Boycott Whole Foods because the CEO opposes President Obama’s healthcare plan. That’s what a blog posted by a Facebook friend said. Hit ‘em where it hurts: their pocketbooks.
The blogger even suggested an alternative – ironically, another national chain – where consumers could still get the upscale organic items they crave. That supposes the CEO of Trader Joe’s is in full support of Obama’s plan, I guess.
But that darned Whole Foods CEO wrote an editorial in the Wall Street Journal – and he does not support the healthcare system being debated in Washington (gasp!).
That was enough to prompt several people to re-think their shopping ways:
“I needed a reason to stop spending so much money there,” one commenter wrote.
“I don't shop there much anyway, but after reading this I'll definitely avoid doing so,” posted another person.
“I’m going to Trader Joe’s!” posted a third person.
“Just freakin' great. Now I have to start shopping at Whole Foods. I hate Whole Foods,” posted another person.
The link was included in the original blog posting. The editorial was short, one printed page, and straightforward, with numbered points. I Read The F’ing Article*.
Whole Foods CEO John Mackey does not support the healthcare plan being debated. His initial point of opposition was our growing deficit, which he called unsustainable. He wrote, more or less, we cannot afford to add to the country’s debt at this time by providing universal healthcare.
Mr. Mackey listed possible improvements for the current system and gave comparisons to socialized systems in Canada and Europe. He suggested improvements for Medicare, Health Savings Accounts, tax write-offs (allowed for company-provided plans but not for insurance purchased by individuals) and proposed making insurance portable (from state to state) and reducing excessive lawsuits against doctors.
He does not believe healthcare is a right, in America or any other country, yet Mackey provides insurance for the majority of his employees (based on hours worked) – and he shares numbers. His editorial includes details based on his experience.
Whether I agree with his premise or not, his piece is well-reasoned and detailed.
I disagree with his deficit argument as reason to oppose universal healthcare. It’s about priorities and I can think of several places (Iraq being top of mind) where we could stop sending money that could instead be used at home.
However, I think he brought up some interesting points. And just for expressing them to the WSJ, I don’t feel compelled to boycott Whole Foods.
As for our healthcare system, I don’t know if Mackey or anyone else knows how to fix it but I do know it is a mess. It's expensive. It's unfair. And it's too complicated.
But my lingering impression is not about healthcare. It is about how quickly people leap to conclusions. How we rush to judgment, based on what someone else says.
Have we programmed ourselves to be so quick to respond that we no longer reason – or even bother to check the facts (any facts) for ourselves?
Finally… someone commented on the content of the editorial that sparked the blog, boycott and all the postings and comments:
“Not a Whole Foods shopper, but I suggest actually reading the editorial...noticed on Daily Kos that many commentators jumped on the bandwagon without reading (much less considering) Mackey's points first.”
*RTFA… then maybe we can have a discussion.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Making the (Cat) Call
Wed. July 15, 2009
After nearly 3 years and a dozen death threats, Maxine seems ready to go. She struggles to stay upright and wobbles on four bony legs. Her fur is thinning, gray-specked and no longer shiny. Her eyes look distant and hazy.
I don’t want to keep her here longer than she wants to be here. I don’t want her to suffer.
Max has fluid around her heart and lungs and digestive problems. This year the vet also found tumors. But she did not seem to be in pain and even purred at the vet that day, a definite first. She ate well and played with her mousy. She was not ready to go yet.
It's amazing she's lasted this long. After she was hospitalized in 2006 following a spewing spree that left her dehydrated, we worked out a regiment of steroid pills and Pepcid. Dr. Whisler gave her an estimated 3 to 6 months to live.
No heroic measures or invasive procedures. She wouldn’t want it that way. I wanted to maintain some dignity for my beautiful girl, who has been at my side for 15 years.
The 3 extra years meant sleepless nights when Max got sick or woke me up because she was hungry again, a sign that the steroids were working. Or she would fight or fuss with her new roommates, two rescued kittens we adopted that entertain and annoy her in equal measure.
I will let her go, I’ve said, if she will just tell me when it is the right time.
Last week was bad but she rebounded and started eating again. I left notes for the catsitter to that effect when we left town Thursday. She once again seemed to defy death.
Day one. “She seems normal,” texted our catsitter of several years and several long trips. “No problems.”
Day two, my cell phone didn’t get any text messages so I thought all was well.
Day three my husband picked up a facebook message from Saturday: “Hard time pilling Max today, she hid under bed. I had 2 resort 2 using broom 2 get her out. Got her pilled under dining room table. Gave shot, b/c she's grumpy.”
A broom? A pill and shot? The shot was to be given once a week instead of pills, an extra large dose if needed. The steroid reduces inflammation and makes her hungry; it’s not a happy pill. However, Maxine seemed fine when we got home Sunday night and happy to see us.
But not for long. She ate little and has not kept steroid pills down since we got back. She’s thrown up every night and morning. With no food in her system, a white foamy liquid comes out. I gave her Pepcid to settle her stomach, and she kept that down, thankfully.
Max has taken to hiding, under the bed or dining room table when I come out of the kitchen. She knows where the pills are. She’s made it clear she wants no more of them. I want to respect her decision.
But no more steroid pills… means the end is very near.
Max is on hunger strike rations. She eats to please me, but barely. She eats from my fingertips. She sips tuna juice. She licks gravy from Fancy Feast cans. Then she walks, crookedly, away.
I wonder when to call the vet. Reason for appointment? To put her to sleep.
It seems logical and humane but also awful --- scheduling her death.
Is it better to let her die at home or help make it peaceful and painless – and planned - with both of us present? The latter always made sense and I want to be there at the end to comfort her. And I want my husband to get us there and comfort me.
I had the vet’s number in front of me all morning and couldn't make the call. Is Thursday better or Friday? For Jack’s work schedule? For me? For Maxine? Either... Neither.
When I got myself together enough to call, it was 12:23. Uptown Animal Hospital closed at Noon. I sigh in relief, but I know it is temporary. I’ll be in this same place tomorrow.
Her face is still beautiful with big blue eyes, white eye liner and black mask. But her scrawny body is a shell of her former healthy self. She still purrs instantly when I pet the top of her head.
I look in her eyes and believe she is ready to go. I got the message, Max, thank you.
I thought I was ready to let her go... but this is still a hard call to make.
Postscript - Fri. July 17 - 10:00 a.m.
I've just returned from the vet, with an empty carrier. My girl is gone. She fell asleep purring with me and my husband at her side this morning. I am not making this up: the vet was crying when he came in the room. She was really skinny, he noted, as well as jaundiced and unsteady.
She was still so beautiful, even at the end, that it made the reality harder to believe. But she is gone and I am now on the roller coaster ride that is grief. Rest in peace, pussycat.
After nearly 3 years and a dozen death threats, Maxine seems ready to go. She struggles to stay upright and wobbles on four bony legs. Her fur is thinning, gray-specked and no longer shiny. Her eyes look distant and hazy.
I don’t want to keep her here longer than she wants to be here. I don’t want her to suffer.
Max has fluid around her heart and lungs and digestive problems. This year the vet also found tumors. But she did not seem to be in pain and even purred at the vet that day, a definite first. She ate well and played with her mousy. She was not ready to go yet.
It's amazing she's lasted this long. After she was hospitalized in 2006 following a spewing spree that left her dehydrated, we worked out a regiment of steroid pills and Pepcid. Dr. Whisler gave her an estimated 3 to 6 months to live.
No heroic measures or invasive procedures. She wouldn’t want it that way. I wanted to maintain some dignity for my beautiful girl, who has been at my side for 15 years.
The 3 extra years meant sleepless nights when Max got sick or woke me up because she was hungry again, a sign that the steroids were working. Or she would fight or fuss with her new roommates, two rescued kittens we adopted that entertain and annoy her in equal measure.
I will let her go, I’ve said, if she will just tell me when it is the right time.
Last week was bad but she rebounded and started eating again. I left notes for the catsitter to that effect when we left town Thursday. She once again seemed to defy death.
Day one. “She seems normal,” texted our catsitter of several years and several long trips. “No problems.”
Day two, my cell phone didn’t get any text messages so I thought all was well.
Day three my husband picked up a facebook message from Saturday: “Hard time pilling Max today, she hid under bed. I had 2 resort 2 using broom 2 get her out. Got her pilled under dining room table. Gave shot, b/c she's grumpy.”
A broom? A pill and shot? The shot was to be given once a week instead of pills, an extra large dose if needed. The steroid reduces inflammation and makes her hungry; it’s not a happy pill. However, Maxine seemed fine when we got home Sunday night and happy to see us.
But not for long. She ate little and has not kept steroid pills down since we got back. She’s thrown up every night and morning. With no food in her system, a white foamy liquid comes out. I gave her Pepcid to settle her stomach, and she kept that down, thankfully.
Max has taken to hiding, under the bed or dining room table when I come out of the kitchen. She knows where the pills are. She’s made it clear she wants no more of them. I want to respect her decision.
But no more steroid pills… means the end is very near.
Max is on hunger strike rations. She eats to please me, but barely. She eats from my fingertips. She sips tuna juice. She licks gravy from Fancy Feast cans. Then she walks, crookedly, away.
I wonder when to call the vet. Reason for appointment? To put her to sleep.
It seems logical and humane but also awful --- scheduling her death.
Is it better to let her die at home or help make it peaceful and painless – and planned - with both of us present? The latter always made sense and I want to be there at the end to comfort her. And I want my husband to get us there and comfort me.
I had the vet’s number in front of me all morning and couldn't make the call. Is Thursday better or Friday? For Jack’s work schedule? For me? For Maxine? Either... Neither.
When I got myself together enough to call, it was 12:23. Uptown Animal Hospital closed at Noon. I sigh in relief, but I know it is temporary. I’ll be in this same place tomorrow.
Her face is still beautiful with big blue eyes, white eye liner and black mask. But her scrawny body is a shell of her former healthy self. She still purrs instantly when I pet the top of her head.
I look in her eyes and believe she is ready to go. I got the message, Max, thank you.
I thought I was ready to let her go... but this is still a hard call to make.
Postscript - Fri. July 17 - 10:00 a.m.
I've just returned from the vet, with an empty carrier. My girl is gone. She fell asleep purring with me and my husband at her side this morning. I am not making this up: the vet was crying when he came in the room. She was really skinny, he noted, as well as jaundiced and unsteady.
She was still so beautiful, even at the end, that it made the reality harder to believe. But she is gone and I am now on the roller coaster ride that is grief. Rest in peace, pussycat.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Perfectly… pigmented?
“So, what’s the deal… with your face?”
I hadn’t seen my brother in several months as our gang didn’t have our usual Easter gathering this year. He and his wife had arrived at our condo just a few minutes before he asked me this in the kitchen.
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, or if he was serious. Then I realized what he meant… the dark blotches of skin on my face.
It was not a sunburn or patchy tan. I wish!
It was not rosacea or reddish-pink coloring on my cheeks, which I have had in the past from heat, alcohol or exercise. That always went away.
This site about rosacea - http://www.rosacea.org/patients/materials/triggers.php - lists just about everything I eat as a possible trigger. That’s why I’d ignored the problem till now.
It was not an allergic reaction, as my brother suspected. My sister in law has allergies that include cats, for which I gave her a Benadryl (as 3 felines roam our home). Again, I wish.
None of the above. These spots showed up in the last 9 months – and never went away.
Brown patches along my cheekbones almost to my ears, above my upper lip and, biggest and most obvious, a devil-horned shape in the middle of my forehead. The last one is the most disturbing – and distracting – when I look in the mirror each morning.
I keep hoping the spots will disappear and I’ll look in the mirror one day and see my old self. But I’m starting to lose hope. And seek help.
I look younger than my nearly 42 years and am still carded, which people tell me is a great compliment. My skin has been one of my best assets, until now.
For many years I’ve put lotion on my whole body after I shower and also on my face, particularly around my eyes, which have few signs of wrinkles. My “almost makeup” contains lotion and an SPF of 15 and I use it almost religiously.
My olive skin tends to brown easily and not burn. Except for a painful lapse in Tahiti and occasional minor breakouts, my skin and face have been healthy and happy.
But something happened after my last birthday. The pink cheeks turned beige then brown and other patches and spots appeared.
It is called “hyperpigmentation.”
The cause is unknown, it is often genetic, is exacerbated by sunshine, and once it shows up it’s there to stay. That’s what the aesthetician said at Allyu Spa - http://www.allyuspa.com/ - after an extensive 7-part, hour-long treatment and review under lamps.
“Your skin is perfectly healthy,” she said. “It’s not at all oily or dry, which is rare, and there is no visible sun damage.” Great, except for those big distracting brown spots.
A dermatologist might figure out the cause, she continued, but 90% of the time it is genetic (thanks, Mom?) and won’t go away on its own. Most derms use chemicals or lasers to lighten or remove spots.
According to a professional dermatologists site - http://www.aocd.org/skin/dermatologic_diseases/hyperpigmentation.html - the condition is called “melasma” and is most often caused by hormonal changes, often in pregnant women. Which I am not.
For more natural approaches, I could try salon products (expensive) or add a few drops of lemon to my lotion for lightening effect. There is also a succulent plant related to aloe the aesthetician called stonecrop or ‘chicks n’ hens’ that might be worth a try.
I’ve got lemons in the fridge and am fighting the urge to cut one open and juice it on my forehead.
First I’ll try the plant, which I picked up at Gethesmane last week - http://www.gethsemanegardens.com/ . It’s cuter than aloe with rounded leaves spreading from its center like a desert rose and small babies ("chicks") hanging on the sides. The leaves can be snapped open like aloe to reveal a cool liquid inside.
I’ve used it twice after washing my face and massaging it in to increase circulation (as my chiropractor suggested). This clearly isn’t Harry Potter magic and I've seen no changes yet.
I asked a friend about her dermatologist, highly recommended. It's good to have options and information. Rosacea and melasma are listed as treatable conditions on the derm's site, http://www.lincolnparkdermatology.com/ , so maybe that's a good sign. I'm going to make an appointment.
“You could also get a tan,” the aesthetician said, chuckling. “That would cover it up.”
I'm hitting the beach today with a friend. But I’m keeping tabs on those lemons, just in case.
I hadn’t seen my brother in several months as our gang didn’t have our usual Easter gathering this year. He and his wife had arrived at our condo just a few minutes before he asked me this in the kitchen.
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, or if he was serious. Then I realized what he meant… the dark blotches of skin on my face.
It was not a sunburn or patchy tan. I wish!
It was not rosacea or reddish-pink coloring on my cheeks, which I have had in the past from heat, alcohol or exercise. That always went away.
This site about rosacea - http://www.rosacea.org/patients/materials/triggers.php - lists just about everything I eat as a possible trigger. That’s why I’d ignored the problem till now.
It was not an allergic reaction, as my brother suspected. My sister in law has allergies that include cats, for which I gave her a Benadryl (as 3 felines roam our home). Again, I wish.
None of the above. These spots showed up in the last 9 months – and never went away.
Brown patches along my cheekbones almost to my ears, above my upper lip and, biggest and most obvious, a devil-horned shape in the middle of my forehead. The last one is the most disturbing – and distracting – when I look in the mirror each morning.
I keep hoping the spots will disappear and I’ll look in the mirror one day and see my old self. But I’m starting to lose hope. And seek help.
I look younger than my nearly 42 years and am still carded, which people tell me is a great compliment. My skin has been one of my best assets, until now.
For many years I’ve put lotion on my whole body after I shower and also on my face, particularly around my eyes, which have few signs of wrinkles. My “almost makeup” contains lotion and an SPF of 15 and I use it almost religiously.
My olive skin tends to brown easily and not burn. Except for a painful lapse in Tahiti and occasional minor breakouts, my skin and face have been healthy and happy.
But something happened after my last birthday. The pink cheeks turned beige then brown and other patches and spots appeared.
It is called “hyperpigmentation.”
The cause is unknown, it is often genetic, is exacerbated by sunshine, and once it shows up it’s there to stay. That’s what the aesthetician said at Allyu Spa - http://www.allyuspa.com/ - after an extensive 7-part, hour-long treatment and review under lamps.
“Your skin is perfectly healthy,” she said. “It’s not at all oily or dry, which is rare, and there is no visible sun damage.” Great, except for those big distracting brown spots.
A dermatologist might figure out the cause, she continued, but 90% of the time it is genetic (thanks, Mom?) and won’t go away on its own. Most derms use chemicals or lasers to lighten or remove spots.
According to a professional dermatologists site - http://www.aocd.org/skin/dermatologic_diseases/hyperpigmentation.html - the condition is called “melasma” and is most often caused by hormonal changes, often in pregnant women. Which I am not.
For more natural approaches, I could try salon products (expensive) or add a few drops of lemon to my lotion for lightening effect. There is also a succulent plant related to aloe the aesthetician called stonecrop or ‘chicks n’ hens’ that might be worth a try.
I’ve got lemons in the fridge and am fighting the urge to cut one open and juice it on my forehead.
First I’ll try the plant, which I picked up at Gethesmane last week - http://www.gethsemanegardens.com/ . It’s cuter than aloe with rounded leaves spreading from its center like a desert rose and small babies ("chicks") hanging on the sides. The leaves can be snapped open like aloe to reveal a cool liquid inside.
I’ve used it twice after washing my face and massaging it in to increase circulation (as my chiropractor suggested). This clearly isn’t Harry Potter magic and I've seen no changes yet.
I asked a friend about her dermatologist, highly recommended. It's good to have options and information. Rosacea and melasma are listed as treatable conditions on the derm's site, http://www.lincolnparkdermatology.com/ , so maybe that's a good sign. I'm going to make an appointment.
“You could also get a tan,” the aesthetician said, chuckling. “That would cover it up.”
I'm hitting the beach today with a friend. But I’m keeping tabs on those lemons, just in case.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Biking, beaches and... babe?!
I took my bike to Navy Pier Thurs. night to see Cirque Shanghai at the Skyline Theater. It was the first time I’d hit the lakefront path this summer heading south.
I’d planned to bike to work this summer… once I got caught up after my Peru trip, hit my big work deadline and the intense heat and humidity passed. But as any Chicagoan knows the weather forecasters are as likely wrong as right and circumstances will never be perfect. We just have to get out there and do our thing anyways.
At my Montrose starting point, there is a lot of park between Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan and a lot of paths, paved and unpaved. But as you head south, the lake waters get closer to the drive and funnel all park-goers and -doers into a narrow concrete band.
It’s a chaotic mix of joggers, walkers, bikers, bladers and sunbathers when you reach North Avenue Beach. Many seem blissfully unaware that anyone else is using the path - or of any conventions or courtesies for sharing roads, such as staying to the right and allowing others to pass on the left.
I wonder how many collisions, injuries or other troubles occur on this path on an average summer day - and who keeps track of such things. Chicago Magazine, for starters: http://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/June-2009/Lake-Advisory/
Some people point out that it is the Chicago LAKEFRONT Path not Bicycle Path. But the painted images of bicycles on the paved path along the drive with dashed-yellow-line (like a road) suggest otherwise.
Bike Chicago, which rents bikes including 4-person big rigs seen along the lakefront, says Chicago’s lakefront is a “biking paradise.” And this site applauds the city’s great 18-mile bike trail: http://www.great-trails.com/lakefront.shtml .
Bike Chicago also organizes tours including one of President Obama’s ‘hood with sights such as the Osaka gardens, DuSable Museum and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House as well as the Obamas’ home and the place Barack and Michelle had their first kiss (who could resist that?): http://www.bikechicago.com/tours/
“No swimming after 7.”
As I biked between Fullerton and North avenues I heard a booming male voice over the speaker system say the beach was closed. No swimming after 7:00 p.m., it said, but feel free to come back tomorrow when the beach re-opens at 11:00 a.m. Wait, huh?!
There are thousands of people out and dozens in the water getting much-needed exercise and fresh air --- and the park district is forcing them onto dry land - when it’s still in the upper 80’s and humid?!
It is true, according to the Chicago Park District beach site -http://www.chicagoparkdistrict.com/resources/beaches/ - it says: “Starting this season swimming is allowed at beaches from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. unless otherwise posted.”
According to the site, Montrose and 5 other beaches open early, at 9:30 a.m. The others are: Leone, North Avenue, 31st Street, 63rd Street, South Shore and Calumet. My guess is lifeguard hours were cut to save money due to budget shortfalls - but it seems harsh to have our already short summers and summer activities cut even shorter.
I pedaled along.
A woman walked a tiny dog, barely visible in the dimming light as it weaved back and forth. Adults with kids walked in the middle or on the wrong (their left) side of the path. Bikers talked – even texted – on cell phones with no hands on their brakes despite the crowds and congestion. It seemed like one accident-waiting-to-happen after another.
The ferris wheel at the pier came into view as I rounded the curve of LSD, pleased to have navigated successfully and safely through the crazy crowds. I was trying to count the neon-capped lap swimmers near Oak Street Beach as a gray-haired biker approached. As he zoomed by, he called out “On your left, babe.”
Thanks for the heads up, dude, but skip the nickname next time. Let’s leave it at left.
I’d planned to bike to work this summer… once I got caught up after my Peru trip, hit my big work deadline and the intense heat and humidity passed. But as any Chicagoan knows the weather forecasters are as likely wrong as right and circumstances will never be perfect. We just have to get out there and do our thing anyways.
At my Montrose starting point, there is a lot of park between Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan and a lot of paths, paved and unpaved. But as you head south, the lake waters get closer to the drive and funnel all park-goers and -doers into a narrow concrete band.
It’s a chaotic mix of joggers, walkers, bikers, bladers and sunbathers when you reach North Avenue Beach. Many seem blissfully unaware that anyone else is using the path - or of any conventions or courtesies for sharing roads, such as staying to the right and allowing others to pass on the left.
I wonder how many collisions, injuries or other troubles occur on this path on an average summer day - and who keeps track of such things. Chicago Magazine, for starters: http://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/June-2009/Lake-Advisory/
Some people point out that it is the Chicago LAKEFRONT Path not Bicycle Path. But the painted images of bicycles on the paved path along the drive with dashed-yellow-line (like a road) suggest otherwise.
Bike Chicago, which rents bikes including 4-person big rigs seen along the lakefront, says Chicago’s lakefront is a “biking paradise.” And this site applauds the city’s great 18-mile bike trail: http://www.great-trails.com/lakefront.shtml .
Bike Chicago also organizes tours including one of President Obama’s ‘hood with sights such as the Osaka gardens, DuSable Museum and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House as well as the Obamas’ home and the place Barack and Michelle had their first kiss (who could resist that?): http://www.bikechicago.com/tours/
“No swimming after 7.”
As I biked between Fullerton and North avenues I heard a booming male voice over the speaker system say the beach was closed. No swimming after 7:00 p.m., it said, but feel free to come back tomorrow when the beach re-opens at 11:00 a.m. Wait, huh?!
There are thousands of people out and dozens in the water getting much-needed exercise and fresh air --- and the park district is forcing them onto dry land - when it’s still in the upper 80’s and humid?!
It is true, according to the Chicago Park District beach site -http://www.chicagoparkdistrict.com/resources/beaches/ - it says: “Starting this season swimming is allowed at beaches from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. unless otherwise posted.”
According to the site, Montrose and 5 other beaches open early, at 9:30 a.m. The others are: Leone, North Avenue, 31st Street, 63rd Street, South Shore and Calumet. My guess is lifeguard hours were cut to save money due to budget shortfalls - but it seems harsh to have our already short summers and summer activities cut even shorter.
I pedaled along.
A woman walked a tiny dog, barely visible in the dimming light as it weaved back and forth. Adults with kids walked in the middle or on the wrong (their left) side of the path. Bikers talked – even texted – on cell phones with no hands on their brakes despite the crowds and congestion. It seemed like one accident-waiting-to-happen after another.
The ferris wheel at the pier came into view as I rounded the curve of LSD, pleased to have navigated successfully and safely through the crazy crowds. I was trying to count the neon-capped lap swimmers near Oak Street Beach as a gray-haired biker approached. As he zoomed by, he called out “On your left, babe.”
Thanks for the heads up, dude, but skip the nickname next time. Let’s leave it at left.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Machu Picchu calling
Sun shining in the window of seat 2F warms my legs and toes. I settle in to the wide leather seat on American flight 757 to Miami with my book, journal and itinerary. Gingerale and warm mixed nuts appear at my side, brought by a smiling attendant, who offers earphones for the movie.
Our flight is delayed out of O’Hare as they fix some switch or something in the cockpit, which might bother me if I were an anxious traveler. But I am not.
It’s the start of a 2-week trip to the Andes Mountains and Amazon Jungle. I brought more pharmaceuticals than I’ve ever had in my house at one time, got geared up for all conditions, walked many flights of stairs, read travel books and real-life stories of Peruvian explorers and missionaries, took camera classes and practiced Spanish.
I planned this much-anticipated trip with surprisingly little input from my husband, who sits beside me reading a sci fi novel. He is already in vacation mode, and we haven’t left the city. This is the way to go international... but you have to book early and I booked this in December.
Machu Picchu beckoned. So did the historic and still-used Inca Trail that would take us there. Hiking 4 days in mountains and through cloud forests created a powerful mixture of physical challenge and natural beauty I could not resist. It’s also a spiritual connection with the earth – or "pachamama" to the native Quechua - that at times I struggle to feel in so-urban Chicago.
The trail showed Inca life, past and present. Some locals that live by the trail set up rest areas where they sell water, Gatorade and sometimes "chicha,"a corn-based brew women make by chewing the grain to help ferment it (saliva helps break it down). Locals take llamas along the trail and carry mantas (tablecloths) with goods, food and children slung onto their backs.
Ruins and terracing lie all along the trail and more are still being discovered, or UN-covered. It is hard to fathom how such huge rocks - on such high mountains -could be so perfectly carved and fitted together even using today's tools and technology.
The topography changed from dry desert with eucalyptus trees like in Southern California to gracefully flowing grasses like in the American plains to mosses and molds like in Ireland or other boggy areas to the magical cloud forest on our way to camp the 2nd night, where I enjoyed the most beautiful sunset - and the briefest moon rise and set - from my tent.
Machu Picchu was the destination that the journey made all the sweeter. It was a stroke of luck that trains from Cuzco were not running the day we got there (due to worker strikes). We had this wonder of the world practically to ourselves, with busses departing every 5-10 minutes to take us back to hot showers and civilization, in the nearby town of Aguas Calientes.
It was a disparate trip in many ways. Luckily, I like contrasts and contradictions.
For starters, flying first class to go camping, where for 3 nights we would sleep on the cold, hard ground (wearing winter hats to stay warm), be unable to bathe, wake before the sun and relieve ourselves in outhouses that were simply holes in the ground with walls around them.
Even in cities we visited, if bathrooms had flush toilets we would often need our own toilet paper. If there was running water, we still needed to sanitize our hands and boil, purify or buy water to use or drink. No problem: I was armed with wet wipes, tissues and sanitizer.
The people and accommodations may have been smaller and simpler than North American standards, but there was a warmth and ease with our hoteliers, hosts and guides that felt distinctly South American.
Los Ninos Hotel in Cuzco, http://www.ninoshotel.com/ was where we stayed before and after the Inca Trail. With hotel proceeds, the owner provides food, education and medical care to more than 500 kids, for whom we collected and brought clothes, school supplies and toys. We met a few of the kids, some young and some grown up, during our tour of nearby facilities.
The hotel staff brought us coca tea, which helps reduce altitude sickness, in the lovely courtyard and put us in a room by 9 a.m. at no extra charge. They stored our luggage while we were on the trail and paid for our laundry that was dropped off while we were out at dinner after the trail.
Textiles, jewelry and other goods sold on side streets, sidewalks and small stores were well-made, often by hand, and remarkably cheap. Converting Nuevo Soles to dollars did not help us comprehend or bridge the financial gap between local Peruvians and ourselves.
A suggested tip on the trail was 30 Soles, about $10, for 4 days of hard work for the porters who, though small in stature and some wearing sandals, lugged all our gear and camp supplies up and down the trails – leaving us in the dust and in awe -as they did so. We tipped more than 100 Soles, but we still wondered if it was fair.
Heroically called chaskies after the traditional messengers that ran from village to village, they set up camp before we hauled our butts and legs in at dusk and brought bowls of warm water, soap and clean towels to our tents. They also delivered hot coca tea to our tents for our morning wake-up calls, asking if we wanted sugar, one spoon or two.
Just-popped popcorn and six-course nightly meals included fresh soups, vegetables, eggs, rice, pasta and meat dishes. We had breakfast, snacks and lunch along the trail, usually in a big blue tent at a long table with stools (also carried by chaskies on the trail) that fit 16 of us plus super-guide Saul and his sidekick for this trip Eder of SAS Travel Peru, www.sastravelperu.com/ .
The disparity continued in the Amazon Jungle, which we visited via Tambopata Nature Reserve. We flew from Cuzco to Puerto Maldonado, which was surrounded by brown mud roads, faded houses and all conceivable types and shapes of green foliage.
For a place so teaming with plant and animal life, the soil was a surprising reddish-brown color and clay-like texture and filled the rivers, including the Tambopata River we boated to our eco-lodge, Refugio Amazonas, http://www.perunature.com/ .
The lodge only uses a generator from 5 to 9 p.m. each day and has no exterior walls, so it’s open for people, birds and animals to commingle at will. A bat circled the lodge as we sat at the bar, considering which fruity drink to ask our friendly bartender Fernando for next.
Despite the simplicity and lack of electricity, the lodge and guest rooms were elegant and comfy and nightly room service included pulling mosquito nets down around each bed and lighting the 3 oil lamps that lined the exterior wall along the corridor. Rooms had curtains in place of doors.
Frogs frequented the guest bathrooms and all kinds of crazy bird calls could be heard from our open-ended rooms (open to the jungle on the far side), giving visual but not audio privacy that we were used to at this point in our trip. Most critters stayed in the forest and entertained us from a distance.
We walked through mud sporting Wellington boots provided by the lodge and – surprise!? – it rains a lot in the rainforest! Here 4 a.m. was a popular wake-up time – to see the critters. I got a massage before I turned in one night at 9 p.m. (when the power goes off ) – another nice luxury.
Our last night was in Lima, hub for international flights. Our visit was very short – about 12 hours – and very sweet - we got Swiss chocolates from our luxury taxi driver and chocolate-covered strawberries in our rooms at the 5-star Swissotel.
We had food and drinks on the executive club level and the only sightseeing we did was from our hotel rooms. A wonderful way to return to reality. Can you blame us for not wanting to leave?
I could not resist a giant bubble bath. I basked in the luxury, cleaned jungle mud and trail dirt from nails and hair - and reflected on a trip well done. Months of planning paid off, we had everything we needed, stayed mostly healthy, got around and along well, used our Spanish, hiked the Inca Trail and in the Amazon Jungle – and had an amazing time!
As we soaked in the tub, with bubbles halfway to the ceiling, my husband asked "Is this what you had in mind (when I proposed in a bathtub 12 years earlier)?" I replied: "Exactly..."
Our flight is delayed out of O’Hare as they fix some switch or something in the cockpit, which might bother me if I were an anxious traveler. But I am not.
It’s the start of a 2-week trip to the Andes Mountains and Amazon Jungle. I brought more pharmaceuticals than I’ve ever had in my house at one time, got geared up for all conditions, walked many flights of stairs, read travel books and real-life stories of Peruvian explorers and missionaries, took camera classes and practiced Spanish.
I planned this much-anticipated trip with surprisingly little input from my husband, who sits beside me reading a sci fi novel. He is already in vacation mode, and we haven’t left the city. This is the way to go international... but you have to book early and I booked this in December.
Machu Picchu beckoned. So did the historic and still-used Inca Trail that would take us there. Hiking 4 days in mountains and through cloud forests created a powerful mixture of physical challenge and natural beauty I could not resist. It’s also a spiritual connection with the earth – or "pachamama" to the native Quechua - that at times I struggle to feel in so-urban Chicago.
The trail showed Inca life, past and present. Some locals that live by the trail set up rest areas where they sell water, Gatorade and sometimes "chicha,"a corn-based brew women make by chewing the grain to help ferment it (saliva helps break it down). Locals take llamas along the trail and carry mantas (tablecloths) with goods, food and children slung onto their backs.
Ruins and terracing lie all along the trail and more are still being discovered, or UN-covered. It is hard to fathom how such huge rocks - on such high mountains -could be so perfectly carved and fitted together even using today's tools and technology.
The topography changed from dry desert with eucalyptus trees like in Southern California to gracefully flowing grasses like in the American plains to mosses and molds like in Ireland or other boggy areas to the magical cloud forest on our way to camp the 2nd night, where I enjoyed the most beautiful sunset - and the briefest moon rise and set - from my tent.
Machu Picchu was the destination that the journey made all the sweeter. It was a stroke of luck that trains from Cuzco were not running the day we got there (due to worker strikes). We had this wonder of the world practically to ourselves, with busses departing every 5-10 minutes to take us back to hot showers and civilization, in the nearby town of Aguas Calientes.
It was a disparate trip in many ways. Luckily, I like contrasts and contradictions.
For starters, flying first class to go camping, where for 3 nights we would sleep on the cold, hard ground (wearing winter hats to stay warm), be unable to bathe, wake before the sun and relieve ourselves in outhouses that were simply holes in the ground with walls around them.
Even in cities we visited, if bathrooms had flush toilets we would often need our own toilet paper. If there was running water, we still needed to sanitize our hands and boil, purify or buy water to use or drink. No problem: I was armed with wet wipes, tissues and sanitizer.
The people and accommodations may have been smaller and simpler than North American standards, but there was a warmth and ease with our hoteliers, hosts and guides that felt distinctly South American.
Los Ninos Hotel in Cuzco, http://www.ninoshotel.com/ was where we stayed before and after the Inca Trail. With hotel proceeds, the owner provides food, education and medical care to more than 500 kids, for whom we collected and brought clothes, school supplies and toys. We met a few of the kids, some young and some grown up, during our tour of nearby facilities.
The hotel staff brought us coca tea, which helps reduce altitude sickness, in the lovely courtyard and put us in a room by 9 a.m. at no extra charge. They stored our luggage while we were on the trail and paid for our laundry that was dropped off while we were out at dinner after the trail.
Textiles, jewelry and other goods sold on side streets, sidewalks and small stores were well-made, often by hand, and remarkably cheap. Converting Nuevo Soles to dollars did not help us comprehend or bridge the financial gap between local Peruvians and ourselves.
A suggested tip on the trail was 30 Soles, about $10, for 4 days of hard work for the porters who, though small in stature and some wearing sandals, lugged all our gear and camp supplies up and down the trails – leaving us in the dust and in awe -as they did so. We tipped more than 100 Soles, but we still wondered if it was fair.
Heroically called chaskies after the traditional messengers that ran from village to village, they set up camp before we hauled our butts and legs in at dusk and brought bowls of warm water, soap and clean towels to our tents. They also delivered hot coca tea to our tents for our morning wake-up calls, asking if we wanted sugar, one spoon or two.
Just-popped popcorn and six-course nightly meals included fresh soups, vegetables, eggs, rice, pasta and meat dishes. We had breakfast, snacks and lunch along the trail, usually in a big blue tent at a long table with stools (also carried by chaskies on the trail) that fit 16 of us plus super-guide Saul and his sidekick for this trip Eder of SAS Travel Peru, www.sastravelperu.com/ .
The disparity continued in the Amazon Jungle, which we visited via Tambopata Nature Reserve. We flew from Cuzco to Puerto Maldonado, which was surrounded by brown mud roads, faded houses and all conceivable types and shapes of green foliage.
For a place so teaming with plant and animal life, the soil was a surprising reddish-brown color and clay-like texture and filled the rivers, including the Tambopata River we boated to our eco-lodge, Refugio Amazonas, http://www.perunature.com/ .
The lodge only uses a generator from 5 to 9 p.m. each day and has no exterior walls, so it’s open for people, birds and animals to commingle at will. A bat circled the lodge as we sat at the bar, considering which fruity drink to ask our friendly bartender Fernando for next.
Despite the simplicity and lack of electricity, the lodge and guest rooms were elegant and comfy and nightly room service included pulling mosquito nets down around each bed and lighting the 3 oil lamps that lined the exterior wall along the corridor. Rooms had curtains in place of doors.
Frogs frequented the guest bathrooms and all kinds of crazy bird calls could be heard from our open-ended rooms (open to the jungle on the far side), giving visual but not audio privacy that we were used to at this point in our trip. Most critters stayed in the forest and entertained us from a distance.
We walked through mud sporting Wellington boots provided by the lodge and – surprise!? – it rains a lot in the rainforest! Here 4 a.m. was a popular wake-up time – to see the critters. I got a massage before I turned in one night at 9 p.m. (when the power goes off ) – another nice luxury.
Our last night was in Lima, hub for international flights. Our visit was very short – about 12 hours – and very sweet - we got Swiss chocolates from our luxury taxi driver and chocolate-covered strawberries in our rooms at the 5-star Swissotel.
We had food and drinks on the executive club level and the only sightseeing we did was from our hotel rooms. A wonderful way to return to reality. Can you blame us for not wanting to leave?
I could not resist a giant bubble bath. I basked in the luxury, cleaned jungle mud and trail dirt from nails and hair - and reflected on a trip well done. Months of planning paid off, we had everything we needed, stayed mostly healthy, got around and along well, used our Spanish, hiked the Inca Trail and in the Amazon Jungle – and had an amazing time!
As we soaked in the tub, with bubbles halfway to the ceiling, my husband asked "Is this what you had in mind (when I proposed in a bathtub 12 years earlier)?" I replied: "Exactly..."
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