The pleasure I have found bathing in hammams over the years has not abated. Until recently, I had always opted on washing myself and forgoing the in-house scrub and massage offered by the staff. However on a return trip to Morocco, my curiosity got the better of me; many consider this to be a requisite part of the experience.

I was introduced to a robust woman, her hair was wrapped up and she wore only a loose cloth that resembled what a baby might wear from the waist down. She led me to lie down on a long marble slab in one of the heated chambers and set out to fill her buckets and gather her necessities of the trade. She then soaped me thoroughly and I slid about.  But any fear of falling off the slab was quickly negated. My head was soon wedged between her enormous breasts and my body’s motion thwarted. Enveloped in her soft flesh was admittedly not an uncomfortable place to be while she scrubbed and rinsed and washed my hair. It seemed to be her best position for proper leverage.

The bathing was done quickly, efficiently, with a familiar routine guiding her movements. Somehow I do not recall a massage.  It was all over rather quickly.

Many years ago while traveling in Morroco I visited a hammam. They are always segregated by gender either by hours of operation or location and the luxury of design and accommodations, or lack thereof, can vary greatly from place to place.

A woman led me a few steps to a tiled anteroom where I was directed to remove my clothes and shoes, underwear was optional. It took me mere minutes, but for the native women wrapped in layers and layers of clothing disrobing was a time consuming undertaking. Despite the extreme outdoor heat, this tradition apparently was meant to keep them cool. I have no way of knowing if it succeeded, but I suspect ages of tradition, not unlike evolution, tend towards survival. I do know I sweltered under the oppressive sun in my thin dress. I put my belongings in a locker and was given a towel. I was the only foreigner there and had little recollection of the procedure despite a quick foray many years before in Paris. I was shown where to fill a pail with hot then cold water to comfort and cautioned of the slippery marble floor, conveyed without a common language.

The hammam had a few separate areas with differing grades of heat, neither too hot nor too cool. It was a place and time for women to relax unencumbered by the outside world. One could sit on a small stool or floor mat and the regulars came with their own brushes, loofahs, soaps, combs and cloths. I had thought to ask beforehand, so I had the basic necessities.The room was shared and the ambiance warm and communal, I watched the others and scooped the water from the pail with a cup guiding a cascade from the top of my head down along my body. The water fell in streams more soothing than a shower. They scrubbed, I scrubbed, they rinsed, I rinsed, they washed and combed their hair and I followed suit. The speech was low, ebbing and flowing, peaceful. I reveled in this privileged and tranquil domain. All was done slowly, there was no urgency in the motions and the cleaning was meticulous, thorough. For many this was a weekly visit, but for me I was hooked, and returned the next day.

In preparation for my college semester in Italy I enrolled in Italian 101. The teacher was a charming native and despite his dedication to the task, little of what he said sank in. Only out of his kindness, with perhaps a touch of pity, did I pass. I left for Italy knowing a few basic words and not much more. My high school experience studying Spanish had not been markedly different.

Most of the students upon arrival rented hotel rooms within the boundaries of the tiny medieval city. I wished for a more authentic experience and chose an option several kilometers out of town. It was an old farm house where an Italian student shared her apartment with one of my American classmates and me. I was immediately immersed into an Italian speaking world and rueful that I had not learned more. Fortunately my schedule included several hours of intensive language classes each day.

It took several weeks of frustration but soon the conversations in cafes, shops, and on the street were emerging from inchoate melodies into distinct sounds then distinct words. And my terse responses were becoming sentences and after a month or so the sentences were becoming complete thoughts. The farmhouse was too far from the center to walk, and buses were slow and infrequent, so the daily hitchhiking induced chitchat with the drivers and my responses to their questions were beginning to flow in a smooth patter. Within a few months I had Italian friends and began conversing freely, a feat I never could have imagined.

I meet people today who tell me that they are incapable of learning a foreign language. I always let them know that they are very likely mistaken.

As a child, the extent of my winter sports consisted of sliding down hills, ice-skating on occasion, and the requisite snow ball fights. No one I knew personally skied, and my only knowledge of the sport came from watching the Winter Olympics on TV.
While studying in Italy one winter some fellow students and I headed off to Bolzano, a town in the Italian Alps, not far from the Austrian border. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect location to ski. The sharp irregular peaked mountains ascended dramatically into the air and the sun competed with no cloud in the sky. The opportunity to take advantage of this magical environment was not lost on my companions and they indicated little desire to stay with me, a complete beginner. I made my way to do the best I could on my own. When I was asked what length skis I wanted, knowing only what I had picked up from afar, I lifted my arm straight up over my head(my only point of reference were the Olympic skiers) to make my desire clear. And there I was with the magnificent Alps before me with not a clue on how to get started. My attire consisted of jeans and a jacket, neither waterproof and if I managed to stay upright on these impossibly long and thin skis for more than a few seconds I do not recall. Getting a lesson never occurred to me; I’m not sure I even knew they existed. After many gallant attempts and then a few more, the sun lowered in the sky and now cold and wet from my ongoing contact with the snow, I claimed defeat. I left that day assuming skiing was a sport completely beyond my capabilities.

It wasn’t until many years later that a friend suggested I try again, but this time on very short skis. They were neither elegant nor sleek as the ones I had failed on, but they were skis I could maneuver and control. After a few lessons I was mastering the basic techniques and heading down hills on my own.

My very first time in Europe was as a student studying for a semester in Italy.
Our group landed in Rome and the following day our professors gave us a tour of this magnificent city. If I had had a guidebook, I am sure dozens and dozens of must-see monuments, sculptures, fountains, streets and churches could have been dutifully checked off on this day. We ran here, we ran there, we oohed and we ahhed…very quickly. But at the end of this day I felt oddly dissatisfied and unfulfilled. I had seen a great deal, but could recall very little of it. The sense of frenzy is what remained.

Seeking a different experience, I asked if I could forgo the second day’s group activities and was told no. Thus I feigned illness; I was “unfortunately too sick to go”. Knowing I had several hours of this new day ahead of me I wandered the streets, got lost-of course, sat at cafes sipping cappuccinos, watched the daily life pass in front of me, ate gelato and something for lunch I am sure, and revisited a few of the same sights I had seen the day before. This time I was setting the pace. I lingered, I paused, I strolled, I dallied, I absorbed the sights and sounds. Rome was emerging from the blur.

I have lived near the sea my entire life and never tire of its beauty. The life it attracts is in constant flux. I may see a fisherman or two, maybe three, who stand alone, silent, absorbed in their thoughts, waiting for a tug on their line, seemingly content either way. Perhaps a boat is sailing or a cargo ship is edging out of sight. Birds may be scurrying on the sand searching for food just below the surface or flying above and diving suddenly when fish are seen. Perhaps it is the sky that catches my eye for several moments. But it is the sea, the beautiful sea that captivates my mind and heart.

The first hours I ever spent in Paris were inside a bustling station after an all night voyage by train. It was during my college days and my budget was extremely limited. I knew just enough French to order a simple breakfast and shortly afterwards the waiter arrived with three or four warm croissants and a frothy, steaming cup of café au lait. The new sights and sounds enthralled me, but paled in comparison to the exquisite pleasure upon my tongue. I recall devouring all the croissants but hopefully refrained from licking the bottom of the cup.

When completely sated, I asked for the bill. After paying, a large percentage of my money for the entire day was spent. (It had not occurred to me to ask the prices beforehand.)

But when I think back to those croissants and café au lait, I almost taste them still.

During a road trip,  from San Francisco to Vancouver, I almost by-passed Mount St. Helens. This was about ten years after its catastrophic eruption and the event was not in the forefront of my mind.

But the Welcome Center beckoned and I drove in.

Even after a decade, the apocalyptic sights were in evidence. Acres and acres of barren earth bared trees stripped of living bark and leaves. The trunks seemed haphazardly arranged on inconceivable planes. What had been lakes were now dry beds. Colors were mostly muted, gray.

But the earth was beginning to heal.

Wildflowers were growing amongst the silver limbs of the fallen trees.

The Copper Canyon is actually a series of canyons in Mexico that can be visited by train. The tracks extend from Chihuahua to Los Mochis, and it takes about fifteen hours to complete the journey from end to end.  A number of years ago I traveled this rail and took several weeks exploring the area.

I visited the small towns and learned of their history. Fortunes had been lost and a few gained in pursuit of precious ore.

Since I had been raised on films in which all the cowboys talked and looked more or less like John Wayne, I wasn’t expecting to see men, south of the border, wearing cowboy hats, boots and spurs.  But this was horse country and in Chihuahua I quickly adjusted to the local ways.

One of the many highlights, was my stay at the Sierra Lodge in Cusarare. The lodge lacked electricity, but there was no lack of comfort. Kerosene lamps were adequate, a wood burning stove kept the room warm at night and the meals were delicious.

There were many marked footpaths in the surrounding area and a walk to the nearby falls and town could easily be followed. But hiking the mountains without a guide was ill-advised. I had the good fortune to hire a local man from the Tarahumara tribe, an indigenous people who are renowned for their ability to run great distances.  I was told he knew the paths as well as anyone around. We set out toward a distant river with continuous ascents for most of the day. There were exquisite views with every moment and our language barrier did not restrict us from communicating along the way.  After many hours of difficult terrain, I was relieved to know that after lunch, our return would be upon a well worn path, only a few kilometers away.  But we discovered that an unexpected flood made this option impossible and had to return on the same trail we came.

We set off again the following morning, to see a painted cave, but this time I made sure the round trip was only a fraction of the previous day’s.

It has been many years since I made my first solo journey to Mexico, but I remember certain moments well. Upon the advice of a friend I arrived in Merida, the capital of Yucatan.

While wandering about the city, I met another American and a Mexican couple. We quickly fell into an amiable rhythm and decided to go farther afield. We traveled a few hours by bus to what seemed like the middle of nowhere and located a cenote. The waters were of indescribable blues and the atmosphere was magical. We swam, sunned ourselves dry, ate lunch and continued on to a nature reserve for the night, planning to see flocks of flamingos at dawn.

Arriving quite late, we found the only accommodation, a small bungalow near the water’s edge. We entered to note enough hammocks for each of us and a double bed. I was intrigued by the hammock, as was my American friend. The Mexican couple, unwed, seemed content with the hammocks as well as hesitant to share a bed before their marital bond was official. We all wished each other a good night. Moments after the lights went out, I heard some movement, the rustling of sheets, and then a few murmurs. Two of the hammocks were now empty as my American friend and I settled into the lulling swing of our hanging beds.

The following morning the bed was made and no mention of the chaste breach was said.