Simple Pleasures

 

Yesterday morning (12 October), I slipped (or partially collapsed, depending on your perspective) into the driver's seat of our 2015 Toyota Sienna and began the long drive to Clearwater, Florida from Whidbey Island in Western Washington State.  

While I have made this drive many times in a minivan loaded with (too?) much stuff and (too?) many animals, it never ceases to amaze me that the endless to-do list that accompanies closing up one house and departing for another actually comes to an end.  And here I was.  The October 2024 departure had begun. We were headed to Pinellas County, Florida, so recently traumatized by Hurricanes Helene and Milton (technically Milton was a Him-icane, but I don’t think these storms care much about pronouns).   

Accompanied by a bout of unseasonably warm and beautiful weather, my sister and I drove down the road and meandered onto the Whidbey Island ferry, headed to the mainland.  After a plethora of traffic lights, we merged onto one of the crowded commuter routes toward Seattle and headed eastward onto Interstate 90 away from Seattle and over the Cascade Mountains via Snoqualmie Pass.  The weather begged us to make a stop to gawk at 268-foot Snoqualmie Falls so we obliged, not feeling particularly hurried on the first day of the drive. 

Unfortunately, in a fit of weather-induced optimism, I had the misguided thought that I could take Willow (our rescue dog) through a weekend throng of tourists to see the Falls and all would turn out OK.  My (misplaced) optimism didn't last long as Willow became increasingly nervous with one car after another, one person after another, and one dog after another.   Not surprisingly, the “stroll” ended when she completely freaked out and made an almost successful attempt to slip out of her collar and disappear into the wilderness, never to be seen again.  

With the simple pleasure of viewing the Falls at length successfully submarined, we returned to Interstate 90 and headed east once again. Crowds of many living beings and a reactive dog -- bad combination.   Lesson learned.  

Moving east brought us across the desert-like landscape of Eastern Washington and just over the state line to Post Falls, Idaho for our first night on the road.  The very friendly desk clerk informed us that an entire marching band was joining us for the evening at the Post Falls Sleep Inn and that commotion and chaos were to be expected.  

Whew. The simple pleasure of a peaceful evening had been successfully averted.  Who needs peace and quiet anyway?

After a decent but short night’s sleep, I reluctantly rolled out of a strange but warm and comfortable bed, put a collar and leash on Willow, and headed out for a morning walk.  I was delighted to see that in front of the Inn was an abandoned railroad track that had been converted into a long, wide, comfortable trail for walking. The possibility of peace and quiet loomed in front of me. I looked both ways on the trail, saw no one, and struck out to the east in search of the simple pleasures abounding in the beautiful Sunday morning.  

It was chilly enough to wear a heavy jacket, but not so much that my exposed hands, eyes, or ears had anything to say in protest.  The gentle chill allowed me to wake up and return to the land of the living slowly without any of the (many) things that annoyed night owls in the early morning.  

On both sides of the trail, two-foot tall grass had gone dormant and straw-like in the drought conditions of the Western summer.  The swatches swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze as there were no cares in the world. It’s a good thing that grass can’t read a news feed, lest their bliss be interrupted with the grim realities of the modern world. 

In the distance, the mountains and their many resident conifers rested, seeming to take a deep breath in their last meditation before the snows arrived and smothered them with blankets of winter white.  

As I gradually returned to the land of the living while breathing the crisp chilly air, I relished these moments of being along and relaxed. Not only because they had been largely lacking over the past month in the chaos of getting ready, but also because the simplicity of the moment pushed the complexities of the world away for just a little while.  

Usually a bundle of spirited and zig-zagging energy, Willow also seemed to sense the simple pleasures of the quiet morning.  She seemed to have little to no interest in pulling my shoulder out of its socket.  I thought for certain that our peace would be broken when she spotted two horses in a nearby pasture.  But no manic bark fest ensued (presumably because she couldn’t figure out what to do with these large, never-before seen creatures). We continued in our walk, uninterrupted.   

For almost a half an hour, the morning embraced us as we walked easily down the trail.  I reluctantly turned back only when I spotted a deer in the distance before Willow and her eagle eyes did the same.  We would have pulled off an equally enjoyable return trip if it had not been for the two pit bulls gone crazy over the sight of Willow.  This included one of the two dogs pulling out of its collar in an effort to have a close encounter of undetermined consequence with Willow.  Fortunately, the brain cells in Willow's head over-rode her crazy dog self (an infrequent occurrence), and we escaped the pit bulls (and their angry owner) without any bites, blood, or unexpected visits to the vet.   

Nevertheless,

Just thirty minutes.  Just a basic urban trail. Just an ordinary day.   

Just simple pleasures.  

Just exactly what I needed.   

The Childless Dog Lady

After a long day away from home, I open the front door, weary and weighted down.  It is so very easy for the world outside my home to have that effect on me, and I am always grateful for the blessing of closing both the  garage door at the end of the day and closing the metaphorical door of another long day in the crazy, chaotic world out there. 

Today, as with many other previous days, I am greeted at the front door by two rather large mixed breed coonhounds and a flurry of activity topped off by eagerly wagging tails. Whether the tail was wagging the dog or the dog was wagging the tail is totally irrelevant. All I can see in front of me is a happiness so full and innocent that I can't help but smile and feel the hard day behind me start to melt away into the past.   

As I bend down to pet the two happy heads, I ask both of them whether they are happy to see me... the  childless dog lady.  While I see a brief quizzical look pass across their faces, their expressions quickly return to the wildly enthusiastic "She's home, She's home" mode.  Their unbridled happiness tells its own story.  They could care less if I am childless not by choice or childless by choice. I am their cat's meow. Pure and simple.   

As the internet continues to churn on J.D. Vance's negative views of childless women, I've had plenty of opportunity to reflect on my own childlessness.  While it wasn't my choice to come home to two delightful coonhounds and the pitter patter of four paws rather than two feet, I have found peace in my alternative life.   While some seem to think that the childless among us bring home dogs to try (pathetically, unsuccessfully, or otherwise) to fill the hole left by the absence of children, I can confidently say that Willow and Lazer are not caulk on the seams of my broken heart.  

I didn't bring them home to serve me, but for me to serve them. Adopting rescue dogs most of my life has come from a sincere desire to make a  small dent in the immense population of  homeless and unwanted dogs in the U.S., a result of over-breeding, accidental breeding, and a culture that seems to think that custom-made pets should be a thing.   

Mixed breeds are always an adventure, a mystery bag that unfolds year over year into a combination of challenges, chuckles, and cheer that no one could have ever custom-designed from scratch.  So, in our home where the inhabitants make up a group of hearts, minds, and souls that seem far away from the mainstream nuclear family, we have nevertheless found the warmth, safety, and closeness of family.  Stitched together, one paw at at time.  

On days that I can shut out the voices of what I should be doing and should have done with my life, I am content and happy.  Due in no small part to those crazy coonhounds running around the house. 

 

Barcelona-- a Summary

I am grateful for the opportunity to spend time in this lovely city.  The photos are worth a thousand words or more, so I'll let them do the talking:

https://youtu.be/C70fXeSAV9E

Ending in a Happy Place

While I was tempted to spend our last full day in Barcelona traveling to the Montserrat Monastery northwest of the city that was justifiably reputed to be beautiful, stunning, and therefore not to be missed, the long journey by bus, train, and some other mode of public transportation was too daunting for me, my traveling companion, and my multitude of blooming bedbug bites.  

Instead, I opted to be a horrible tourist and forgo Montserrat for something as ridiculous and unnecessary as rest and sleep.  And it therefore came to pass that we ended our vacation in Barcelona the same way we started it... with excellent food and a walk along the Iberian sea:

Castelldelfels ("castle of the sea") gave us a stunningly beautiful day, devoid of any white or wet stuff in the sky, replaced with a long, long stretch of sunshine and almost deserted beach.  The weather was sufficiently warm and comfortable and the beach sand smooth enough for me to exit reality and enter la-la land for quite a while. I stopped to pick up some beach glass and shells along the way, feeling a wee bit as if I were in a Spanish version of Florida.  Albeit without obnoxious seagulls to disrupt my peace.  

It was hard not to think of the weeks ahead -- the long flight back, the scramble to pack up, the long drive back to Washington, and the grind that spring quarter would inevitably become at work.

But, for the moment, there was no grind, no exhaustion, no frustration... just my reliable happy place, merrily at work, filling my spirit with all the good stuff that it would need as I travelled back to reality in the U.S.  

Adiós Barcelona. Hope to see you again!

Parc Guell in Barcelona Remix

My first visit to Parc Güell in Barcelona was short. The day was cloudy and chilly. There was stress in the air because some very rude person had just stolen my friend's wallet out of her backpack while we hiked up the hill to the Parc.  After an hour plus of wrangling with the credit card companies to ensure that the damage was limited to some cash and the more important emotional hit of being robbed and violated, there wasn't much emotion left to appreciate Parc Güell.  Hence my first impression of another of Gaudi's masterpieces was more along the lines of Willy Wonka's vacation factory in Barcelona than a true appreciation of the masterful skill, vision, and determination that went into crafting the park. 

All those curves and lack of right angles still make me think of Disney, Willy, Pixar, and all their cousins.  But, I didn't see Mickey or Minnie anywhere on the grounds, so I suspect that there is more to it than that.   And if I had managed to take an art class or two in college and paid attention, I likely would have had more intelligent and informed things to say about the lovely Parc Güell.   

The fact that I could visit the Parc, sit on a rock bench, and feel that I was alone among thousands of visitors, most of whom were making tourist noises, was impressive. The way the benches were designed provided silence in the middle of a crowd, an opportunity to be still and absorb the sun, the trees, and of course, the aesthetic of it all. 

The combination of art and skillful architecture at an expanse and level that is the Parc was enough to make me ponder it long after I had left and long after I had forgotten the throng of tourists that accompanied our visit. 

674 Steps

After visiting the National Museum in Barcelona, I was eager to be outdoors again, despite the wind and chill that permeated the late winter day.  

The panoramic view of the city just outside the doors of the museum was certainly breathtaking, but unfortunately, the lack of green space in the city irritated almost every one of my tree hugger nerves:

A little footnote from tree hugger land -- the World Health Organization recommends that in any city, every residence should be 300 meters or less from an urban park.  In Barcelona proper, only 33% of residences have such access to green spaces.  While it is easy to think that plentiful green space is a nicety for the outdoorsy types of the world (good for the mood but little else), green space is necessary to avoid the heat island effect that has cities warming much more rapidly than rural areas and bringing various miseries and climate instabilities with it.  

But, I digress.

The National Museum sits near the foot of Montjuic (meaning "Jewish mountain" because it houses the remains of a medieval Jewish cemetery) which Wikipedia tells me is "... a broad shallow hill with a relatively flat top overlooking the harbour, to the southwest of the city centre."  Buying into the idea that Montjuic was merely a hill and not a mountain of any sort, I ventured uphill and after a few twists and turns that left me little idea how to get back to where I started, I encountered stairs.  Curious to see the flat top and the Castle of Montjuic that stands upon it, I started climbing up stairs set into the shallow side of the hill.  I thought that surely a hill of a mere 184 meters could not host very many stairs. I would be at the summit in no time, enjoy the view of the harbour from the steep side of Montjuic and then amble back down, to reconnect with my traveling companion and friend.   Right?

Wrong.

As with all hikes headed toward a summit or a view, there comes a point when a paricularly stubborn form of  stubbornness sets in and no way would I give up and turn back before reaching the top. Those wicked stairs ...they just seemed to keep on going and going and going.  So much so, that when I finally caught my breath and descended along those very same steps (much to the dismay of my aging knees), I counted them to see if my breathlessness at the top was just about age or something else.   

By my total count, plus or minus a few steps here and there, I had ascended over 500 stair steps.  Just a few more and I would have simulated a visit to the Eiffel Tower with the 674 steps it allows tourists to climb according to their preference. 

The view at the top of Montjuic was breathtaking but also left little doubt about why this particular location was chosen to defend the city over countless centuries of the past:

By the time I reached the bottom of the hill again (which took far longer than I thought thanks to my talent for wandering and getting lost), my feet and knees were telling me that perhaps I should have opted for the cable car route up the hill.  

I ignored them, of course.  

Glorious Food!

I think the most difficult decision I will need to make about visiting Barcelona is deciding on my favorite food dish.  Even the mediocre food was good. Whatever shall I do? How can I make such an impossible choice? At least I am certain about what's at the bottom of the yummy list... that would definitely be airline food.  Blech. 

Apologies for sounding like a spoiled American there.

Prior to this trip, I had been doing a reasonable job of not overeating ... avoiding "pleasure eating" as it's now called.  I certainly blew that good habit right out of the water in just eight short days in Spain. Eating yummy food releases dopamine ... so I've rationalized eating way too much as a better choice for getting a dopamine fix compared to staring at my phone incessantly.

I choose food! Maybe it was the awesomely grilled octopus tapa that was the best:

Or maybe it was the sweet Sangria that offset the salty octopus ... yes, you guessed it. Just Right

Octopus won out over the calamari, but only because it was a little chilly while dining on the calamari:

And then there was every sweet known to humankind sold at La Boqueria market in the Gothic quarter:

La Boqueria put Pike Place market to shame.  And, much as I love the St. Petersburg farmer's market, the produce at La Boqueria looked so fresh and good that I almost violated U.S. customs regulation to bring a bag full back into the U.S.

I guess I could have eaten it all while being detained....

In retrospect, awesome food is not to be underestimated. It makes memories of the trip stick so much better. Taste and smell are the only senses linked to emotional memory in the brain.  I imagine that my brain is going to be recounting and reliving the many culinary pleasures of Barcelona for years to come.   

More food.. click here. But, be forewarned.  You may spontaneously board a flight to Spain as a result of your viewing.