An Extra Few Pounds

Posted on April 20, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

My girlfriend told me she thought I was “looking PLUMP” the other day. I was already on my way to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for the famous Cabbage Soup diet and needed to call to ask her opinion before purchasing the ingredients. I did not ask her opinion on my weight, however, which incidentally is only up about 3 pounds. I do not have a problem maintaining my weight at home. It is press trips, where they wine and dine us to excess that it is easy to add a few pounds by the week’s end.

Does anyone have to tell us that we feel some extra flesh around our middle when we zip up fitted pants or sit at our desk and some belly pooches over? Or, how about when we look in the mirror? Any doubts there? I’m not even talking climbing onto the scale. But I did that day and I was horrified, enough to go on the cabbage soup diet, a real winner when it comes to shedding 5 pounds.

Besides the fact that I am leaving on another press trip and I still have the 3 pounds from the last press trip on made me buy the ingredients for the diet. That, and I allowed the artists at the Berks County Art Council Thursday workshop to talk me into modeling again. (It was supposed to be once and done as research for my new book). So if anyone of you thinks you can kid yourself about what you really look like or that you haven’t gained a few extra pounds, try taking your clothing off in front of over a dozen clothed people who will be staring at you for 3 hours and then RECORDING what they see. Good incentive. And by the way, they usually add 5-10 pounds naturally, like a camera.

So I had not a single problem sticking to the diet. When I walked into the studio at the art institute on Thursday, I saw that there was a huge floor to ceiling mirror on the opposite side of the modeling stand. It was never revealed in the 25 years I previously modeled.

“That is not acceptable,” I announce loudly to all.

One man said, “What if someone wants to draw the back side of you?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Which of you in here would like to look at themselves in a 10’ X 10’ wide mirror for three hours, two feet from your face. It’s not happening. I will get dressed and go home right now.”

And so two old geezers stepped up onto a stool and rolled down the fabric backdrop.

One woman said to me, “You are brave. I don’t like the way I look WITH clothing on.”

So I am leaving tomorrow for my press trip to Lithuania & Estonia. I will climb onto the scale tomorrow and I feel certain I will not be disappointed. Once again, we KNOW when we lose weight, just like we KNOW when we gain weight. No one has to tell us.

My husband got married young- 23, but somehow, he figured out that the right answers to these questions…

“Do you think I look like I gained weight?”

“NO”
But then, “Do you think I look skinnier?”

“YES.”

These are the correct answers. He figured it out with something simple called kindness. We can do the rest ourselves.

Standing In a River is Enough

Posted on April 19, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

As I waded into the river and the current cut into my calves and the rich earthy smell of the water wafted up to my nose, I remembered why I strung my fly rod and pulled on my waders and caulk boots and tied on a wooley bugger fly and headed out into the middle of the Little Schuylkill to fish. It’ s all about the river.

It has been awhile- 2005, the license numbers flashed through my plastic pin-on case on my baseball cap. I needed a babysitter to bring me back up to snuff and my friend, John Herman obliged.

John was patient. We went out to the lawn and just practiced casting for awhile. With a few tips, after half an hour, I could pretty much lay the line down flat where I wanted it.

John and I go way back. Over 40 years actually. I used to have a mad crush on him as a young woman. He was practicing law at the time and used to challenge my brother at pool at Antietam’s Rec Center. His law office was close to my parents’ home and I frequently walked that way and used to stop in to chat. I remember one time, he asked to borrow my backpacking cook kit so I happily obliged. But when I brought it up to his office and unpacked it to give him operating instructions, it had never been cleaned when it was put away and was covered in blue mold. I was so embarrassed and knew I didn’t rack up any points. For whatever reason, I was not his type. That was OK.

The years passed and I met Todd. John helped us out when we were still single by letting me house sit his rustic cabin and his dogs which gave Todd and I a place to have sex when I still lived at my parents’ home. Then John got married. Over the decades, we stayed friends. And he took me duck and goose hunting down in Delaware where he has a camp and we slept in bunk beds and chatted like old high school friends and that felt like such a gift to me.

On the river the other day, it was so easy. John did not lose his patience, nor make fun of me, and when he grew tired of fishing, he walked the bridge above me and pointed out fish that he could see from his vantage point like a good guide should so I could aim; or, he just sat on the bank and happily waited for me to get my fill, just enjoying the peaceful river, never hurrying me.

John and I have not spent a ton of time together in these 40 years, but he knows my siblings, knows my history, knows my parents even, my neighborhood where I grew up, many of the same people from our past. On the river the other day, it felt so comfortable being with him, like I was with my brother.

I think it is very interesting to look back in your history and see how some people reappear after many years, to play different roles, serve different purposes in your life. I sometimes wonder about the future, who might resurface to make new memories. If I knew, it would be over, my life, and I certainly don’t want that . It is fun to just wait and see who orbits back in. who comes, like a caddis fly down the river to a hungry trout. I hold people like John higher than others. There is a lot to be said for accumulated years, for history.

My husband Todd teases me, “If you added up all the lessons you took you could probably fill a freezer full of fish.” I never did pay for a single fly-fishing lesson although I’ve had plenty. (multiple fly fishing stories on multiple rivers with multiple guides). For it very challenging to write a fly fishing story with a guide and take notes on a pad, photograph the experience, (and not fall in while you are doing these jobs, nor drop anything) listen, absorb, then try to actually fly fish . What part falls through the cracks is the remembering part.

But I don’t need to be reminded of is how much I love rivers and their constant movement, bringing new things down, hope. It was enough for me to just stand in the river all afternoon.

When it is all said and done, the important part is being IN THE RIVER and who you are IN THE RIVER WITH. It doesn’t matter if not a single fish ever makes it into the freezer.

Feeding Their Hunger-II (book blog)

Posted on April 5, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

When Bryce was a tot, he used to sing songs a capella with emotion and projection and then afterwards say to me, “Mom, do I sound like a professional singer?”

“Absolutely,” I would assure him, smiling affectionately.

I used to love to watch him from the audience in elementary school as he sang on stage with his class, his little clip-on tie and button down dress shirt, hair slicked back, standing so poker straight, hands stiff at his sides and singing his heart out, “I wanna ride my bicycle, I wanna ride my bicycle, seeing the world on these two wheels.” Little did he know his future would hold that exact activity.

He loved to sing and had an uncanny way of memorizing lyrics after hearing a song only one time. He also began writing poetry and his own song lyrics and when my girlfriend gave him her son’s old keyboard, Bryce’s life changed. Music had entered it. It was about this time that my girlfriend Nancy introduced him to hip-hop.

He took up break dancing and I purchased how-to videos by Mike Garcia. His father bought him a length of Masonite and he would practice windmills and hand spins with a glove on in front of the television. I took him to every dance performance I could find as well as spoken word performances and slam poetry. I enrolled him in piano classes and although his instructor encouraged him to memorize pieces as well as scales, he just wanted to write his own stuff- which he did, all the time. Before long, he had enough of his own material to cut a CD. I investigated recording studios and paid to have his first album cut. The first time we heard it playing over the sound system, we both got goose bumps and tears in our eyes. He really sounded like a professional singer!

All through the years, I was also enrolling him in every art class I could find at multiple art institutes- portrait painting, clay sculpture, illustration, life drawing. My goal was for him to train and practice his craft so he could acquire enough pieces to build a strong a art portfolio and get into art school. At first he resisted. “Maybe I don’t even want to be an artist. Maybe I want to be actor (he took my comment about him being dramatic all his life to heart) or a break dancer or a rapper.”

“You are a natural genesis when it comes to art. Schools will give you scholarships for your art work. They won’t just because you are good at pop locking or rhyming. You will need to feed yourself while you are waiting to be discovered.”

He equated me with the father in the “October Sky” film who tries to make his son work in the coal mine just because he did. All the son wanted to do was build rockets and work at NASA someday, which he ended up doing, after he rejected his fathers’ dream for him.

Being compared to that belligerent, selfish father in the film who gave no regard to his son’s dreams, made me pause. I heard echoes of my own father wanting me to be an art teacher and I had to go work in an iron ore mine to get the money to follow my dream of being a professional artist.

No, I told myself, I support this child. I am just trying to give him the tools to make him independent of his parents someday. I have never squelched a dream nor uttered one discouraging word.

When he learned that in order to go to school to be a dancer, he would have needed to take years of ballet etc., as well as music school needed him to have taken music lessons all his life in order to be competitive, he calmed down a bit. And when his art teachers began coming to us one by one exclaiming that in all their years of teaching, they have never had a student this gifted, Bryce began to believe he had a gift, over and above what his mother proclaimed. He also began to admit how very much he loved to illustrate.

I knew that. That is who he has been all his life.

But it is still important to feed his music addiction because I have always taught my children to try to cultivate multiple talents, learn many skills and have more than one way to make a living.

We bought Bryce a more professional keyboard and I scoured the newspapers for open mikes and coffee house opportunities where he could perform his original work.

As a homeschool facilitator, this is what I do: seek out learning opportunities; use my networking skills and make connections. I create opportunities where my children can learn, blossom and grow. Any parent could do this this. Your child does not need to be a home-schooler. I just take my job as a home-schooled facilitator seriously and do it passionately.

One music event at a local health food store/chiropractor ended up billing him as the sole performer one evening, much to Bryce’s shock. He only learned this while he was setting up his equipment, thinking he was going to one on a long list of performers. He was worried as he was fighting a cold, cough and sore throat but there was plenty of hot herbal tea to get him through, that and a packed house.

But he pulled the night off famously. We knew he had come full circle when a family of small children planted themselves right on the floor in front of his keyboard, stared open-mouth and sat on every lyric that poured from his mouth. When he took a break they came up to him and said,

“Are you a real rock star?”

“Kind of,” he said, playing with them.

This may be the closest Bryce comes to being “a professional singer” and that is okay with me.

But Bryce, at age twenty-one, is not settling. He has a huge repertoire of more sophisticated rap songs under his belt. He is looking into performing around Temple University and Philadelphia and his goals of being a famous rapper are still set high. (He relinquished his dream of being a famous break dancer however, but still draws quite a circle of fans at wedding receptions or whenever he has the opportunity to bust out with some moves). I have exhausted my contacts and ability however, as a home-school facilitator, when helping to pursue his career as a rapper. I can only offer my support at this stage of the game. On the other hand, I am very happy that he is scoring straight A’s in his graphic design/illustration classes. As a mother, I find comfort in knowing my child will not be hungry in the future.

It Takes a Village to Raise a Home-schooled Child- (book blog)

Posted on April 4, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

In October of 2004, a twist of fate brought Dr. Lee Reinert into my life. I was leading a group of women on a backpacking trip under the “Becoming an Outdoors Woman” Program sponsored by the Pennsylvania Game Commission. Lee had signed up late and had nine women ahead of her on the waiting list. She never dreamed all nine would opt out of their spot and she would come to hike right behind me and start a conversation on homeschooling, of all topics. Fate brought her to me.

Lee was a home-schooling educator and evaluator. I shared my thoughts and concerns about the decision to pull our kids out of public school- my doubts on whether I was intelligent enough to handle “teaching;” fearful that I would lose my life, never have a minute for myself or the chance to pursue my own work. As the miles clicked by, every fear she squashed and every question she had a positive answer for. She shared one inspirational story after another of students who excelled at home schooling, then went on to study at prestigious universities after being awarded hefty scholarships and then went on to change the world with their vision and passion. By the time, the backpacking trip was over, I was convinced we could do it.

Dr. Lynn Williams, another local home school evaluator, cheered me on too. “You’re already doing it, by traveling and presenting experiential learning to your children, you are home-schooling without making it official (signing an affidavit and logging hours) so why not make the kids do double-duty?”

This was the start of involving our friends in the raising and educating of our children.

Frank & Lila Fretz are perhaps our life’s greatest mentors. They taught us how to do many jobs related to building our home- how to mix mortar and lay block, how to remove slate, recycle, and roof with the salvaged material. They taught us how to garden, graft fruit trees, raise berries, grapes and chickens. So when it came time to raise and educate our children, they were all over it too.

Frank is a natural history illustrator and a fine artist. He gave us lessons in on-the-spot plein air painting, taught wood cutting, and helped Bryce write, illustrate and bound a book when he was thirteen. Lila taught the children how to marble, rug hook, and when Sierra became involved in politics her senior year of high school and Obama was campaigning, Lila shared articles with her, had discussions and broadened my child’s mind.

When I brought my children along on assignment for Scouting Magazine up in Maine’s 100 Mile Wilderness, they met Venture Crew Adviser, Tim Minnich of Alleghenyville, PA. He encouraged my kids to join the crew, made Sierra trip planner and leader and launched them onto a new way of adventuring in the outdoors- away and apart from mom and dad. The crew offered the opportunity to explore the outdoors all over the country and taught Sierra how to be a leader on wilderness adventures. The experiences learned here help launch Sierra into a summer job as a wilderness guide in the Boy Scout’s remote Double H Ranch, where she led teams of scouts and their leaders cross-country through the desert. This knowledge later gave her the tools to begin her own Outdoor Club at Temple University, Philadelphia, a 300-member strong organization that thrives years even after she graduated. Tim most importantly loved them as a mentor and friend for many years afterwards.

The advisers at the Unitarian Universalist Church that we attended- Barry & Joanna Groebel and Walt Axsmith broadened their minds and showed them that all religions have something to offer and learn from. From the Buddhist’s way to meditate, to the Native American way to sweat, to learning to see the value and worth in all religious teachings, take what you can use for yourself and never pass judgment. These teachers showed them the importance of service and volunteering and how to work towards equality and acceptance of all peoples’ truths and principles that Unitarian Universalist Churches are founded on.

Tom Davidock served an incalculable role as advisor to Sierra’s Schuylkill County Student Conservation Association that she founded and spear-headed for two years in high school. Then there was Dr. Karen Alexy, a wildlife biologist in Kentucky who welcomed and embraced both my children. She incorporated them into her field research in Kentucky’s elk range on the reclaimed mine lands. Every spring they both traveled to help out in the spring calf catch, and helped monitor the herd. Dr. Alexy was hugely instrumental in helping Sierra make decisions in the occupational path she chose in life.

These friends always treated our children as though they were their friends too, never a less-than, unknowing child. They took them fly fishing and hunting and flying in little Cessnas and canoeing down rivers and climbing peaks, without the watchful eye of their parents. They gave them the opportunity to begin to be adults, to think for themselves, make decisions, practice being leaders. These things can only begin to happen when children are away from their parents, but we parents have to make sure we are being replaced by QUALITY. I don’t pass my children on to just anybody.

Every adult friend contributed immense and unique knowledge to my children. The kind of experience and knowledge they could have never gleaned from a textbook. I have learned that this is very typical for home-schooled children. One of the lessons they learn is that ALL people, all ages, have much to offer. And they learn how to be a friend across all boundaries, not just in a small segregated peer group as in school. These are important lessons to learn in life at a young age for this is much closer to the way real life operates. I believe home-schooled children are better set up for adulthood because of experiences and opportunities like these- just one more gift of homeschooling.

What these adult friends also showed my children was their value and their worth. With the gift of their time and their knowledge, they held a mirror up to my children’s eyes and showed them inside, a glimpse of their true potential. Support. It means everything. It comes with love- that goes without saying. With these two, children can go on to do anything.

GROWING PAINS- (book blog)

Posted on April 3, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

I race over the ashen hill surrounding Mount Saint Helens, in a desperate attempt to escape. I have a new cell phone in my hand and a young woman’s shrieking voice is broadcasting out of it. Visitors turn and look as I bolt.

The phone is turned onto “speaker” and I have no idea how it was changed or how to rectify it. I do know the person on the other end is livid and I want to get away from the national park visitor’s center as quickly as I can.

“Sierra ! Stop yelling! You’re on speaker phone and everyone can hear you.”

I knew that when my daughter, Sierra first began college as a freshman, it was going to be hard on us; especially for her mother and her younger brother Bryce, for our trio had been happily home schooling together for years. So we shielded ourselves for our loss, by purchasing airplane flights. We were going to take a trip shortly after we moved her possessions into her dorm room, actually only hours later. We kept it from her until the last minute. She had enough to deal with. But she could not believe her brother and I were vacationing in Oregon and Washington while she was having growing pains in college. This was the first trip where she was not included- a difficult thing to accept. But as her brother said, “Why should my traveling life have to stop or even be limited just because Sierra is in college?”

Sierra had been to a dozen countries before she arrived at this point in her young adult life, and she shared nearly every one with her brother. A family that uses the whole world to learn together creates a special bond. No one in our family ever wants to miss out on an adventure or a new experience. She is resenting the fact that her brother and I were still living large while she was coping with profs, taking tests, writing papers, dealing with living in a tiny dorm room with a stranger. Sierra is experiencing the push/pull of growing up and breaking away. She wanted the phones so we could keep in touch, get ahold of her mother’s attention anytime she needed it and help make the transition.

When it came time to select a college, I made a circle around our home on the map and told Sierra that she had to find a college within a 2 ½ hour radius. I wanted her to have the option of coming home for the weekend, IF she needed the support and sanctuary. The first year of college is extremely challenging, plus, an alarming 70% of students who travel far away from home end up quitting their first year. I also knew Sierra’s tendency to be an over-achiever may need to be monitored. After not having tests as a homeschooler, she may apply considerable pressure on herself and not know when enough studying is enough. I wanted to set her up for success. The deal was, if she made it through the first year in flying colors and was confident, she could go to school in Hawaii if she wanted to.

I heard a story of a friend’s daughter who attended a college too far away for weekend visits. Her boyfriend broke up with her and left her depressed. She let her studies lapse. She considered suicide. She said she was afraid to be alone and asked to come home. She wasted a whole semester of classes and tuition but that was of small concern compared to your child’s life and well-being. My friend said that if he could have just driven there and met her for dinner, looked into his child’s eyes, he would have known how unhappy she was. Over the phone she faked it. This story convinced me how important it is to be able to connect in person, for both of our well-being and health.

Because of the way I raised and educated my children, we spent huge amounts of time together and shared amazing experiences, which is unusual for most teens. As a result, we became extremely close. Leaving this comfortable, safe yet very exciting lifestyle was not something Sierra longed to do.

The weeks leading up to her departure for college were melodramatic. She behaved as if she were going into a cloistered nunnery, where she could not communicate with the outside world, or was going off to war in the Middle East. Her eyes would periodically well with tears and she would look so sullen. She told me she read that a freshman should refrain from coming home so they could make the break. I told her, bullshit. Use your home as a sanctuary, when you need space from a new roommate living in your face, when you need a break from cafeteria food and your mom’s meat loaf comfort food, when you need the privacy of her own room or someone to do your wash so you don’t have to juggle one more thing on your agenda. Or, NOT come home, but to have choices. I smiled at her drama. I knew she would be home and often.

On this road trip, Sierra called to read papers aloud for my editing advice. We had to pull over on the side of the road and sit while she read aloud. She shared every crisis and near crisis with us. This time at Mount Saint Helens, she lost her jump drive, leaving it behind at the tech center when she went to print. It was a sad story but sadder at Temple University, Philadelphia and not quite as sad while trying to hike at Oregon’s Mt. Saint Helens National Park. When the car charger did not work, she told us we MUST get off the interstate and find a Radio Shack type of store and find a replacement.

“Can’t we just say that the phone is broken and turn it off?” her brother asks.

Sierra will find the strength and confidence to forge her own way in the world, and even be a leader. I want to be here for her, but on the same hand, I want her to realize that while she is living her life, we are going to continue with ours too. That is why we are in the Pacific Northwest. Now, it is Bryce’s time. The second child often has to wait awhile to have the spotlight be directed onto them.

Bracing For Change- Part IV (book blog)

Posted on April 3, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

When her head is turned away, I steal glances at the older woman sitting next to me on the modeling stand. Her body is falling off her frame. Her breasts reach down to her waist. Her arm flesh gathers on the underside of her arm bone. Her thighs are bunched up above her knees and her belly collects above her pubic hair. This may not seem unusual for a seventy-five year old woman but like me, she is an avid hiker, and has been all her life. She can still put in fifteen miles a day in the high peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, the most challenging and steep trails in the country, so how can she possibly look like this? This is unbelievable, unfathomable. How can “fit” look this bad? I naively thought if I stayed active and worked out, I could stave off much of aging’s sad results.

Tamara Hirsch left Nazi Germany many years ago hidden in the bow of a ship bound for America. The Catholics had created a safe hiding place for her as this 13-year old girl was slated to become a sex kitten for Hitler’s men. The very next boatload of kids got caught. Hers was the last boat to freedom. I met Tamara many decades later here at Kutztown University, where she is also a life drawing model.

My professor and friend, Anna Kuo, thinks it is a very good thing for students to see and draw a seventy-five year old woman. She is real, she is the future. It is a very good thing for me to see her too, to prepare myself. My God, I think, I am going to look like this someday, regardless of how many mountains I climb or how swiftly I pedal my bike.

The other day, my daughter Sierra and I were doing yoga together and while in downward dog position, she glanced over and looked at my knees. Sure enough, gravity was causing the skin to become unhinged and hang independently from my knee bones.

“What is that?” she acts horrified.

“The work of gravity. It’s gross, isn’t it?” I reply.

“What do you expect?” she answers, “You’re old.”

“I am not old.”

“Ok, you’re older,” she retaliates.

“Look,” I reply in defense. “My legs can do anything yours can do at twenty years old, maybe even better. Besides, I don’t feel much different from I did at thirty years old. ”

I’ve always said that I just want to be able to move through my world. It didn’t matter what I looked like. But I don’t think that is necessarily true.

When my hair began to lose its pigment, instead of white I thought of it as platinum blonde, which I always wanted to be. But my son said I reminded him of Bilbo Baggins in “The Hobbit,” and when I acted crushed at this insult, he quickly told me he was merely kidding. I know he was not.

And now with Tamara leaning against my back, and my children poised to launch into the adult world, I am thinking of my own mortality or at least begin to embrace the fact that I am approaching change.

My husband does not care if my body is beginning to fall off my skeleton. He sees the coming change as a good thing. He thinks we will be going back to the way life was before children (BC). He dreams of sharing baths together in the same tub, doing naked yoga together, having spontaneous sex in every room on every surface, at all times of the day and night.

I personally think, that no matter how much a father loves their children, the husband lies in wait to get their wife back, from the first episode of breast-feeding when the cold reality hits them that those breasts are no longer “theirs” (and never were, I remind him) until the last child goes away to college and moves out. I told my husband that you can’t ever go back and I am not sure I would even want to. Up until now, I have merely written around the edges of my life, lining the margins. After all these years of taking care of everyone’s needs first, I’m thinking that it might be time for me.

(looking for feedback from my readers- please comment)

Looking for Paradise on the island of Mauritius- in the Eyes of the Locals

Posted on April 1, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

The sign at Mauritius’s airport read, “Welcome to Paradise.” I heard great things about this island in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Madagascar so I was eager to explore it for my boss, Doug Cooke of JAX FAX Travel Marketing Magazine. But I was flying solo, first time ever on a press trip and it is not my style. I was confident in my friend-making skills that I would find some peeps to help make my visit feel like Paradise. But I was knocked on my ass the first hour I was in the country.

My driver, Anoop, drove from the airport to my hotel like a banshee fast, furious, jerky, passing cars dangerously, taking curves with one hand while he spoke on his cell, nauseating the hell out of me. It was going to be a very long week, especially since I discovered that the PR person from tourism had no plans to accompany me on any of my scheduled activities. It was just going to be me and Anoop and it seemed clear to be that he was not into being my new best friend. (I later discovered that he was star player on his football (soccer) team and they were losing a game while he was driving me from the airport. He made it back in time to score the winning goalies).

My first activity was to be on a catamaran day trip out to an island- snorkeling, lunch etc. Sounded like fun, but the boat was filled with Frenchy couples. No matter the age- young newlyweds to grey-haired couples celebrating their silver anniversary- they stayed attached at the hip and sat in their private little pods around the boat, talking close and quietly to only each other. Despite downing motion sickness pills, I could not move and had to lie down and brace my head and stare at the horizon. I felt alone all day.

The next day I went on a safari at an adventure park. As I was climbing up the few steps to get into the open-air wagon, the driver said out loud to me, “You look like a tough woman.”

“Oh really?” I ask. And added, “I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment.”

And he said, “Well, you can’t always tell a book by its cover.”

I wanted to say, “What the fuck does that mean?” but then I would prove him right, which wasn’t right. I wasn’t being tough. I’m not tough. I just wanna make friends.

The next day I went out to a view-point at the Black River Gorge NP with my driver, Anoop who walked far ahead of me and I had it. I yelled up to him, “Anoop, can you come back here and walk with me. I feel like your dog.”

“Not dog,” he replies in his broken English and I think, of my God, this is not working. My only friend and not only can we hardly talk but I don’t know what I am looking at, I’m not learning and no one is guiding me. Anoop is all I have and it is not feeling like Paradise here in Mauritius, despite its beauty. I have no friends.

Then, something shifted. Anoop pulled the car over and told me to wait, and got out to pull branches down to pick off ripe wild guavas for me to eat. As we drew closer to the hotel, he stopped abruptly in the intersection and demanded as he smiled, “Which way?’” I had no idea what he was doing or which direction to go as the last time we drove these roads I was half asleep , coming from the airport after two sleepless nights. WHAT is he doing? He asked me this question four different times on the way to my hotel. If I got the direction right, he raised his hand in a high 5 and laughed with glee. I had no idea what was going on but the sound of his laughter sounded like music to me.

(When I heard that at 3 pm he did not have any lunch yet, I had offered him a bag of bananas and rolls with jelly smuggled out of my buffet breakfast. Could that have something to do with this sudden shift? Or the fact that I wanted him to walk WITH me?) These last few days I felt estranged only speaking with Anoop when we had to and then very limited. It was a struggle to communicate, let alone joke and laugh.

The next day, Day 4, there was another shift. I was scheduled to go out to yet another island on a small boat which this time, was filled with an extended Indian family and one blonde woman who looked completely out of place but behaved as if she were a member of the family. As we walked over towards the speed boat that would take us to the platform where we would para sail, the manager comes up to me and asks if I would consider going tandem with this blonde woman. When I asked if she was frightened, he said no, she has done this before, but prefers company. ‘Sure” I said, I truly did not mind being strapped to a strangers’ body.

Of all nationalities, Marie was French, but unlike any other I have ever met. We became fast friends with the sweet Indian boys in the family translating for us as we badgered back and forth. She rents a bungalow from this Indian family and comes to stay at Mauritius for many months, every year, swimming in the ocean nearly a mile every day to stay in the fantastic shape she is in. I loved her immediately. The Indian family was equally warm and loving and suddenly, I had a family today where originally I had felt like an orphan.

It’s hard for me to believe that this shift was caused and created by my attitude change. Maybe it was the universe testing me, making me work harder for what I need here in Mauritius, making me think about what Paradise is- for me it cannot be a truly happy state if there are not accepting and loving people there. If this day was all I had for company on Mauritius, then perhaps their love would keep me buoyed for the rest of my trip.

But that was not the case. Anoop and I were fast becoming friends. He continued to try to behave like a driver- sitting in the car while I engaged in activities- sitting in the car while I ate lunch alone. I made him join me. I paid for his lunch or shared mine by asking for another plate from the buffet and scraping a share onto his. He got to try zip lining across a river canyon, unexpected in his white dress shirt and smooth soled leather dress shoes, as he screamed with pleasure. We laughed and talked and his English improved tremendously, and I learned more than I certainly would have had I been ALL alone. He stopped the car to pick huge red hibiscus flowers for me. He arranged for me to meet his wife and multiple brothers and I realized it was because I was becoming important to him and he wanted to share his new friend with his family. That completely warmed my heart.

Once the shift began, every person I met seemed to embrace me with warmth and openness. The sales reps at the hotels that I stayed at during the second half of my trip asked if they could have dinner with me. We quickly moved on from convo about hotel stats to talking about the death of a loved one, or a dream they had, or how to be a good mother. Our dinners extended into 4-5 hour events, (as opposed to the 20 minute dinners I was having alone) and we were left hugging and kissing good-bye with a promise to keep in touch. I was just amazed at how it had changed.

Okay it was me. I guess it had to be me. I learned a little more about myself on this trip to Mauritius. I already knew that when I travel, I need people in my world in order to not miss MY family & friends back home. Anoop saved me. He made me work harder to connect for he was unusually challenging. I was not used to working so hard to make friends and had even doubted if it was worth it. Consequently, he was the hardest to say goodbye to. On the day that I was to go to the airport, I was scheduled to try kite sailing, which of course sounded like big fun but the thought or rushing, getting wet then getting on an airplane rivaled a nice quite long lunch with my new friend. It was a lovely way to end a fantastic trip which truly had become to feel like Paradise, thanks to the people.

Lompoc Prison Camp Revisited- guest blogger, Johnny Ross

Posted on April 1, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

THE MIDDLE TWO

When we were kids, my brother Johnny and I used to deliver newspapers together in the early hours before dawn. He stacked the red metal wagon with the rolled papers and when we got to High Street, we would climb atop the pile, bend the long handle back and use it like a steering wheel as we zoomed down the hill. In our paper-delivering travels, we’d run into the milkman, Russell, making his home deliveries- the only other human being up and about that early in the neighborhood. We’d hang out the open sides of his milk truck like we were hanging from a San Francisco trolley, slugging quarts of chocolate milk as the wind whipped back our hair, feeling pretty darn free as we “worked.” Russell would laugh and shout with fun, a kid himself. But then the milk and activity would make our bowels talk to us and we were far from home. Johnny and I found dark back yards and medial strips in boulevards to squat like puppy dogs and relieve ourselves, laughing so hard we could hardly squat. We managed to find adventure merely from delivering the morning paper together.

Johnny and I were the middle two kids. The older one above us could do no wrong as well as the younger one below us. We got ignored and hence were able to go our own way. But in seeking our own way, we often made choices our parents did not approve of. We butted heads with Mom and Dad but Johnny’s head was bigger and he was stronger and it often got him into trouble. Johnny became the black sheep, me the medium grey. It made us bond together, however, and he gave me one of the greatest compliments I have ever received. He wanted to find a girl to marry just like his sister, Cindy.

Unfortunately, my brother made some choices along his life that led to some pretty serious consequences and this past weekend, the older sibling, the younger sibling and I traveled to the Lompoc Prison Camp in California to see him. It was a big deal to find the money, carve out the time, and try to find a middle ground amongst siblings whose lives and personalities often seemed more polarized than similar. I was more concerned with getting along with my two siblings than I was visiting a prison camp. It was the kind of life event that could result in terrible bad feelings or the complete opposite.

The night before we went to the prison, we in our three star inn and Johnny on his prison cot, we both wondered what the next morning would hold. We had not seen one another for five years and then, my siblings told me, it was not real pretty. I don’t remember. I have selective memory when it comes to my brother Johnny. Even when I was told what he said or did that was hurtful, I just dismissed it. I saw it as his pain that he was coping with and did not take it personal. My husband said, “How do you know Johnny wants you to come? Maybe he’d rather have the money.”’ I looked at him and said “I do not even care if he does. I AM going.”

My sister said, “What if he is mean? He wasn’t that nice the last time we saw him.” I looked at her and said, “How could he POSSIBLY be the same person?” In solitary confinement for 32 days one time? In a state penitentiary with really bad guys for 1 ½ years before he even got his sentence? In a fantastic rehab program that is forcing him to examine everything in his life and claim responsibility for all his actions? I COULD NOT WAIT to see him. I only thought good things would result from our visit. We had corresponded the later part of these two years that he was in this prison camp and in his letters, he shared the tremendous progress he was making and the very beneficial changes he was in the midst of living. He was so excited to see us, he wrote me, that I bet it felt like Christmas Eve to him as he lay awake in his bed.

And when I saw him walk into that meeting room the next day, I broke into a run and threw my arms around him and hung onto his neck and could not let go. I did not even want to share him with my siblings and release my grasp. He looked so good. Healthy, happy, tan, fit and better than I have seen him- maybe since we rode the wagon down High Street together. It has been that long since he was on the right track in life.

We sat at a picnic table in the sun in a courtyard surrounded by towering eucalyptus trees and fed quarters into vending machines and snacked and talked and laughed and heard eyeball-widening stories about his past prison life and he practiced his therapy communication techniques with us and the six hours flew by. Lucky for us, we had another six hours to look forward to the next day, Sunday.

When I returned to our hotel room and began to write in my journal about this experience, the overwhelming feeling I had was one that I had after my parents died. I would lay in bed and miss them terribly. Wet hot tears would roll down my cheeks and gather in my ears. I used to think, if I could JUST see their faces, even for a brief moment, it would be enough. If they could just come back for an hour, I would be so unbelievably grateful and filled with complete joy. And I would proceed to go to sleep and they would visit me in my dreams. And I remember the feeling I had when I saw them- “Oh my God, I missed you so much!” But then I would wake up and realize it was not true that they had not come back to me and I was so sad.

This experience with my brother felt very very similar. When I heard early on that he was in solitary confinement and still very angry, I was very fearful he would get in a fight and be killed and I would never see him again.

So sitting there at that picnic table in the sun, I found myself continually studying him. I looked at the auburn hairs in his eyebrows and how far back his freckles covered his forehead and I studied the shape of his lips which are identical to my father’s and mine, and his fingernails which looked exactly like my father’s whose I haven’t seen in the flesh for 27 years. And I listened to his laugh and looked at how bright his eyes were and just sat back and basked in his voice and his warmth and his light. I just wanted to make sure all day long, that he was indeed real. For it truly felt like my beloved brother had died and had come back to life. But contrary to my dreams where my parents visited me, Johnny was truly real and right here in front of me. About every half hour, I would become overwhelmed with the need to touch him, just to make sure, and I would rise up out of my seat, and go over to him while he chatted with my siblings and just wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in. After hugging him for awhile, I felt satisfied that he was real and returned to my seat. Only after another hour of watching and listening and talking, I would need to rise up again and go over to embrace him.

There are very few times in life where you get another chance. My brother Johnny has been given another chance in life. He can make the next half a century completely different than the last one. And I want to be there for the duration. Our grandmother died at the age of 102 and I am reminded of what Winnie the Pooh said, “If you live to be 100, I want to live to be 100 minus one day, so I never have to live without you.” When Johnny gets out of prison, we need to go back to our childhood neighborhood and take a ride down High Street in a wagon, just because we can.

From Johnny:

“How long has it been?” we asked each other as we sat around the picnic table feeling the ocean breeze and the warm sun hugging us with nature’s gifts.

“Five years,” I said after only a moments hesitation. “In Pennsylvania,” my sister Joann said, “when we talked to your x wife trying to figure out why you didn’t come and visit us when you moved from California to PA.”

So, from not wanting to see my siblings, to feeling like a little kid on Christmas Day …

Just moments before, Cindy ran up to me and hugged me with such joy and enthusiasm, I felt i would float off the ground. All concerns about their possible awkwardness or resentment for the way I had been, or them visiting me in prison, faded away like a shadow when the sun goes behind a cloud. I felt her unconditional sisterly love fill my soul like a therapeutic elixir from the gods. Instantly, I forgot where I was and was transported to a safe and happy place.

The dynamics of sibling interpersonal communication played itself out for my two older sisters and my younger brother as they drove from hours together in a car and stayed over in a hotel the night before their visiting me. The first time they’ve ever spent so close required rules: no religion and no politics, both of which were violated as evidenced by their individual disclosures to me during our private one on one time.

“They are driving me nuts!” said Cindy. She is the free spirit of the three- a writer, a camper, backpacker who travels the world hiking and writing about her encounters in articles and books. David, the family worrier, he has passionate views on life that have suited him well as evidenced by his wonderful marriage, lovely wife and successful professional business. He has been a big-little brother to me, being the example, doing things right and reaping the rewards for over 30 years.

Jojo, the oldest, has been the magnetism that draws the family together taking after my mom. She keeps up communication regardless of sibling rivalry or petty mistakes or slights. She has been my anchor and portal to the family taking over where our mother would and I know she is watching her with pride. She has cared and helped me even when I made it very difficult.

Cindy, the other middle child with me, has been and is the energy and free spirit that fairy tales are written about. She is like a free wild horse galloping in the ocean’s surf enjoying all that life and nature and her beloved family can squeeze out of each day of joy. She has been my angel so often throughout my life.

These three greeted me as the sun the moon and stars, unearthly objects gazed at but out of reach. Except, they surrounded me with their embrace, love and enthusiasm and non judgemental care. I felt elevated and was intoxicated with their energy.

I forgot where I was and was beamed back in time to our backyard, playing, laughing, living in the moment with no care or concern. What a blissful time they gifted to me.

We talked about our childhood, what transpired to bring me to prison, what we felt, the mistakes I made and the changes I am undergoing. I was able to practice straight talk, assertive communication as well as show genuine caring, gratitude and honesty to the level where I know that they know I am a new man. Listening without interrupting or finishing their sentences, my patience and self control was evident immediately. I felt empowered to attract their conversation instead of repulsing them as I have in the past.

I am still highly overwhelmed with the humbling love they showed to me. And all they asked from me is to follow my rectification for my past by using my talents and gifts to fulfill God’s will in my life and reach my destiny.

Why Would An American Want to Come to Mauritius?

Posted on March 25, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

Why would an American want to come to the island of Mauritius? It’s easy to see why Mauritius would be inviting. Some of the most beautiful beaches in the world can be found here, great coral reefs for diving and snorkeling, tons of activities and attractions for those who need to be entertained, pretty great food and a strange yet refreshing mix of people (Indian, Chinese, African). But it is frickin’ far away! -a combined 19 hour plane ride stopping off in Johannesburg. I’m not real island savvy but I can’t believe there are not close seconds nearer to the states.

I had not met, seen nor heard an American in three days (which I LIKE and see as a plus for US travelers) until today while swimming in the bathtub mint green waters of Ilea Aux Cerfs. “Watch out for them there spiny sea urchins. They’ll get ya,” he says in a Texan drawl. He could tell I was American, I believe by the way I said, “Hi,” as opposed to “Bon jour.”

“Why did you come to Mauritius?” I ask my friend.

Tex is on an around-the-world cruise and Port Lewis, the capital of Mauritius, is one of their ports of call. When I asked him why an American would want to come here his flat out answer was, “They wouldn’t.”

Well, that is not good enough for me – a travel writer and an ambassador for Mauritius, whose tourism department longs to share their beautiful country with Americans.

Later today, when we boated out to a private island where we ate local grilled bar-b-qued chicken, watercress salad and other Mauritian favorites, as well as had the chefs transform themselves into musicians and serenaded us with their lively fun music, I heard that lilting sound of an American voice again. This time, it was a US Ambassador to Mauritius. When I asked HIM that same question, “Why would an American want to come to Mauritius?” He said, “Many Americans plan to visit an African country someday and experience a safari to see big game animals. Why not take a short few hour excursion out to Mauritius for a very unique island experience?”

Plus, if they’ve ever wanted to go to India, Mauritius is like a little India but without the poverty and pain but not lacking any of their colorful culture. “

That’s absolutely a perfect reason for encouraging Americans to share the beauty and fun of Mauritius. Every American who travels to Africa for a safari should come to Mauritius afterwards, as the icing on the cake.

Stay tuned for more stories sharing Mauritius’s beauty and fun, as well as excellent photos, if you are not yet convinced.

First Day in Mauritius

Posted on March 23, 2013 by cindyrosstraveler

My snoring startles me awake, (jet lagged and two nights of sleepless travel to get to this fascinating island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean) and I have no idea where I am because my eyes are covered, and there is this very, very strange, yet lovely stream of warm liquid pouring all over my forehead. I am alone, covered with towels here at the La Meridian Hotel spa in Mauritius. A sweet Indian girl has given me a massage and continued to talk about a shirodhara, which I had no idea what she was talking about. Between the French Creole being spoken on this African island, the Africana of the South Africans who are here on holiday enforce, I don’t bother trying. Their English is so heavily accented, I figure I will find out soon enough what a shirodhara is.

Indian women get this treatment done two times a month and it helps with headaches, anxiety, depression, none of which I am experiencing on this gorgeous island. It was the icing on the cake after my massage.

Above my head is suspended a copper pot holding about a quart of warmed sesame oil that streams continuously over my forehead and down my head for fifteen minutes. The stream is centered on my Third Eye or chakra. After my full body massage on a teak table (and that included my belly and boobs) my endearing young Indian girl, Nisha, sets me up with my shirodhara. I’m loving it, even if my snoring startles me awake every few minutes.

It took awhile to get here- 15 hours to Johannesburg, South Africa and then another 4 into the Indian Ocean, but it is exotic and strangely lovely that I’m already feeling it is well worth the effort on Day 1.

Mauritius is more than half Indian population. Some signs are in Indian, women wear saris, the smell of exotic spices cooking fills the air and you forget that this is Africa. The handsome Black Africans are also here and there are even more that are mixed so they have this nice blending of warm skin tones and facial features. Yet these people speak French- French Creole. It is a bit confusing at first, like you were turned on your head when you got off the plane. It is best to have no expectations when you come to Mauritius for it is like no place on earth. You won’t find any Americans here yet, (altho we’re hoping that changes soon) but it kind of nice not to be surrounded by carbon copies of myself.

My massage and shirodhara rounded off a very enjoyable first day spent sailing a catamaran to two tiny islands, where we disembarked on an inflatable dingy and were deposited on this coral paradise for half the day. We snorkeled with black and white striped bullfish which came up to my fingers and nibbled on them, colorful parrotfish, brilliant yellow needlefish with pointy noses and a sea turtle! Lucky me! The sailboat hands and captain bar-b-qued a fine lunch of fish and chicken while we played and lounged on the beach and picked up pieces of bleached dead coral and took naps. This 7 hour excursion was organized by my fantastic La Meridian Hotel, which also offered the luxurious spa treatment.

After my day snorkeling and sailing and being rubbed and dripped into ecstasy, I satisfied my hunger at the hotel’s magnificent buffet. I sampled the slimy innards of prickly seas urchins cut in half and dished out with a spoon and rubbery octopus, as well as more normal seafood like smoked fish pate and stir fried garlic mussels. I can hardly wait to go to sleep and wake up and see what the next day’s adventures hold! The shirodhara oil drip made me completely forget my epic plane ride and where exactly I was in the world, and that’s a good thin, forgetting, when you are on holiday.

And, what we don’t write in the magazines…

Tonight, I scooped the loose, slimy flesh of the innerds of a sea urchin out with a spoon and tasted rubbery octopus. Eating like the locals. For a second, I thought I was back in China. But I do not feel like I am in Africa either, even though I am a 4 hour flight from Johannasburg, South Africa. I can’t tell what it feels like. The people are mostly Indian. (An Indian person speaking French in Africa- confusing.) Not that India is so close- an 8 hr flight, about. But they make up the majority of the population. I just got done reading a startling book about the Mumbai slums and this place is definitely Paradise compared to that- if I were an Indian I would be here too. “Welcome to Paradise” is the sign that greets you at the airport. I’m looking for it.

I have to look beyond the French people, who are loving this place because they speak French Creole here.So the French are everywhere. The South African are too as they offer tremendous family packages to them. The plane was full of tow-headed blonde kids who were not well behaved and spoke yet another funky-sounding language- Africana. They are Dutch descendants and look Scandinavian. They don’t talk to me either. I told a French couple at the dinner buffet tonight that the fish pate was excellent and got scolded because I do not speak French. Oh my God, they are entitled.

Today I went on an all-day catamaran ride to a small island where we swam and snorkeled. Had bbq fish and chicken lunch on board. The entire boat was filled with couples- of all ages, who sat in little pods and stroked shoulders and acted like they were all on second or first honeymoons. Guess what, they had very little interest in speaking to me. Just enraptured with one another- even grey haired couples. The ship’s photographer took each couple and posed them in lame poses – back to back on the seat, etc, behind the wheel like they were steering. At least it entertained me. He never once asked me if I wanted my picture taken, not that I did. But I felt slightly invisible.

I accidently put my Dramamine (2 “flavors- strong, fast acting, and drowsy as opposed to weak and long term) in Sierra’s black day pack instead of mine- it was very late when I remembered it and was sleepy. So my driver took me to a pharmacy this am to purchase some- or a facsimile. They act like they are so sure of what they hand you. It is a good thing I’ve been around the block in foreign countries. (Sierra you get this- NEVER knowing what they are prescribing to you – China). She hands me a box and luckily it said in English, “IMODIUM.” I said no, this isn’t what I want. Then we get the point across that it is for throwing up. I make it clear that I am not throwing up AT THIS MOMENT, so I have to take it on trust that the next box in French or whatever, is correct. It does not work however, and I spend 4 hours (RT) staring at the horizon line while the cat rocks up and down on the seas, right amongst the dewy eyed couples who ignored me. It was pretty painful. They assured me the sea would be very calm and I would not get sick. Oh, horseshit. I did see a sea turtle, while I snorkeled however and they said they only spot one every month or so. I could only snorkel for 15 mins before I was ready to puke- pill and all.

cindyrosstraveler

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