Nesting-Just A Little Bit

Knickknacks, doodads, mementos, comforts…baggage. Call it what you will, we all have it. Some, like me, have more of it than most. I’m notorious for toting around extra baggage. (Yes, Doc, and all that may imply.)  If you doubt it, consider this, I’ve just returned home (after, in my defense, what anyone would call a lengthy trip) with 2 checked duffels, 2 checked boxes, 2 carry-ons and my huge purse. (Of course I had to pay for extra baggage.) And the first thing I did when I arrived home was wander around looking at all my stuff. A few weeks ago, I had occasion to experience a few days of life without stuff. We finally took possession of our new home in Westhampton Beach. A home that although we had to chip off a large part of our rock for, we have not seen for more than 1 hour, tops, in the 6 months it took us to buy. A home for which, although we will now doll out monthly payments, we don’t expect to see for at least 6 more months.

Since I was in the neighborhood and homeless for a week, I decided to mosey out to Westhampton Beach and get a feel for the place. Wander around the grounds at leisure. Snoop in the attic and cupboards. Try out the plumbing. In short, to assert squatter’s right. So, I tossed my baggage into the back of a rental car and headed down from New York.

My friend, Katie drove with me.

On the way, we stopped at Target to power shop--stock up on necessaries: aka  "stuff". Curtis and I had bought a bed from the previous owner. Katie and I bought stuff - bedding, towels, a lamp, picnic dishes and breakfast food -  to go with it.

William Morris is credited with having said “Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Add "comfy" to that list. And with regards to packing, substitute “luggage” for “homes.”

Beauty being in the eye of the beholder, this adage can be stretch to justify about anything.

A few days into the week, after Katie had gone, all alone in that big empty house with the wind blowing outside and rain coming down sideways, I was struck with a bone-deep need for something sweet. I rummaged around inside my baggage and finally unearthed a Cup of Gold from the Dollar Store. Who knows how old, torn, crumpled wrapper, lint, and all, it looked more like a cow pie than a treat. But dang if that nutty chocolate mallow-centered cup wasn’t beautiful and useful.

That’s the thing of it: you can never be sure that something won’t come in handy someday…

2 Lies, 1 Truth, and a Dare from an April Fool

2 Lies and I Truth: 1.  It’s bright and sunny in NYC today

2.  I’m watching Kathie Lee and Hoda

3.  I’m working on a brilliant new story so don’t bother me

Truth and confession: I’m watching Kathie Lee and Hoda. My defense is the 2 lies. When I planned this trip to NYC, I fully expected spring to have sprung, instead it’s grey, cold, and …. Anyway, and it’s really not my fault that I’m watching morning TV. I’d never turn it on myself…honest. It’s Lexi’s fault. She left the TV on when she went to work and I am now hooked into morning shows. Morning TV is not really the time suck some say it is, either. It’s informative. So far I’ve watched Prince William and his grannie, the Queen, tour his Sea Rescue Station; learned there are only 28 days to the Royal Wedding and that William is not planning to wear a ring; watched 3 “spring” recipes being prepared—poached sea bass, tomato basil pasta and strawberry shortcake (which woke my tummy and sent me looking for food, which led to my finding the new jar of organic peanut butter, which I stirred during the next 30 minutes of programing-thus making productive use of my TV time) ; and watched a teen boy invite girl to the prom by whooing her with this sure-fire entreatment: “Um, yeah, Brit-Crystal-Tiff, get down here.”

As is so often the case, in the midst of all the fun and foolishness, I heard something that just might make the difference. Hoda and Kathie Lee dubbed this: Try-day Friday.

Try Day Friday. It has a nice ring to it. It got my pea brain humming. Got me searching for the remote control. Got me to put down the spoon and pick up my laptop.

Why not set Friday aside as a day to Try? Try something new. Try something scary. Try—without worrying about being silly or stupid or foolish or wrong. And what better day to try something than April 1st, 2011, the officially designated day of foolishness.

Call me an April Fool, but…I’m designating this my first official Try-Day!

Join me…If you dare…

YOUR MOMMY WAS JUST LIKE YOU has arrived!

My new picture book, YOUR MOMMY WAS JUST LIKE YOU, illustrated by David Walker is here! The companion to last year's YOUR DADDY WAS JUST LIKE YOU. This one's for you Lexi!

Cape Argus Pick-N-Pay Cycle Tour

Feeling has returned to my left palm and I can finally sit again, without pain, so, a few days late, I’m writing about the big race. In case you are wondering how it turned out, forgive me for making you wait. The night before the big race, as dedicated cyclists do, we gorged on pasta. Adrenalin levels were high at our table of 9. Six of us because we were riding the next day: 3 (excited): Charles, his brother Dave & son Vaughan (veterans of the race); 3 (nervous) Caitlin, Charles and Shona’s daughter, a first-timer along with Curtis and me.  During dinner, Shona (The best spectator, cheering section, supporter in the whole world), her sis-in-law, Les, and Caitlin’s roomie and family friend, Claire, the rooting section, plotted where they’d watch us from and how they’d get there.

Claire made a sign cheering us on.

Before dawn we lined up with our group for the start. Charles and his cousin, Donald, pros (especially after their recent 1700 km ride) were in an earlier group. Vaughn, being local, started an hour later. The rest of us were in the International Group with start times of 7:47 for the AA Group and 7:51 for the BB Group. Dave and I were in the AA group but decided to ride in the BB Group with everyone else: Caitlin, Dave, Dave and Charles’ cousin Robert and his dad, John (76 years old) and Curtis.

Spirits were high at the start line. While waiting, riders chatted and lined-up at the Porta-potty for “nervous pees”.

Up ahead we could hear music and cheering for performing flag girls, etc. But we couldn’t see them. All we could see was the giant sign and a sea of bikes and backs.

At the Starting Gun Shot, we expected the crowd to shoot forward—but no one moved. Cycles in mass do not zoom out the way horses or cars do. We stood there, waiting for the crowd in front to begin cycling.

A kilometer later I crossed the start line. The pedals worked, the crowd spread out. As we rode over the timing mattes, Caitlin and I exchanged grins. We had done it! We were riding in the Argus—the largest individually timed cycle race in the WORLD!!!!

Five minutes later—maybe less—we started on our 1st uphill. A long, steady incline up and over the highway overpass. I hated Charles just then. Hated him for suggesting we ride. Hated him for making it sound like fun! It will be over “just now” I told myself, pushing hard on the pedals. “Just now” is a misleading South African term. “Just now” can either mean a little earlier (little being anything from days before to hours or minutes before) or it can mean a little later (as in minutes, hours or days from now.) “Just now” never means now, this minute, as everyone else in the English speaking world would assume, South Africans say “Now now” for that. As in, I’ll get on with my story now now…

When Charles was riding the charity ride, he told us they began every day by saying, “this is a ride, not a race.” The Argus is a race and everyone we knew was riding it that way. That’s how we started out, too. But after that first long, horrid uphill, while coasting down on the glorious downhill. I fought the urge to pedal, the way everyone around me was doing and enjoy. I was not going to race.

So, I stopped to take photos of the magnificent route.

I stopped to photograph other cyclists. Especially those in costume.

I stopped to photograph the first-aid tent. Two guys with matching injuries sharing stories.

The oldest cyclist in the race, Japie Malan (91), fell on a steep downhill after Chapman’s Peak, and had to be immobilized and helicoptered out. (He’s in the hospital now and doing well.) I stopped for a neck and lower back massage. I expected my legs to hurt. But no, pedaling wasn’t the problem; neither was breathing. I could have pedaled a hundred kilometers more but… What I wasn’t used to was bending over handle bars, clutching the handlebars. And keeping my feet in the stirrups (the little toe on my right foot kept cramping…go figure???)

I stopped to refill my water bottles, to sample BarOne Candy Bars (2 of them), to potty (I won’t show that photo).

I took lots of drive-by photos of the crowds lining the race route. One section before the next to the last hill of the race was lined with pink “breast cancer awareness” balloons and pink-shirted spectators. Families picnicked along the road, barbecuing, toasting, cheering and clapping, with signs and banners, chants and encouragement.

I had a grand time photographing the crowds— and they loved seeing me photographing them—but photo-wise it wasn’t good. Lesson learned: trying to take one-handed photos while pedaling and bumping along the road results in fuzzy photos.

One drive-through photo turned out brilliantly: THE FINISH LINE! I rode in 6 hours and 29 minutes, 111 kilometers after the start!

Curtis rode in an hour later! We were all waiting to cheer him in! We did it!

Would we ride the Argus again?

Curtis didn’t say “no” he said… “Hell, no.”

Easy as Riding A Bike

Whoever coined the phrase "Easy as Riding A Bike" must have been talking about a vintage bike with one speed, a banana seat, basket and a bell.. Friday we registered for The Cape Argus Pick n Pay Cycle Tour--109 kilometers along the South African Cape--the largest individually timed cycle race in the world-the race. Pretending more than 6 years hasn't passed since our last bike ride, Curtis and I sauntered up to the registration counter to claim our race numbers: I'm in the AA Group: start time 7:47 am; Curtis is in the BB group, starting at 7:52.

After collecting our race packets, we toured the Cycling Expo where, along with thousands of other entrants, we bought bike pants, gloves, socks, energy drinks, gels & candies. (Charles made us.) Just touring the exhibits was so exhausting we had to stop for snacks...

Today, we took our bikes for a test spin….in my case a wobble. I tried to ride my bike out of the B&B courtyard, swerved, freaked and ran into a drain pipe. “Walk it out,” Curtis called. As if I hadn’t figured it out.

Riding a strange bike is hard enough…after so many years, I’d forgotten how to switch gears (not that I have ever been very good at it.) Do I push in the little lever on the left to switch to the big wheels? Or the big lever on the left? Is left back and right front gear—or the other way around? And which lever controls which break?

The hand signals are easy enough to remember (nice to know some lessons stick.) But one thing I didn’t reckon on is the roads. In the midst of all that shifting and gearing and signaling and turning, I have to keep to the right side of the road—which in South Africa is actually the left side…I think?

Our test drive was 4.52 kilometers long and lasted 27 minutes—which gave me an average speed of 10.3 kilometers an hour. Considering the Argus is 109 kilometers long, if all goes well, I can expect to finish in…about 10 hours. They start scooping people up and ferrying them in support vans after 7 hours…I’d better do something to improve.

Less than 12 hours to start time and I am as ready for the race as I’ll ever be…

Filling My Well in S. A. so call me “Joe Friday”

Whenever someone learns I’m a writer living in Indonesia, they inevitably remark about the fabulous stories I must be writing about my adventures, or how inspiration it must be. To which I usually respond, “Someday,” which in Bahasa Indonesia would be the catch all word for “not yet, belum. For me fiction is reflective. Fiction comes with time: from the past, memories, from what remains. Non-fiction is immediate. Although good non-fiction, too, takes time, time to reflect, draw conclusions and get a distance away so as to see larger pictures.

When I was not writing because life interrupted, my friend Dick called it “filling my writer’s well.” Hearing that always made me feel better, and more importantly, gave me hope that the writing would come.

Presently, I’m filling my writer’s well in South Africa….

Never in a zillion “what ifs” did I ever imagine I’d be writing that—In South Africa—let alone living it! And because I’m loving filling my well and don’t want to stop for a moment. I’m going to pull a Joe Friday and “stick to the facts, Ma’am.”

Fact: Curtis and I flew from Jakarta to Johannesburg Thursday, arrived Friday afternoon.

Fact: We are here visiting our friends Shona and Charles Mason, South Africans living in Jakarta. Good friends, who enticed us to come for holiday.

Fact: Charles, his 2 cousins, and a group of 8 others have been, for the past 14 days cycling through South Africa on a charity ride—when they finish they will have cycled 1700 km and raised thousands for charities. Each day they ride to a designated spot—most days well over 100 km— and present a check to a local charity. The amount they raise is matched by ENGEN Petrol Company. Today is the last day of that challenging (to say the least) ride. Charles has been blogging his ride. Check it out: Charles Big Ride SA Ride:

Fact: The main reason we are in South Africa at this particular time is that we have signed up to Ride THE ARGUS, a 109 km bike ride along the wild, spectacular coastline of the Cape of South Africa.

Fact: 35,000-40,000 people will ride THE ARGUS, the largest individually timed race/ride in the world!

Fact: I have not even been on the seat of a bike in at least five, (5) years.

Fact: It is very very windy today and I have heard stories of what the wind does....blows bikes off the road...blows bikers into each other.

Fact: The delivered our rented bikes and helmets today and I am very very nervous.

Two Fish in the Same Pond…Finally!

….Fish lovers that is. Specifically Norman the Fish lovers me and Noah Z. Jones the Amazing, who illustrated Not Norman, A Goldfish Story. We met up for the 1st time at St. George’s Pre-school in La Canada, California on Wednesday. How? In some wonderful cosmic collision Rebecca Grose, of SoCal Public Relations,

just happened to reach out to Flintridge Books in La Canada when she was scheduling events to celebrate my new picture book, Your Mommy Was Just Like You, and, fellow Vermont College grad Catherine Linka

just happens to be the Children’s Book Buyer for Flintridge Books (which is now is a brand spankin’ new, bigger and better location right on the corner of Foothill and Angeles Crest)

, and Noah’s son Eli just happens to be attend pre-school at St. Georges—what are the chances of that!

Noah, who is quite famous and successful nowadays as creator of the Disney animated series, Fish Hooks took time that morning to pop over to St. George’s for a visit. What a surprise! What a treat! Noah is just as silly and fun and clever in real live as I imagined him to be when he brought to life our funny flippin’ and floppin’ fish character Norman!

Noah and I had never met. Never even talked on the phone before. Never even e-mailed until after Not Norman was released in 2005. (Which is pretty normal in the picture book creating process.) Still, it is kind of weird if you think about it….wouldn’t it make sense for the illustrator and author to chat? Or meet? But that’s not how it’s usually done. The idea is that the author might muck up the illustrator’s creative process by imposing his or her vision over the artist’s. I must admit, judging by the wonderful, surprising art in picture books—especially mine!—the system works!

Our editor, Sarah,  kept telling me how much fun Noah was and how nice Noah was and and and…and finally I got to see for myself! Noah brought his easel, giant paper and markers along when he came to surprise me. And so together we entertained the preschoolers with the story of how Not Norman came to life. For a few hours on Wednesday it was the Noah and Kelly Show: while I talked and read, Noah drew silly, funny sketches. The kid’s heads were bobbing back and forth faster than fans at Wimbledon!

Noah and I had a blast! We’re hoping this is the beginning of more fishy fun! (Hint, hint, Sarah...)

Mis-Connection

I’m writing from the Singapore Airlines lounge in Singapore where I’m sitting, enjoying a snack, and taking it easy for the first time in days. You know how it is before a big trip? All the planning. The packing. The worrying over what needs to get done before the trip, for the trip? It can make you crazy… This is the only excuse I have for racing into Jakarta’s lux megamall, Grand Indonesia, a couple of days ago, without my PHONE.  (Don’t laugh. I know what you’re thinking: Big deal, will it hurt to go a few hours without being connected via phone?)

Not having my phone wouldn’t have bothered me one little bit—if it weren’t for Aan. I don’t drive in Jakarta, Aan does. Over the years, he and I have developed an efficient drop-off/pick-up system. It works like this: Aan drives me to a mall or shop entrance. We both note the place and agree where we will meet up. Then Aan drives off and I go about my business. When I’m finished with whatever I’m doing, I give him a call and he picks me up. Simple—except if I forget my phone…

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my phone until I was ready to go and began digging around in my humongous purse for it. I knew instantly it was In the car. I’d been checking my e-mail as we drove and must have left it on the seat. My only hope was that someone called me and Aan heard the phone ring and realized I’d left it. Or, that he’d spotted it on my seat. If not, he’d never realize I was phoneless and come looking. Instead he would sit wherever he was, waiting and waiting and waiting for my call.

I scurried back to our appointed meeting place and looked around. No familiar, most common of all-silver mini-vans hanging about. Might he be inside watching for me?. If he realized I didn’t have my phone, he might come inside to wait an watch for me. It was air-conditioned… Alas, there was nary a a slight, big-eyed, spikey-haired Aan in sight.

Not everyone in Jakarta uses our system. Some use the tried and true Car Call method. Established long before hand phones became common, Car Call is exactly that. When a patron is ready to be picked up, he or she goes to the Car Call desk and tells the attendant the driver’s name and place of employment. For instance, if I were to call Aan, I would say. “Aan, dari BP” (“dari” means from or with) and the attendant calls that out over the loud speakers, which sounds in the garage, and soon he’d drive up to fetch me.

Unfortunately, using the Car Call is not our system. It’s not many drivers favorite system as it means the driver has to park in the garage, within ear shot of the speakers. He can’t eat, or smoke, or hang with friends. And worse, he might have to stay in the dreaded underground garage. Dreaded because several Jakarta hotel bombings ago, drivers were trapped underground in a garage. Aan does not like those cursed garages.

I tried Car Call anyway, hoping, with little hope, that Grand Indonesian was one of those places where Aan likes to park near the speakers. And I waited.

I tried Car Call again. And I waited…and waited.

And while I waited, I didn’t just wait, I came up with a plan. I could ask someone to borrow his or her phone and call Curtis at work and ask him to call Aan. Or I could call Rusnati at home and ask her to call Aan. Or, if I knew Aan’s number, I could call him myself.

I was mustering up enough words to ask one of the mall employees if I could use  precious phone minutes for an emergency (how do you say "emergency" in Bahasa Indonesia?And should I pretend to be sick or dying) our lovely, silver mini-van drove up. Yeah, Aan!

The van door was barely closed behind me when Aan started in on how I had forgotten my phone. How it had rung almost as soon as I’d left. How he had been back and forth looking for me, worrying about me... How he had gone into the mall asking employees if they had seen a tall, hair-less white lady in tan pants wandering around…How he'd given the Car Call attendant my description and told them to call me if they saw someone fitting my description. (I’m sure if he’d had a photo he would have shown around it ala every cop program ever aired, or made copies and posted them.)  It was a though I were a teen, being lectured by my adult. Blah, blah, blah….

Back home, Aan did the most “Dad” thing of all. He handed me a small piece of paper torn from his notebook. “Keep this in your purse,” he instructed. On the paper, in tiny, tidy letters, were written his name and phone number.

I felt like a kid, a silly kid, true. But also like a well-cared for kid.

I promise, Dad/Aan, I’ll never leave home without it!