, took a photograph with the two of us in it (despite not having showered in days), and took a last walk down the beach. We returned to La Paz for showers, seafood and souvenirs. While we realized that we kind of hated the rest of Cabo, and could probably get better Mexican food in Oakland, the unspoiled island and the incredible scenery made it worth the hassle. Time to plan the next adventure.
Had a super family christmas in the mountains of North Carolina. Got to take Ruth’s dad skiing for the first time on the man-made snow at Appalachian; always fun to ski in jeans.
The largest Occupy General Assembly yet, 5000+ filling Sproul Plaza. Coverage
| December 2, 1964 | November 15, 2011 |
Backdating this post a bit, but figured I should put all my #occupy media together.
Much more at 99PercentMedia, a site I helped build to aggregate and curate content from the movement.
Laika was a good dog: smart and sweet and loyal. I got her when I was just a kid, 12 years old in the summer of 1997. She and I grew up together.
Going on walks in the woods that were further than her short legs could handle, she would eventually stop and wait for me to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way. She was adventurous, staying outside long after dark, coming home not exactly when called, but a little after. I never did figure out how to whistle properly, so a falsetto yell was our rallying cry.
After a bath, she’d hate her clean new scent and rub her face on the couch until she smelled like herself again. One walk back from the groomer, she found a mud puddle and submerged herself up to the neck in it. Once she was nice and dirty again, she emerged entirely pleased with herself.
She was a good traveler, going back and forth between VT and southern NH on alternate weekends. When I got her I told her she’d have to learn to like the car, and that she did. She’d fall asleep with her head cocked upwards against the seatback, which looked awkward but must have been comfortable. She’d know when we got to Old Ridge Rd, and would perk up to survey her other territory.
When I left for college, Laika went to live with Janet and Lou, but she was still my dog. Coming home for weekends, she’d meet me at the door with a squeal and demand belly rubs for at ten uninterrupted minutes. The whole weekend, she’d be glued to my side. I think it slightly irked Janet and Lou, because what are they chopped liver? But it was always clear she was my dog, and I was her boy.
After moving out of the dorm, I brought Laika down to Boston. I wasn’t quite as conscientious a care-taker as the adults were, but Laika adjusted well to her new surroundings and a smaller backyard. She got new friends in my roommates, snacks whenever we grilled out back, and a spot on the front porch from which she could bark up and down the street. It was a perfect vantage point for keeping watch over the neighborhood.
She knew nothing about cars, and moving from the country to the city was an adjustment for us both. I now had to walk her on a leash and pick up poop with my hand covered in a plastic bag. She had to learn to wait at crosswalks, or at least not go until I let her. She always loved the snow, maybe some of that Tibetan heritage. She would leap through drifts far taller than you’d think a small dog would be able to manage. There was joy in her step, romping through the park.
She was cute; maybe cuter than a young man deserved. I always thought she’d come in handy picking up girls, but walking on the Somerville community path it was always the old ladies who would stop and ask to pet her. She did work on one young woman, though. Ruth knew that the way to me was through Laika, and did her best to ingratiate herself into our relationship. Laika learned to move over in bed, and the three of us became a family.
When I moved to California, Laika came with me. Not at first, but once I found an apartment that allowed dogs, I was on the next plane back east to get her. She did well on the plane, quietly sleeping underneath the seat in front of me. Until I too fell asleep, and she wandered toward the cockpit. The stewardess scolded me with annoyance, but I knew Laika just wanted to go exploring.
California had new smells, new dog friends in our building, and a new routine. I left for work after our morning walks, and she would be waiting for me by the door for my return in the evening. She wasn’t always able to wait to pee for that long, so we got her an absorbent pad and a little piece of fake grass to put in the bathroom. The smell didn’t bother me too much, and Ruth not at all, so it was a workable solution.
Recently, Laika started to lose energy and eat less. I reminded myself that she’s an old lady, just turned 14 in June, and almost 100 in dog-years. I could tell she wasn’t feeling well when she would no longer eat her pill-concealing treats, or even drink milk out of a bowl. She used to bark at me as I ate breakfast, demanding her turn at the sugary milk. That’s when I knew it was time.
Today, I took Laika to the vet for the last time. I carried her in my arms, as she’s gotten used to getting rides down the hall. She peed on me a little in the car, perhaps a parting shot, or a sign that she hadn’t eaten her medication in over a week. She didn’t mind the vet, just closed her eyes and fell asleep. I cried, which I don’t often do, but felt right today.
I don’t think much of heaven, but I know that Laika’s spirit is too strong to disappear immediately. I’d like to think that she joined her namesake and is barking at the stars.
