Mary's Tired Feet in the Time of Trump

You think it's tough being a progressive liberal in the time of Trump, try being a Jew under Roman occupation a couple of thousand years ago.

Mary was just a teenager, finding herself pregnant and attached to Joseph who was probably just as bewildered as she was. As if that weren't enough, they had to walk - WALK - from Nazareth to Bethlehem to take part in a census. They didn't have cars in those days, or buses. The mythology presumes they had a donkey, but there is no scriptural evidence of that. Even if they did, one donkey for two people, one of whom was pregnant, wasn't going to speed things up much. As part of an occupied people, they didn't have any choice in the matter. They had to go.

We always see the beautiful creche, so lovely and serene, with angels floating above, gentle farm animals laying about (again, no scriptural basis, except for sheep, which can be inferred by the presence of the shepherds). We don't think much about the walk. The dusty, sweaty walk to Bethlehem and how dirty their feet must have been, and how tired and sore those feet were. Much is made of foot washing in the Gospel. That is why. When you walk everywhere in sandals on dusty unpaved roads, your feet get pretty dirty. Add to that a late term pregnancy. Can you imagine the misery?

And then, to reach your destination only to find that there are no vacancies at any of the inns. Wouldn't that just about push you over the limit?

The storytellers who passed the Gospels down first orally, then in writing, must have glossed over it a bit. After all, this was about the birth of Jesus Christ. It would be unseemly to portray Mary as exhausted and Joseph as grouchy. But if there's any truth to the story, you know they were at the end of their rope when they reached Bethlehem and thought they couldn't go on, only they had to. It had to be a relief to finally be able to take shelter in nothing more than a stupid barn.

I don't know much about childbirth, but I'm sure a barn is less than ideal.

Veneration of Christ as the divine Messiah is all well and good, but the point of the Christmas story is to show that Jesus was born as a person sent by God to live among regular human beings so that we could relate to him, and he to us. If Jesus's mother could have dirty tired feet, if she could be exhausted and even grouchy, then I can relate to that.

Jesus didn't grow up in a royal household, surrounded by privilege and luxury. He probably lived a middle class life at best, educated and cared for, but hardly spoiled. We don't know a lot about his early life, but his parents weren't rich. They most likely worked hard, lost their patience occasionally, but did the best they could.

There were always the Romans to deal with. Those oppressors who would eventually arrest and execute Jesus, who would himself suffer exhaustion, pain, and even death at their hands.

I don't care whether the story is literally true. It's a great story. It inspires me, as it has others for many hundreds of years, to try to keep our own exhaustion, our dirty feet, our pain, our perseverance, and even our deaths, in perspective.

Because it doesn't end there. Jesus's life and death, his exhaustion, his parents' dirty feet, his sacrifice meant something. It reminds us that human though we are, as Jesus was sent as God to live among us, we are made in the image of God to live among each other. He brought, and brings, hope, healing, and love to a broken, suffering world. We are meant to do the same.

I am depressed about what is happening in the world today. To keep from falling into utter hopelessness this week, I'm meditating on Mary's tired feet. How she must have wondered if she could continue. But she carried hope, healing, and love within her. She had to go on.

The 50s Aint What They Used to Be

I just found out Patrick Dempsey is 50.  You might know him as Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy. He's the very definition of hot.

John Stamos and Rob Lowe are in their 50s. So is David Duchovny. Hot, hot, and hot.

Yes, there are well known sexy women in their 50s too, but I don't think about them as much. Ok, I am very close in age to Sarah Jessica Parker and when I reflect on which one of the Sex in the City characters I am, I believe myself to be a Carrie. Or possibly an Amanda.

50 doesn't look like it used to. Lew Parker, who played Marlo Thomas's father on the 1960s sit com, That Girl, was only 50 towards the end of that series. I would have put him at least at 65. Ed Asner, who played Lou Grant on the 1970s sit com, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, was only in his 40s at the time. I'd have guessed him at about 60.

I guess men didn't age as well back then. But they had to grow up faster than we did. They'd been through the Great Depression and World War II. They smoked more. They drank martinis at lunch. They didn't exercise. They wore black socks with everything.

Why is this on my mind? Because my birthday is this month. I will be 54.

I'm not saying I'm as hot as Patrick, John, or Rob, but they project good images to which one might aspire. Like, if I really tried, I COULD look as good as they do.

So am I more of a Rob Lowe or a Lew Parker?

On one hand, I show definite signs of age. I've been bald on top for quite some time. Gray hair is finally showing up around the edges. I sometimes groan when I rise from the couch. I have to hold my prescription bottles further away from my eyes in order to read them. I prefer the radio station that plays good music - from the 1980s. I listen to the radio.

On the other hand, many things that were true about me in my 20s are still true today. I wear shorts whenever I can get away with it. When I have to dress up I wear jeans. I don't own a suit. I never iron anything. I put off haircuts until I'm really shaggy. When I listen to music alone in the car (admittedly mostly 80s music), I turn the volume way up and sing along as loud as I can (when Like a Prayer comes on, I nearly drive off the road). I still don't know for sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I suppose around the mid-21st century, if the birthdays keep coming, millennial relatives who care enough to visit will find me confined to a rocking chair, blind as a bat, but still wearing shorts and listening to Madonna.

Apologies to Susan Stamberg - My Cranberry Sauce is Simpler

I wonder if Susan Stamberg's colleagues at National Public Radio ever get tired of hearing about her mother-in-law's cranberry relish every Thanksgiving. I guess it's a charming annual tradition: "Here comes dear old Aunt Susan again, insisting that everyone try her cranberry relish ..." It's probably pretty good, but even if it's not, you say it is because you don't want to hurt her feelings.

I have my own traditional way of serving cranberries at Thanksgiving.

Cranberry sauce. Chilled, right out of the can. No fuss, no muss. No pickled anything. If you want to put some effort into it, you can cut the perfect can shaped masterpiece into ready-to-serve slices.

People like it. I've never had any complaints.

Martha Stewart would not enjoy Thanksgiving at our house. If the table is set ahead of time, chances are a cat will lounge among the plates and flatware before the guests arrive. The hosts are generally dressed casually, in shorts if the weather is nice. The paper napkins are not folded into the shape of anything. The tablecloth is usually a little wrinkled, unless Clyde is inspired to iron it, which I don't encourage. The plates don't all match. The food is served in kind of a free-for-all, a combination of pass around and buffet, depending on the crowd, the food, and the space. Sometimes, guests have to get up to refill their own beverages. In terms of formal manners, it's pretty ugly. The pies, which come from Village Inn (they are not made at home), are topped with Cool Whip instead of whipped cream. Dessert is a strictly serve yourself affair.

We do have some standards. Football is not allowed on the television in the main room. Guests are encouraged to go to another room if they must watch.

It sounds like Thanksgiving at our house is kind of a bummer. It's not. Most of the guests enjoy coming back year after year. It's laid back. The conversation is good. We laugh a lot. Usually, we agree politically, which will come in especially handy this year. No one expects a formal black tie affair.

Years ago, I tried hard to impress when I hosted Thanksgiving. In particular, I tried to make fancy stuffing. One year I made special apple stuffing which didn't go over very well. Another time, I got a fairly ok cornbread stuffing recipe off the Internet. One year I made one with wine that smelled up the house for days. Then, for a few years, my sister-in-law tried. She got stuffing recipes out of Bon Appetite magazine. One made with rosemary was pretty good.

Until one year after dinner, someone yawned, "You know, I like Stove Top just as well as any stuffing I've ever had." Around the room, sleepily digesting, everyone agreed.

Years of research and anxiety over recipes went out the window. Why had I bothered?

The next Thanksgiving, in addition to my special way of preparing the cranberry portion of the meal, I began a whole new tradition of making stuffing for the family: several boxes of Stove Top. Just add water and a little butter, right at the last minute. They gobble it up.

Thanksgiving is not about fancy recipes. It's not about impressing guests or good china or which fork you're supposed to use. It's about having a good time and enjoying food with people you love. Even if it comes from a box or a can.

The Four Other Stages of Grief

I, like many of you, am grieving about the shocking and horrifying election of Donald Trump to the U.S. Presidency on a wave of populism fueled in large part by racism, sexism, and anti-immigration.

I believe it is necessary to grieve now in order to properly respond to the challenges of the next few years.

What is often not understood about the five stages of grief, first written about by Elizabeth Kubler Ross, is that they don't always occur one at a time or in linear fashion. Often, they overlap or occur intermittently. I've already covered denial in a previous BillsWeek entry. Now, I thought I'd hammer out some thoughts about the other stages. Sharing in this way helps me cope with my own grieving. Plus, I'm not sleeping and I have nothing better to do right now.

For the record, what I say here reflects either my own thinking or something I've overheard from others. These reflections don't necessarily reflect my exact point of view. Or maybe they do.

Bargaining

• The people who elected him aren't really racist (sexist, etc.). They were voting for Trump for some other reason.
• He was polite to President Obama when he visited the White House. Maybe he's not so bad after all. Let's give him a chance.
• He did hold up that rainbow flag that one time (even though it was upside down).
• Maybe his stupidity (and/or other shortcomings) will render his presidency ineffective. Perhaps if we give him enough rope, he'll hang himself. 
• Since he was so slippery and flip floppy on issues during the campaign, perhaps he isn't as conservative as we fear. Maybe he only acted that way to get elected.
• He was once a Democrat and a friend of the Clintons. Maybe he's a liberal in disguise. 
• Let's just be really nice to our racist neighbors and try to get along with everyone. 
• Ok, we don't have to be anti-gun. Let's just be "pro-gun safety."

Hmmm. I see why this one usually comes right after denial.

Anger

• If you voted for Trump, explain to your Black/ Muslim/ Immigrant/ LGBT neighbor/ coworker/ friend/ family member why they don't matter to you.
• Since our citizenship and civil rights are under fire, can you be surprised that we are questioning our patriotism?
• How can you come to my home, have friendly conversation with my boyfriend, attend my wedding, and still vote for Donald Trump? Don't you know what I have to lose? Don't you know what the stakes are? Don't you really care about me at all?
• Be alert for that "Kristallnacht" event to happen when the KKK and other thugs start destroying the property and lives of minorities, first without consequences, and then with the endorsement and support of the government. Think it can't happen? It was less than a century ago in a first world country called Germany...

 When you think about it, anger is really just fear turned inside out. It's what has motivated the other side to become so hateful. Fear is what fuels bigotry. It's why a great Presbyterian minister, Jane Spahr, once said, we must love them through their fear. Easier said than done.

Depression

• Can we just go to bed and wait until this is all over?
• Isolation: no talking to friends, no allowing for the comfort of company. Being alone seems less painful, somehow, even though it probably isn't.
• Music might help. Where are those old Peter, Paul, and Mary recordings?
• Depression is the scary one for some of us who have suffered from the chronic, clinical disease of the same name. We fear that if we give into this one, we'll be stuck in it and unable to get out. To us, depression looks like a long, dark, sucking tunnel that pulls you in when you haven't the strength to fight it. It gets all mixed up with the normal, circumstantial depression that happens to everyone when some terrible, external event happens.

Acceptance

• I don't accept this. Racism, sexism, and homophobia are not acceptable norms.
• I don't accept that the U.S.A. is over.
• We can only clearly see what's behind us. What is in front of us can only be estimated at best, and that is often informed by fear. Think of how frightened people were at other times in history when our national life felt threatened and the future was seriously in question: the Cuban missile crisis, Watergate, the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, and 9/11, just to name a few. Remember how frightened we were, and how shocked. At times we were despondent and hopeless. We always came through it. We always had a response, sometimes a questionable and debatable response, but we did respond. We never just rolled over and let it get to us. We're Americans, goddamnit!
• I do accept Elizabeth Warren's challenge to get involved; to volunteer, to connect with others, to add my voice to others' voices so that we are heard.
• I accept that every couple of years we get to elect new representatives. Look out bitches, mid-terms are only two years away.

Denial is a Good Stage

Crawling out of bed this morning felt like climbing out of ashen ruins after the apocalypse. The extra dose of Seroquel I took helped me sleep after the nightmarish election returns, but didn't make getting up in a strange new world any easier.

The world initially didn't look any different. The cats needed feeding. The coffee needed making. The dishwasher, having been run overnight, needed emptying. I didn't want to shave, but I did. Clyde woke up by himself today so I didn't have to wake him.

We eventually got around to turning on the TV just to make sure it wasn't all a bad dream. It wasn't. Trump was elected, oh my god, I can't even say it.

The world was looking a little different after all.

Like many others, I live in a bubble of like-minded people. Almost everyone I know - friends and family, people I like and hang out with, have the same political views. I read and listen to news that reinforces what I already think and believe. So it's not a surprise when I say that I really don't know very many people that voted for Donald Trump; just a few people at work and on Facebook. In fact, the state I live in (Colorado) didn't go to him in the electoral collage. I have that thread to hold on to. So I simply can't wrap my head around how this disaster happened.

And I'm not even close to ready to contemplate the implications of a republican house and senate (no, I don't intend to capitalize those words for the next four years at least).

I'm still stunned and in shock. I haven't yet declared myself "no longer American," like some others I'm reading about. My extended family is hatching a pretty serious sounding plan to move to Canada. Even though it's guaranteed to be warmer up there in the future (thanks to runaway climate change), I'm not quite yet ready to go. I'm still waiting for it all to sink in.

I'm sure that later I'll be enraged. I'm sure that I'll be terrified. Later. I'm sure I'll be sad. Hopefully at some point in the future I'll be motivated towards activism, but that's not happening yet.

I think this is the denial stage. It's a good stage. This is the stage where you go on doing things which keep you going. So I eat, I work, I feed the cats. If not for denial, I couldn't function at all. I'd just curl up in a ball and not move. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

A New Prairie Home Companion: Big Shoes to Fill

If you think Saturday Night Live hasn't been funny since the 70's, you probably won't listen to A Prairie Home Companion this year.

For the first time in 40 years, Garrison Keillor is not hosting the popular public radio show. In his place is mandolin player, Chris Thile. Can you imagine how difficult it must be to replace Garrison Keillor? Mr. Thile must have been a nervous wreck as he hosted his first show on October 15.

I've listened to PHC for many years. I've enjoyed the understated sense of humor. I relate to the midwestern sensibility of Lake Wobegon. I love the public service messages about ketchup. I laugh out loud at the Professional Organization of English Majors.

Most of this, I've heard in the car. I don't think I've ever heard the full two hours all the way through. I listen to most of it in bits and pieces on my way to dinner on a Saturday evening or to the store during the replay on Sunday.

To be honest, I haven't always been in the mood for the musical performances. They have tended to be overly folksy and too sentimental. It's not that I haven't liked the style of music, it's just that a little goes a very long way. In fact, over the years, if I've turned on the car radio and PHC has been in the middle of a twangy number, I'd usually switch to the other public radio channel to see if Wait Wait Don't Tell Me was on.

If, on the other hand, if it was Guy Noir solving a case, or Dusty and Lefty out on the range, I'd listen with rapt attention.

So, like everyone else, I was curious about Chris Thile and how he'll do at the helm of the show which has been, for all these years, Garrison's heart and soul. It's kind of like getting a new minister at church. Or a new teacher. Will we like him? Will he be as nice as the old one? Will he be funny? Will he measure up?

He probably won't.

Face it. Public radio listeners, particularly those who listen to PHC, are old and we old people don't like change. We always think it was better with the original cast - like with Saturday Night Live. Chris Thile doesn't stand a chance, no matter how good he is.

So on my way home from church the other day, the Sunday morning replay of the previous night's Companion came on, featuring the young new host. Much to my delight, it was the beginning of a comedy sketch. The captain of a sinking ship was radioing in for help and an English major was receiving the call, correcting the grammar of the captain's pleas. Hilarious!

Then, as Chris Thile began to introduce a musical number, I reached for the button to change the channel. But instead of a folksy, sentimental twang, I heard a sort of rocky, jazzy tune by Lake Street Dive. I listened to the whole song, and the next. And then I arrived at home.

Maybe the new Prairie Home Companion won't be so bad after all.

Reflections on a French Honeymoon

"Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer."

As we get back into our normal lives of work and piles of laundry, the past month recedes into a happy memory. We loved our wedding. The best part was having our loved ones all together as we celebrated. Clyde and I followed that with some honeymooning in France, seeing the sights of Paris, lounging poolside on the Riviera, kicking back beach side, and napping in comfortable hotel rooms. The latter we were able to do without the feline company we have at home, what we've come to call "catus interruptus," the sudden need for attention cats have whenever humans lie down together. But that's a subject for another time.

France is just as great as they say it is. It's beautiful and romantic. It's dripping with history. There is much to see. Naturally I came away with some observations and generalizations:

• You really can just sit and relax over food and coffee at an outdoor cafe, taking in the sights as well as second hand smoke from others' cigarettes. People smoke a lot more over there.
• Is there any place more appropriate for a romance than the French Riviera? It felt like James Bond or Brigitte Bardot might walk by at any moment, having just stepped off one of the giant yachts anchored nearby. 
• The French are very stylish and beautiful. They dress well. The only people wearing shorts out on the street are tourists. Upon coming home, I'm very aware of what slobs Americans are. I include myself in that observation.
• Many French have cute little dogs, at least in the urban places we visited. I swear, they seem to yap with a French accent and a bit of stylish attitude.
• France is a capitalist western country where bejeweled shoppers rush by homeless people outside the high-end shops of the Champs Elysee, just like you'd see on Fifth Avenue in New York or 16th Street in Denver.   
• Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer.
• Subways. I love subways.
• Of course, some things are universal. People everywhere have their noses pointed at smart phones, only glancing up enough to see where they should be going.
• Remember that old Marianne Faithfull song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan? "She realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." Well suck it Lucy. I got to do it. Ok, it was on top of a big double deck tourist bus instead of a sports car, but still ... And please, no comments about the amount of hair the wind may or may not have blown through on my particular head. 

I miss eating in France. Not just the food, but the act of eating. You don't just fill the hole in your face in France. You sit, you converse, you savor. You don't eat out before an evening out. Eating out is the evening out. The waiter doesn't rush you out the door by bringing you the check before you are finished. You are expected to linger as long as you need to before asking the waiter to bring you the check. It's a whole different outlook.

But the food itself - it's so much better over there.

The pastry is flakier. The fruit is sweeter. The cream is somehow creamier. The butter is butterier. The cheese is cheesier. The coffee richer, without a hint of bitterness. Even the pre-prepared sandwiches in the convenience stores are made with fresher ingredients, as if just in from the farm. Even the cheap roadside frozen soft serve is better than what we have here.

And don't get me started on the bread. Before going to France, I used to look forward to scones in my office building cafeteria. Now, I can barely look at them. American bread is crap. I don't know why the French make it so much better. Maybe they just demand it fresher and don't tolerate it after it's a day old. I don't know. But seeing overcooked, plastic wrapped cinnamon rolls baked Godonlyknowswhen, made my stomach lurch this morning. And the coffee at work? Forget it.

Travel normally makes me appreciate home. Well, in spite of the lower quality of naps, it's good to see the cats. And it feels great to be married on any continent.

As for the rest, I guess I'll just have to power down the car window and stick my head out to feel the wind blow through my hair.

PostBlog from Paris: This City is Kicking My Ass, but the People Are Not

When I lived in New York City I made fun of the tourists who went on the Circle Line Tours. I could never so obviously be a tourist, If I ever had any pride, I'd have to blend in.

I've changed my tune.

First of all, we don't blend in here in France. We must smell American. The minute we walk into a restaurant, before we open our mouths or do anything at all, they take one look and hand us the English version of the menu. I don't know why. (Point of accuracy - Clyde says it doesn't happen everywhere, and it's usually because we're wearing backpacks. Fine, if you want accuracy, read the New York Times ...)

So you can read about Paris dozens of other places. I'll just tell you that the first day, we walked and walked and walked and walked and walked. The metro (subway) sped things up a little, but we really put some miles on the old dogs. The second day, we bought some shoe insert thingies to soften our instep because our feet were so sore, I personally thought I couldn't go on. The pain was nearly unbearable. I also needed to buy band-aids for my toes which were blistering, Hey, I understand that people in Paris have suffered through some tough times (I've learned at various historical sites). But did they ever have to stand in line on sore feet to get into Notre Dame, only to stand and walk, stand and walk, stand some more and walk slowly around from Saint to Saint once they got inside?

Long story short (too late, I know), Clyde and I and spent 37 Euros apiece for a two day pass on the L'Open Tours bus which drives around the city to all the major tourist sites. You can jump off the bus whenever you want and get back on when you're done seeing the sight you wanted to see. Or, if your feet are killing you, you can just stay on the bus and ride around, listening on the headphones which plug into a jack located by each seat which, depending on the channel you select, tells you about whatever you are driving by in whatever language you speak.

Sometimes it's hard to make up your mind. True conversation: "Here's the stop for the Eiffel Tower. Should we get off?" "I don't know. Look. They have ice cream." "Ok."

I hope I never meet Rick Steves and have to confess I did such a thing, but there you are. I saw more in one day on that bus than I otherwise would have seen in a week, including the outside of the Moulin Rouge, crowds lining up at Sacre Coeur, Napoleon's Tomb, and the art deco cinema with the largest screen in Europe. At €37, that's a bargain.

A Note About the French

Clyde and I feel strongly that Americans are stupid. Ok. Not all Americans. Just the ones that complain about how rude the French are. We have seen absolutely no evidence, whatsoever, to support that stereotype. The people we have met, including and especially waiters, have been courteous, helpful, and tolerant as we struggle to communicate and deal with unfamiliar currency. The advice has been that if you make an effort with them by trying a few French words, minding your own manners, and smiling graciously, they will return the favor with kindness and helpfulness, even speaking English if the can. On the other hand, if you act like a boorish, entitled asshole American, then why shouldn't they be rude back to you?

My favorite experience with this so far has been the server who struggled with her English but tried very hard to use it with us. Clyde gave her our order in French, asking questions and getting clarification on a few of the menu items. Throughout the meal, she returned to us a few times, each time attempting to speak English to us before remembering that she could speak French to Clyde. Her impulse was to make us more comfortable before remembering that she didn't need to struggle to speak.

End of sermon.

So Paris has kicked my ass but the Parisians have not. The people here have made the exhausting, painful experience of walking all over the city easier by their friendliness and good manners.

Postblog from the French Riviera: In Search of White Ladies

Rick Steves would be so proud. Ok, no he probably wouldn't. We haven't done much of anything on the first part of our honeymoon in France except eat, sleep, lounge on the private beach and the pool of our hotel, and other honeymoon things.

We have ventured out a little on foot into a couple of the neighboring villages near Nice, including a beautiful walking trail along the Mediterranean Sea encompassing views of nearby cliffs, colorful villas, enormous yachts,  and of course the blue-green water that once stirred the imaginations of the ancient Greeks and Romans. But European cliches aside, I have been anxious to delve into the real France and observe what really makes this place tick, just as Rick Steves inspires us.

My first observation upon arriving in France was that at first, I saw very few French people. That was at the airport. Once we got to Nice and the Hotel Riviera in Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, there were French, British, and American people all mixed together. This is a pretty touristy area.

Some other observations:

• All those French words I learned in high school really work! People understand me when I use them here! They aren't fake, just like the Euros that come out of the ATM work like real money!
• It's true: if you try to politely speak French first, the French will politely try to help and even speak English back to you if they can. They are very nice people and only hate Americans when we are rude and entitled, like the guy who snapped his fingers at breakfast this morning and shouted to the waiter, "COFFEE!"
• This part of France has very wealthy people in it. They are mostly Arab and Russian. I know this because when you walk by a real estate office, the listings are mostly in  Russian. Also, the taxi driver told us. He told us a lot of stuff on the drive from the airport.
• My nutritionist, the one who is helping me lose weight, says she doesn't know anyone who has gained weight in France because the food is more natural and the portions more sensible. I am out to prove her wrong. The food may be less processed, but the portions have been generous and I have been eating like a pig. The croissants have been especially good. And the yogurt. And the bread. And the cheese. We'll see what happens when I weigh in once I'm home.

But the biggest surprise so far: an illusive and mysterious phenomenon, so compelling that we have walked miles, day and night to find it. I'm talking about the Dame Blanche, or White Lady. No, I haven't become a racist heterosexual. It is an ice cream sundae made with the finest coffee flavored ice cream (subtle, not overpowering coffee flavor), the highest quality chocolate sauce, topped with a huge pile of delightful chantilly whipped cream. I don't know, maybe it's just because I'm in France, but it seems so much better than the same thing at home. The ice cream is creamier. The chocolate is not that cheap syrupy stuff we are used to. 

We were seduced by the white lady our first dinner out. The next evening, we walked along the seaside walkway into a neighboring village and stumbled onto a sidewalk establishment with a neon sign that said, "Bar" and "Glace" (which means ice cream). We looked on the menu and sure enough, there she was: Dame Blanche. We sat at a table, mouths watering in anticipation. But we were too late. The water explained that no more ice cream would be served that late at night. 

Crushed, we vowed to return the next day. After a morning of reading and napping at the hotel pool, we motivated ourselves to hike back to that village where we triumphantly had a token sandwich for lunch, followed by a main course of the seductive white lady. 

You know, it was pretty good, but not as good as the first one. 

Phyllis Schlafly Was Pure Evil, But Jesus Loves Her Anyway

Phyllis Schlafly is finally dead.

Ding dong.

She was one of the worst, WORST, examples of a human being claiming to be a Christian I can think of, right up there with Jerry Falwell and others of their ilk. She was notoriously homophobic and anti-feminist. She is most well known for the defeat of the Equal Rights Amendment but she did plenty of other damage as well.

I don't want to talk about her any more except to say that I hated her for the harm she did to people like me and the people I love. I could never forgive the awful things she did and the horrible things she said.

If I believed people could go to Hell when they died, I would revel in the thought of her burning there for all eternity.

But I don't.

A fundamental part of my Christian belief is that God extends grace and salvation to everyone (now whatever that is, whatever that means is open to interpretation).

As one of my friends posted on Facebook today, "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus." Romans 3:23-24.

You see, though I, like Phyllis, have hate in my heart; though I cannot see past my anger and inability to forgive; though I am blinded by rage at this horrible, horrible woman, I realize that God is bigger than I am.

God is bigger than my fear and rage and hate. God's grace is vast enough to encompass and forgive both Phyllis and me in spite of our sin, that which separates us from God's love.

When I calm down, I might pray that as Phyllis transitions into the next phase of her existence, her spite and hate might give way to real peace and love, that the light of true grace might shine where the darkness in her soul once resided.

I might pray the same for myself and all the rest of us as well.

Summer TV Dearth Calls for Alternative Entertainment

It's summertime during an Olympics year. So basically there's nothing good to watch on TV. I have no interest whatsoever in the over-hyped racket that is the summer games. Reruns of favorite shows only go so far and a person can only binge on so much Netflix before it seems like everything has been watched. I have already finished the entire first season of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. So while Clyde studies Greek on the sofa next to me, I have to find new ways to entertain myself. I reach for the computer and stumble on to:

Old documentaries on YouTube.

Favorites include old films about transportation, the miracle of modern travel by car or train in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s.  There's one about taking a bus from New York to Pittsburgh. What an adventure it is! Everyone is all dressed up - the ladies in dresses, the boys and men in jackets and ties. Everyone is so polite. Everyone is white. Did people really dress like that to take the bus? Of course, other black and white YouTube videos tell me that the really modern way to travel is by plane. Women in the 1940s wear their best furs as they board the sleek, shiny DC-3. The air-hostess pours coffee into a delicate china cup on a dry saucer. There is no hint of turbulence or air-sickness. Only the promise of a four course meal as the trip from one coast to another is cut by three days compared to that silly old-fashioned train on the ground. It certainly doesn't look like flying today, where you bring your own sandwich smashed into your carry-on and the other passengers wear flip-flops and tank tops as they reach over your head to jam their luggage into the overhead bin.

My other favorites are those films made in the early and mid 20th century about "the future" - the year 2000 and beyond. Amazingly, they predict some of our technology pretty accurately. One series done by Walter Cronkite in the 1960s, predicts reading the newspaper online, accessing your office without leaving home, and quickly cooking a meal with a microwave oven. What the futuristic films fail to take into account is the social change that also occurs before the 21st century. For example, in the futuristic kitchen where a meal practically prepares itself, it's always a full time, stay at home housewife in pearls and an apron who pushes the button after she finds out via video-phone what her husband wants for dinner.

It's also fun to watch the old sex education films. To think that some of them are probably still in use today.

I don't just watch old stuff on YouTube.

In light of where Clyde and I are planning to honeymoon next month, I've recently watched some helpful videos on how to be a good tourist in France. For example, I've learned that in restaurants, you don't get the check until you ask for it. Many an American tourist waits and waits and waits for the check, expecting it will just appear like it does at home. It's one of those little differences that leads to unnecessary misunderstanding and frustration between nations.

Just for fun, I decided to look at a video advising visitors to the United States. Do you know what frustrates them more than anything? Is it that we have a myopic world view or don't speak other languages? Is it that we're loud and boastful and think that we own the whole world? Nope. Foreign visitors hate our sales tax. Think about it. The price tag says one thing, but when you go to pay for it, you have to pay more. Wouldn't that just aggravate the hell out of you if you weren't used to it?

You can learn anything from watching YouTube. You can learn how to tie a tie, how to clean your bathroom, or how to make a paper airplane.

When our oven didn't work one night, we found a video about a similar problem on the same model and learned how to fix it. Of course we didn't actually fix the oven because we don't have any tools, but we at least had an idea about what was wrong with it.

I recently stumbled onto a series about personal grooming, including some tips about shaving that my father never taught me. Let's just say that some people groom areas of their bodies these days that Dad probably never thought to do.

I haven't even begun to scratch the surface. There are more hours of entertainment, news, cat videos, and other countless ways to pass summer evenings than I could ever imagine. Who needs to watch the Olympics  on TV anyway? If I want, I can just catch the highlights on YouTube.

Expecting Gunfire is Normal Now

A piercing, ear splitting sound crashes through my head. It is accompanied by bright blue flashing lights from red fixtures placed every few meters along the wall. As I recover from temporary disorientation, the sound is interrupted by an electronic voice saying, "There is an emergency reported in the building. Please evacuate immediately. Do not use the elevators. Please evacuate immediately."

It's always the worst possible time. Usually I have had to go to the bathroom for a while and I've been putting it off. Now, who knows when I'll get another chance. I pull myself from the project I've been concentrating on, lock my computer screen, and zip up my back pack - I'm not leaving the building without my back pack. Sorry if that's frowned upon. If this is a real emergency, I may never see my personal belongings again.

Hundreds of us slowly file down flights of stairs, masses merging calmly from each lower floor we pass. We are composed. We are pretty sure it's a drill. We don't hear shooting. We don't smell smoke.

That's right. In addition to sniffing for smoke, we listen for gun shots.

What used to be known as a fire drill is now a more general evacuation exercise. After all, it seems just as likely to be someone in the building with a gun as it is a fire.

It has come to this in 21st century America. Angry or crazy people brandishing guns in public are normal enough that companies have procedures in place for responding to it.

My job consists largely of designing computer based training for employees. A lot of it is very technical and dry. Once in a while, however, I get to do something more interesting, such as a presentation on how to handle inter-generational situations or the best way to conduct a job interview.

But when asked recently to create training for what to do if an active shooter enters the building, that was a little too exciting. Apparently Homeland Security and some police departments around the country have issued guidelines which we could draw on. And oh, I was instructed, don't make it scary.

Right.

Shootings in public places occur so regularly that we only hear about the really extreme ones now. Recently, a building in downtown Denver was evacuated because a woman was shot in her office. She was the only "victim," though I would argue that everyone nearby was also victimized. It was not even the top story on the local news that night.

It's so common to have a shooting at the office, school, movie, mall, church, or night club, that we aren't surprised to hear about it any more.

We are afraid maybe, but not surprised. I hope we are still horrified, that we haven't become numb.

Gun violence is normal in the United States. This doesn't happen to the same extent in other civilized countries. Sensible people already understand why. A vocal and organized minority controls and intimidates the majority of politicians in power so that nothing can change. Until the NRA is out-organized and defeated by the more lackluster majority of citizens, the insanity of our gun culture will continue.

I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said already. I guess I just feel like it has to be said again and again until something changes.

Understanding Bridezilla's Point of View

I heard an interesting theory the other day: a justification for the high cost of wedding services.

As Clyde and I prepare for our September ceremony, I've noticed in my research on invitations to caterers, how much everything costs. And when you put the word "wedding" in front of it, it's twice as expensive or more. It's what I call the over priced and over hyped "Wedding-Industrial Complex."

So the justification for this inflating, this nuptial gouging, from dress makers to cake bakers, is: that brides are especially difficult customers. With the singular goal of having THE perfect wedding, these "bridezillas" are impossible to please. They demand way more time than the average customer, they change orders at the last minute, and they are bitchy. Throw in their mothers, future mothers-in-law, and a couple of "helpful" bridesmaids, those poor vendors have their work cut out for them.

Point taken. And by the way, let's face it, the grooms are usually absent at this stage of the planning, unless there are only grooms in which case ...

So anyway, I am not ready to excuse the excesses of the WIC. I still think it's a huge rip off. I have a co-worker who spent $24,000 (yes, twenty-four thousand dollars) on his wife's engagement ring last year. I asked him why he didn't just buy her a wedding car. He also told me how much they spent on invitations, the wedding venue, the amount of money per guest at the formal sit down dinner, and the honeymoon in Mexico. It was jaw dropping.

He asked how much Clyde and I were spending. When I told him that we bought a kit on Amazon and printed invitations at home for about $25, his jaw hit the floor.

We're trying to spend money wisely. The wedding will be small - just some family and a few very close friends. We won't have a formal dinner, just some nibbles and a cake at the reception.

We're splurging on a few things, of course. We're going to buy new suits - sensible ones that we can use again. Not that I will - I haven't owned a suit in decades.

I can see the points of view of wedding vendors. I wouldn't have the patience to deal with a bridezilla.

I can also sort of relate to the bridezillas. I haven't had a melt down in a bridal shop, yet, but I do want things to go well. Even a simple wedding is stressful. There are lots little things to take care of.

For example, when we first made a list of what we needed to do, we remembered important details like meeting with the priest, planning  a honeymoon, and buying rings, but we didn't remember that we need to get a marriage license, the part that makes this LEGAL. I have no idea how or where to get it. It simply hasn't been part of my experience. I assume we go to the city and county building, but beyond that, I'm pretty clueless. What does it cost? Do we both need to go? How far ahead do we need to do it? And flowers. One of our church friends asked what we planned to do about flowers. Flowers? Huh. What else are we forgetting?

We have some advantages that most brides don't have. We're men for one thing. Unlike many little girls, neither Clyde nor I grew up dreaming of our wedding with a thousand little fantasies to live up to. Perhaps some gay men did, but we didn't. My fantasy growing up was just to have my own apartment and a boyfriend. Done and done. I never imagined I could have a legal, church sanctioned wedding. This is gravy as far as I'm concerned.

Another advantage is that we're older. We have some perspective that young couples may not have. We know things don't always go as planned and we're pretty ok with that. Our priest told us that the important thing to remember is that if she shows up (and she promises she will) and the two of us show up, we'll get married. That's all that really matters.

Caught Between a Dumbass and a "Bitch" - Does it Really Matter?

As often happens, the office chatter around me zeroed in on this year's unusual presidential election. Typical of the national conversation, my coworkers could neither comprehend ignorant dumb ass Donald Trump, nor could they fathom a bitch like Hillary Clinton at the presidential helm.

With earphones stuck to my head and my eyes glued to the monitors, I really tried to stay out of it. No one's mind is ever changed by these conversations, and while most of the others treat the topic as casually as they do a jawing about local sports, I would just get really mad and take it personally if I got involved.

But when one of the senior managers pronounced that in fact, it didn't really matter who was elected because none of our lives would actually change based on the outcome, I just about boiled over.

"That's easy to say if you're a straight, white man who has lived in privilege all his life," I fumed. "You take your wife for granted and you don't have to worry that the next Supreme Court appointment could lead to the invalidation of your legal marriage. You have never had your civil rights threatened by a majority vote of your fellow citizens. You have never been threatened with ejection from your home country just because your parents immigrated without proper papers when you were too young to understand what was happening. You were never denied the right to vote just because you didn't have a current driver's licence..."

... is what I would have said, had I been participating in the conversation.

Just to clarify, I don't think Hillary Clinton is a bitch. That's just what some people I work with think.

I've never understood why so many people hate Hillary Clinton so much. To many, she represents cold, conniving liberalism at its worst. She is seen as a shrill, calculating, and ruthlessly ambitious liar.

Of course, many of these adjectives wouldn't be nearly so uncomplimentary if they were describing a man. Men who are ruthless and ambitious are actually admired. And they are never described as shrill.

I have always really liked Hillary. Ever since her controversial 1992 comments that she wasn't just some cookie baking housewife standing by her man, I've admired her intelligence and chutzpah.

She has always come across to me as warm and hard working, deliberate and thoughtful. So sometimes she's a little awkward when she tries to tell a joke, but hey, do we need a comedian in the White House or a President? Hillary is an effective behind the scenes leader who works well with others to get things done, as demonstrated by her performance in the U.S. Senate. Sure she's outspoken, and her views have evolved. She is tough but has a human side as well, though she is criticized for showing the slightest emotion - the woman can't win, really. She's either too tough or too vulnerable.

For the "family values crowd," she takes marriage more seriously than many Republican counterparts, having never been divorced though it would have been totally justified had she chosen to do so. I love that she's a committed member of the United Methodist Church. Let's see, has Donald Trump been divorced? Is he a church member?

As for her alleged "crimes" - Benghazi, the email scandal, Vince Foster's suicide ... One by one, Clinton has been repeatedly cleared of wrongdoing, or doing nothing outside of what was normally also done by Republican peers. The fact is, Republicans can't find that she's done anything really wrong, so they make stuff up or exaggerate because they can't stand the thought of her coming into power.

And while I'm at it:

I really don't understand why so many people are supporting a Trump presidency. He has consistently and blatantly lied. He has demonstrated tremendous lack of knowledge about general civics (such as how government and elections work). He has openly declared and bragged about his own racism and ignorance regarding the world outside of the U.S. He has brazenly offended entire populations of the world with Mexicans and Muslims leading the way. It totally defies logic that he could be elected - and yet he is going to be the Republican nominee.

Donald would make a terrible President. If he even listened to advisers, they'd have to spend their time teaching him the basics of how law is made and why he can't just do whatever he wants because Congress figures in there somewhere. All constitutional checks and balances would be sent into overdrive just to make sure his whimsical power trips don't upset the fragile nature of our form of government.

At least we are presented with a choice this election season. I remember elections past when people complained that there was really no difference between the candidates.

I'm getting married this summer. To a man. For the first time in my life, this is legal in every U.S. state. It isn't too much of a stretch of the imagination to comprehend that if Donald Trump is elected, he could appoint someone to the Supreme Court who could reverse the decisions that made my legal marriage possible. That would only be the beginning.

The person who ends up being President matters to me, to a lot of people, personally.

A Reasonable Response to Restroom Hysteria

Some of those nutty right-wingers are in a huge tizzy about the possibility of sharing public restrooms with people of a different gender. In some places, they are actually exploiting this fear to pass laws which blatantly discriminate against transgendered, as well as lesbian, gay, and bisexual citizens.

Consider this: a regular looking, clean cut sort of person with, say, a trim beard, perhaps wearing shorts revealing muscular hairy legs, and a t-shirt covering a well proportioned torso with just a little chest hair coming out of the top -- I'm sorry, what were we talking about? I kind of got caught up in an attractive image ... Anyway, he finds himself in need of a rest room. If anyone were to look at his birth certificate, which no one does by the way, they would see that he happens to have been recorded as female in his first minutes of life. But as a result of years of struggle to reconcile a gender he believes himself to be, to one assigned to him by society because of the genitals he was born with - a struggle that is frankly none of our business to judge or comment upon, by the way - he now appears to be and functions as the gender he most closely identifies with. According to new laws in North Carolina and Mississippi and probably many other places (I've lost track), no matter how he sees himself, and no matter how much personal progress he has been able to make, this man is required by law to use the women's restroom.

In fact, if this guy walked into a men's room to privately relieve himself, no one would notice and nothing unusual would happen. But can you imagine the reaction if this hairy beast walked into a crowded women's room in Mississippi? Any proper southern lady would be mighty scandalized.

But I'd like to take a step back and ask something I've always wondered. Why can't we all just share the same restrooms? What is each half of the population hiding from the other, exactly?  Is it that women's rooms are so much nicer than men's? I've heard that's the case. That they have like, nice furniture and stuff. Is it true?

We all know what happens in restrooms, whether men's or women's. Generally speaking, people go in there to void their bladders and bowels. These are necessary bodily functions required by every human being on Earth. There is really no difference between the waste produced by males and the waste produced by females. It looks and smells about the same. These are not particularly nice smells, and most of us go out of our way NOT to encounter them, regardless of the gender of the person who produced them.

For that matter, we also don't tend to watch what other people are doing in the restroom. It would be considered bad manners. And just to avoid accidental lookage, there are generally private stalls or dividers between receptacles.

According to the logic of the wacko reactionaries trying to reinforce segregation of the restrooms, I, as a gay man, should not be allowed to use public men's rooms lest I succumb to my animal nature and leer at other facility users. Just to be clear, having used men's rooms for many decades, I can assure you that the only animal instinct I have in there is to GO. I usually just do my business, wash my hands, and get out as quickly as possible. For the record, I'm much more likely to check out other guys on the street than in the loo.

Back in the 80s when I was doing time with the Presbyterian Church, I was lucky enough to live in student housing at New York's very progressive Union Theological Seminary. I lived in a dorm with mostly seminary students. That community welcomed me, a non-student, into their poetry readings, anti-apartheid awareness raising, and drunken late night theological discussions. There was one large bathroom on our floor in Hastings Hall. It was shared by everyone, men and women.

That's right. A co-ed bathroom. I took showers (private showers mind you) adjacent to women and men. I often shaved chatting with a woman who blow dried in the mirror next to mine (many of us had mullet hair in those days). I regularly peed in a stall next to one of the resident lesbians. Though we could hear each other's noises, we never "saw" anything except each other's shoes. It was only strange the first day. After that we never thought about it.

For the past 30 years I've wondered why there weren't more places with desegregated restrooms.

We have to get over our hangups about the human body. What, really, is there to be afraid of? Can we just grow up? This hysteria about encountering someone of a different gender in the restroom is a massive waste of energy. There are real things out there to worry about, folks. I'd be much more alarmed at running into a Republican presidential candidate in the men's room than a man who used to be a woman.

Mindi Lahiri is Today's That Girl!

Of the tens of thousands of movies and TV shows on Netflix, I've seen every single one. At least clicking through the content leads me to believe so.

Browsing through suggested offerings created by algorithms especially for me (categories such as Gay Romantic Comedies, Disaster Documentaries,  and Dramatic TV Series Featuring a Strong Female Lead), I find myself saying out loud, "Seen it. Seen it. Seen it."

It briefly occurs to me that I could spend less time staring at the big screen in our living room, but then what would I do during dinner? The coffee table, where we eat, is right in front of the TV. The dining room table is too covered with mail, books, laundry, and other assorted junk to use for dining, except twice a year at Thanksgiving and Easter when we clear it off.

Premium cable complete with "On Demand" doesn't help much. Even with our multi-channel DVR, there are limitations to the available programming we can watch. For example, I can't record the current season of Grey's Anatomy because Clyde and I are only on season 7 in Netflix. Plus, it's frustrating to have to wait a whole week before the next Scandal or Madame Secretary airs (note: dramas featuring strong female leads).

I need a new source of programming to feed my binge watching addiction.

So I signed up for Hulu, one more paid TV subscription. And I sprung for the higher priced, commercial free version.

Hulu has a lot of stuff that Netflix and cable don't, particularly in the category of classic TV. Through the magic of Hulu, for example, I've rediscovered the 1960s sitcom, That Girl, starring a bright young Marlo Thomas who plays the bubbly Ann Marie. I used to watch it as a little boy and dream I'd grow up to live in my own apartment in the big city, complete with a boyfriend like her Donald. I can still hum the theme song. Of course it's very dated and corny, but when you think back to 1966, it was pretty gutsy to show a single young woman living alone in big old New York City. Sure, she had a boyfriend to get her out of the worst jams, but she paid her own rent.

Another series I'm enjoying on Hulu is more contemporary, The Mindy Project. Mindy Kaling plays another "single gal," Mindi Lahiri, also in New York City.

It's fun to note the similarities between the two. Both feature independent career women who live alone, at least initially. Both women get into a silly new situation in every episode. Both are a bit shallow: Mindy is obsessed with celebrity gossip; Ann because, well, that's just how young women were portrayed in those days.

The differences are also notable. With 50 years between them, Mindy is a little freer than Ann. While Ann and Donald date for years, there is absolutely no hint that they ever have sex. Mindy, on the other hand, openly sleeps with a succession of boyfriends, usually on the first date. Ann's career options seem limited - she wants to be an actress but often works as a waitress and retail clerk. Mindy is a full blown medical doctor, an OB-GYN. While Ann and Donald are about as white as you can be, Mindy is of Indian descent, though she is thoroughly American. When someone asks her religion, she thinks she might be Hindu but she's not sure.  Ann and Donald don't discuss religion.

It might be interesting to discuss whether television influences or reflects who we are. What can we learn about 1966 from watching That Girl? What does The Mindy Project tell us about our own times, 50 years later? All I know is that I learned from Ann Marie that happiness means getting your own place in the city and having your very own boyfriend. Poof! Here I am. Speaking of my boyfriend, while I watch my stories, Clyde spends his free evenings reading, mostly, though he's just as hooked on Grey's Anatomy as I am.

Who the Hell is Johnny Poling?

I rarely block people on Facebook. If we differ on politics or religion, I may scroll through your posts a little quicker, but I won't unfriend you. Like you, I hope that exposure to my views might change your mind over time. At least I'll get to see a picture of your cat.

But there's a lot more junk on Facebook these days. Whereas I used to spend my FB time catching up with friends and seeing what my nieces were doing, now I seem to be scanning through an increasing number of ads. I'm getting a lot of unsolicited information about local realtors, bridal consultants, South American vacations, and available singles in my area. At this rate, I'll have to find some other way to learn about my high school classmates' grandchildren.

Most requests I get for Facebook friendship come from people I know. Sometimes they are people I used to know and don't remember. If I see that we went to the same high school or university, or if we are from the same hometown, then I figure we must have some connection and I agree to accept the friend request.

Increasingly, I get friend requests out of the blue from complete strangers - people I don't know, never knew, and have no connection to. It's flattering to assume that a perfect stranger likes my posts and doesn't want to miss editions of BillsWeek, but face it, I'm not that much of a public figure.

I'm fairly certain that the scantily clad woman from eastern Europe who wants to friend me because I'm "cute" is not interested in my blog. Not only is she really barking up the wrong tree, she is usually trying to sell me something. When a handsome young man from south Asia wants to become friends "just to get to know me better," I know that someone's marketing is a little more sophisticated.

Which brings me to Johnny Poling. He first showed up on my Facebook feed a couple of months ago. Initially, I assumed he was a friend of a friend or something because those kinds of posts are not that unusual. When he kept showing up, I drilled into his profile a bit to see what our connection was. Turns out, we have no mutual friends. He doesn't go to my church and is not from any town where I ever lived. He appears to be very young, straight, and has long hair. Not that there's anything wrong with any of that stuff, but there is no discernible reason why he would continually be asking me to friend him.

He also asks me to answer odd, random questions in the reply section. "Rate your Freak Level from 1 to 10." "Describe yourself using the first initial of your first name." "Who doesn't have roaches?" "Comment your battery percent and add who likes it." And most ironically, "If you're a real account, comment real under here ..."

All of my real friends occasionally rant about Donald Trump or gun control. Many of them like the daily Bloom County cartoons. But no one real has ever asked about my freak level.

What is a freak level?

It is finally occurring to me that Johnny Poling is not a real person, but a kind of "phishing" persona who is used to gather information on Facebook users, people like me, who are innocently checking their feed for news of friends. When he asks those inane questions he always asks, he's actually learning how to direct advertising to me. They think I will be too polite to refuse his continuing requests.

Well guess again, Johnny. I am not falling for that. Consider yourself blocked.

On the other hand, if you are a real person, indicate it by posting your opinion about Donald Trump.

POSTBLOG from San Antonio: Everything is Huge, Except for the Alamo

Here’s what I’ll remember about the Alamo: crowds and traffic. It’s true what they say, that there’s really nothing much to it. If Clyde hadn’t pointed it out, I would have missed it completely.

This is in contrast to the rest of San Antonio, which is huge. I was surprised to learn that it’s bigger than Dallas. So why does Dallas get all the attention?

But after Houston’s endless freeways and strip malls, San Antonio is charming, historic, and loaded with character. As we drove through Clyde’s old neighborhood, Alamo Heights, I thought of how this city reminds me in equal parts of Omaha and Pueblo: Omaha for the hills, lack of sidewalks, and thick tree lined streets; and Pueblo for the mixture of old and new, and pervasive historic Spanish influence.

Only I would make that comparison.

San Antonio is part of that often overlooked, rich southwest swath of the U.S. which includes Santa Fe and Albuquerque. You cannot be here without acknowledging that Americans come in all flavors, speak multiple languages, and thrive in diverse cultures.

But America it is: San Antonio is one of the more overweight of cities. Obesity is a huge deal here.

After the 24 crash course in San Antonio, it’s back to Houston to celebrate Clyde’s mother’s birthday.

It’s fun to be with Clyde’s family: sister, nieces, nephew, and mother. They are friendly, generous people. I’m already looking forward to the next Texas visit.

POSTBLOG from Houston: First Class All the Way

My fiancé knows how to travel. Not only did he get me bumped to first class on the flight from Denver, our room at the J.W. Marriott in downtown Houston was upgraded to a roomy suite consisting of a living room, bedroom, and HUGE bathroom.

The day started at 5:00 a.m. when we checked in at Denver International Airport. After I regaled the Uber guy with tales of how great Denver used to be (Stapleton Airport really was so much more convenient… the polite young driver claimed to have seen old pictures), we learned that because of some magic status as a frequent traveler, Clyde was reassigned to seat 1A – in first class. Although I had resigned myself to coach seating, my generous lover offered to trade with me so I could experience the luxury of breakfast at 40,000 feet.

I felt a little self-conscious sitting in first class with my Denver Public Library book and ancient iPod with the cheap ear buds that only work on one side, but I forgot all about it when I was handed a hot towel. I now dread the flight home where I’ll have to sit back in steerage. I can’t go back! I can’t!

Clyde has spoiled me. Gone are the days of nickel and dime road trips where I ate at road side McDonalds and stayed at the interstate Motel 6.

The room at the J.W. Marriott was so nice we decided we didn’t really need to see anything in Houston. We’d just hang out in the hotel suite trying to choose which TV to watch and whether to enjoy the roomy stone-tiled shower or the deep oval bathtub with a flat square faucet situated, get this, in the middle instead of at one end. Yep, it doesn’t take a lot to impress me.

With temperatures in the high 60s, we put on our shorts and sun glasses and headed out. We were the most casually dressed people in sight. Most Houstonites seem to favor long sleeves and jackets this time of year. I guess temps in the 60s is chilly for these folks. We also saw a group of guys wearing heavy down jackets – the kind we wear when it’s 20 degrees or colder. They were speaking Spanish so we figured they were visiting from South America or someplace really hot.

Somehow, we ended up in Galveston, an island community 50 miles to the south. We inhaled the salty breeze, dipped our toes in the Gulf of Mexico, and enjoyed the historic ambiance before heading back to the hotel where we put on complementary robes and settled in front of the bedroom TV.

You Mean the Oregon Trail Goes All the Way to Oregon?

By the thousands, they traversed the plains and crossed the Rockies, many walking the whole way. All worldly belongings were crammed into wooden wagons covered by tarps. Heavy or extraneous possessions, once considered too valuable to leave behind, became too heavy and unwieldy to carry any further, and lined the trail as visibly as wheel ruts. Grave sites also marked the route where migrants succumbed to disease or accident, much too often crushed by the wheels of the wagons. All sought a better life in the west, a distant, imagined paradise that was, before the railroads, too far from home to ever dream of returning.

Ah! The pioneers! Those sturdy individualists (though they traveled en mass), representing the American spirit which constantly seeks that which is beyond the horizon, greener pastures, freedom from old troubles.

Of course, they slaughtered the once gigantic herds of bison nearly to extinction. They also wildly overreacted to every story of supposedly hostile indigenous people who, in fact, were already in decline because of diseases like cholera that earlier migrants brought with them from the east.

We European Americans have a love-hate relationship with our history. We both romanticize and revile our ancestors, celebrating their hardy bravery while meekly apologizing for their excesses.

As a Nebraskan, I literally grew up on the Oregon Trail, the route taken by American migrants from Missouri to Oregon before planes, highways, or railroads. I was reared on stories about travelers so exhausted by months of boring, flat land that they happily greeted the silhouettes of  geographically unique Chimney Rock, Jail House and Court House Rocks. The sculptures of earth climaxed at Scotts Bluff, considered the gateway to the Rocky Mountains and the origin of the name of my home town, Scottsbluff.

What prompts this reminiscing about the place of my roots?

I'm reading a really great book: The Oregon Trail, by Rinker Buck, who with his brother, spent a summer in a covered wagon, tracing as closely as possible, the Oregon Trail. Both in their 60's, the men relived the dangers of flooding, wind, fatigue, and wagon accidents suffered by those migrants of yore. They also encountered modern hazards such as highways, barbed wire fences, cattle guards, and obnoxious tourists in obscenely huge motor homes who frightened the mules as they zoomed up along side to take pictures out the window as they passed.

The Buck boys also enjoyed the hospitality of modern ranchers, farmers, and communities who provided food, corrals for the mules to rest in, and facilities to service and repair the wagon.

I highly recommend this book. Buck is enchanted by the west but writes realistically without sentimentalism. This is not a child's book about the Oregon Trail. Buck makes free use of the "F" word, for example.

It's no small matter to me that he speaks highly of Western Nebraska. I loved reading about the comfortable pair of shoes purchased at the Scottsbluff WalMart. I can picture exactly the museum in Gering where he lost an entire afternoon caught up in history displays.

There is one fact which still jars me in spite of all my OT study through the years.

When I visited the Oregon state capitol in Salem, I was stunned to see many paintings and murals depicting, yes, the Oregon Trail. There were even some scenes of Nebraska.

The fact is, in all my childhood immersion into Oregon Trail history, countless field trips to pioneer Rebecca Winter's grave and the visitor's center at Scotts Bluff National Monument, it never once occurred to me that Nebraska wasn't the end point of the Oregon Trail. When I was a kid, the myth was that the pioneers set out from the east for a better life and (naturally) settled in Nebraska. The story always ended there. I was in my 20s before I realized that the Oregon Trail was called the Oregon Trail because it went all the way to Oregon. It's a little like living in Colorado and being surprised to learn that other states have beautiful mountains too. Oregon, for instance.

I'm not exactly disillusioned, but I had to come to the grips with the fact that a lot of those people settled in Nebraska because they were just too tired to go on. It took a couple of generations for my parents to finally reach Oregon on vacation, in their motor home.