Senegalese sunrise

sunrise:  6:59

Toubab Diallo, Senegal

I spent last week in Senegal, a country on the westernmost edge of Africa.  My 23-year-old daughter and I were visiting her best friend from high school who has lived and worked in the capital city of Dakar for the last 15 months.  Along with best friend's mom, we made the trip to see her second home.  It was the first time any of the 3 of us had set foot on the African continent.

Below is a transcription of a sunrise journal entry from our first morning in Africa - in Toubab Diallo, a small beach-side village one hour south of Dakar.  I was still experiencing a disorienting culture shock in a land of intense heat and humidity, with sights and smells and languages and customs that had my head spinning.  By the end of the week, I had grown enchanted by the place and people of Senegal.

"I couldn't find my watch last night, but I needn't have worried about knowing when dawn was approaching.  Here, like, perhaps, every place on Earth, when dawn is about 40 minutes away and that dark night turns toward a deep blue hue, the birds wake up and start to make a great noise.

Another thing that helped me feel at home in this very foreign-feeling land was looking from our balcony over the beach this morning and seeing four dogs romping around the sand with wagging tails.

A flock of large birds (I'd have guessed Canadian geese if I weren't in Africa) flew overhead in V-formation.  A fisherman carried his boat motor over one shoulder, down to the beach where a couple of dozen long, narrow wooden boats were all lined up ("pirogues").

Women carrying what looked like laundry baskets on their heads made their way up a hillside walk.  It was strange to see many women and girls carrying things on their heads that way yesterday.  Somehow I thought it might just be some antiquated practice that no longer existed except in the imagination of American film-makers.

I'm trying to balance my caution (about parasites and mosquitos, about people who might want to pick my pocket, overcharge me, or steal my camera) with my open embracing of this whole place.  It will take some time.  Things are unfamiliar.  We get warnings about holding tight to our purses if we get stopped in traffic, conditions appear less than immaculate, and you don't get the sense that there's much in the way of safety inspectors policing roads, restaurants, hotels, and shops.

I was friendly with a woman on the beach yesterday who was selling jewelry and trinkets from her handmade baskets, and learned that I need to exercise greater restraint.  She proceeded to barrage us with patter to buy her things for a long time, even moving her whole operation onto the sand right at our feet where we were sitting in the shade.  I want to be friendly and to meet people, but I guess I have to learn to be more selective.

The sun has risen.  The sky and sea have changed their grays to blues.  The birds are slowing the pace of their frenzied huntings, or callings.  The air is gently soft on a moisture-laden breeze, but it portends the heat of day ahead of us.

My first night under mosquito netting is now behind me."

Quebecois lessons - crossing borders

sunrise:  reasonably further west

Two years ago J and I visited one of our great lifetime friends at his amazing home in southern Quebec.

Our visit happened to fall on the same weekend as an annual event for our Canadian friend and his family. On the birthday of his oldest child, they invite a bunch of friends from their former home in Ottawa, 3 hours away.  For one exuberant weekend, the house fills with about 20 people, half of them children.

It was such a unique experience, that we kind of invited ourselves back again.

There are numerous cool things about this gathering of friends.

First - they only see each other 4 times a year, and their initial connection came from one year of living in the same town.  Somehow, this group of young and grown-up friends has become a kind of family.  When they are together, they are at their most animated and their most relaxed and secure all at the same time.

Second - Every one of them is bilingual, and for several, English is their second language.  To hear a bunch of children bantering back and forth between languages is an amazing thing to my sequestered Maine ears.  I realize that this happens in Spanish all over my country nowadays, but I don't see it (nor do many Mainers).

Third - No TV.  There is one big computer screen around, but they don't have any television in the house.  The whole crew went bowling.  The piano was played endlessly by young hands.  Kids bundled up and jumped on the trampoline.  Piles of books in both languages littered tabletops.  A floor-to-ceiling tower of blocks was erected.  There was lots of movement up and down three flights of stairs, and lots of noise.  It was awesome.

Fourth - I forget that we have this foreign culture just a few hours away from home.  Most of the US doesn't think about the fact that we have French speaking neighbors right next door, especially in our increasingly Spanish-speaker influenced society.  Architecture, food products, the metric system, signage - everything is different.  It is always so eye-opening to travel to a foreign country and be reminded that we each live in a particular culture of our own.

Fifth -  Our friend has four children, ages 6 to 14.  I think one of the things that irresistibly attracts J and me to that household is the return in time to a houseful of kids.  Our own four are launched and away, which is exciting and gratifying in its own multiple ways.  But -- to return to that dynamic, discovery-filled period of developing life is intoxicating, especially when we have no responsibility whatsoever!  It is a spectacular family of bright, inquisitive, affectionate, twinkling, engaging young people.

Perhaps even more than traveling to a foreign country, traveling back to another kind of time and place in life is breathtakingly illuminating, exhilarating, and heart-stirring.

Houston by dawn and day

sunrise:  7:08

There are a lot of wonderful things about travel.  Coming from Maine, one of the best parts of travel is that almost anywhere you go, the sunrise is a bit later than at home.  Being back on the civilized side of 7am is quite nice.

City sunrise is always difficult to capture on film from ground level.  After four days of storms and clouds, in the midst of city buildings, I wondered if I would ever get a decent sunrise shot before leaving Texas.  After a move from the high rises of downtown to the sprawl of "mid-town" (an area that feels more like suburbs to me), I found my sunrise sky.

Not bad.

Here is our pre-dawn, mid-town view of downtown:

While I'm at it, I will share a bit of my daytime explorations of this fourth largest city in the United States.  I have had 5 days here to wander about while J attends a conference.

Houston is a pretty major sports hub, and two big arenas caught my eye as a walking tourist.  The Toyota Center, home of the Houston Rockets, has a lovely circular tribute garden dedicated to Hakeem Olajuwon.  Nearby is a basketball park that offered a nice view of downtown, shrouded in clouds.

Minute Maid Park, the baseball hub, is built on to the old Union Station, a train station designed by the same guy that designed Grand Central Station in New York.  Now those grand days of train travel are gone and the pillared foyer only serves as an entryway to the ball park.

Outside, a statue of Craig Biggio hurls a ball to the first baseman across the way.  Biggio played his entire 19 year career with the Houston Astros.

The historic district was somewhat disappointing.  Some people complain that Houston has wreaked havoc with its historical architecture.  Very few early buildings still stand.  This humble brick townhouse is one of the oldest (the oldest?) building in the city that still sits in its original site.

One of the most unusual things to me about Houston was its multi-level world.  There are skyways and tunnels like lacework all over the city, above and below.  The tunnels reminded me of airport terminals, endless rows of shops and restaurants, except there are no windows in sight.  A bit claustrophobic for me, and it seemed weird that so many people were spending time underground when there is perfectly nice fresh air outdoors.

So I headed outside the city and visited Hermann Park.  I skirted the edges of Rice University and got a little "choo-choo train" tour of Hermann Park, where there are monuments, lakes, an outdoor theater, and museums.  And of course, there are very cute squirrels.

There are also lots of live oaks.  Live oak trees are one of my favorite things about the south.  That exquisite, tortuously twisted and gnarled branchwork evokes an intensely expressive character in these trees.  They all seem to have a story to tell, and create haunting silhouettes at any time of year.

And speaking of trees - this is a famous, or perhaps infamous one in Houston.  Though there are conflicting versions of the tales, some call this "the Hanging Tree" of Houston.  Ostensibly, many men were hanged from its branches in the early days of the Republic of Texas.  But even in the 1800's, this 400 year old tree was already a venerable old creature.

best laid plans...

sunrise:  5:47

T and I awoke to a pink dawn on our last island day.  "I woke up and saw purple water," she said to me.  We don't really mind being awakened early by the sunrise, especially since we can loll back to sleep again if we like (which we usually do).  It is a lovely sight to feed the subsequent morning dreams that often come along with island sleeping.

It has been an itinerant August.  I've only been home a few scattered days - just enough time to get my Friday columns in, catch up a bit on mail, email, household upkeep, in between trips.

Now, with hurricane Irene on the horizon, we're supposed to travel into the teeth of the storm to move T back into college over the weekend.  The best laid plans may go right out the window.  Some creative adaptation may be in order.

Safe passage to all readers!

cross-country, marathon, graduation

sunrise (on May 15th in Denver, CO):  5:46am

There is no sun to display from my last pre-dawn rising, two weeks ago, but it was the beginning of a lengthy odyssey which I will summarize today.

On May 14th I flew out to Colorado to watch A. run in her first half-marathon. 

A week before, J and I had picked up T and all of her belongings (move number one!).  Then we watched N's softball team win their conference championship, before schlepping back home. 

After marathon day in Denver, the Kaiser-Permanente Colfax race which included almost 10,000 runners, A and I packed up all of HER belongings into her car and started back across the country (move number 2!).  I am ashamed that I didn't take the opportunity to collect sunrises from Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, and Ohio, but it was long journey.  Sleep was too coveted to cut short for early risings. 

Crossing the Mississippi between Iowa and Illinois

Rochester, New York's annual lilac festival (and our home of 8 years, long ago)

 Flooded roadway near Lake Champlain...


What a beautiful time of year to see the country!  We were both pleasantly surprised by how picturesque Nebraska and Iowa were.  There is way more roll in the landscape and many more clusters of trees than we expected.  It was all lovely rolling prairie in full spring bloom. 

We crossed the swollen Mississippi, stopped in Chicago, traversed Ohio, spent a blissful spring night with family in the Adirondacks, and crossed the south end of Lake Champlain by ferry to arrive in Vermont.

There was college graduation number one.  Family arrived from three different directions.  Weather was threatening, but never thwarted any of our plans all weekend.  Hooray for N!

Then - move number 3.  We packed up N's belongings and loaded them into cars.

Sunday, we leapt back into cars to drive to Connecticut for college graduation number two.  Hooray for S!  Grandparents were game for everything, even sharing communal bathrooms in dormitory housing (thought that was certainly a stretch). 

Move number 4!  All of S's belongings were crammed into what space remained in our vehicles and car top carrier.

N and S left the next day for a 3 week trip around Europe.  Back home at last, we took a few days to recover.  And that is why I have been out of touch!

The empty nest is a bit of an illusion.  These wonderful offspring still fill our hearts and minds to overflowing, but they also, from time to time, fill every waking moment.

Life is a constant stream of graduations - from day to day, chapter to chapter, home to home, phase to phase, step by step by step.  There is so much promise out there, in all of those racing, running, driving, walking, marching, skipping, dancing people out there, scattered across this extraordinary collection of landscapes that comprise this country. 

I am full of hope.

Caribbean sunrise - last day

On this third consecutive rainy March morning in Maine I will post my last installment of sunrise photos from our wonderful week on the Wanderbird, moored off the island of Culebra.  It will be a little inspiration of warmth and sunshine as we sweep debris from the clogged drainage channels in our flooded basement.

My column for this Friday will highlight one of the two boat captains on the Wanderbird - Karen, a Maine native.  They are an inspiring pair, Rick and Karen - living out their dreams through relentless hard work and dedication.  They, no question, were a part of the reason I was so taken by the whole trip.

The fact that they had dogs on board helped too.  One of them, a beautiful 7 month old husky, was a truly meaningful gift from an Inuit family.  They came to cherish Karen's friendship through all of her time visiting the maritime villages in their wanderings.

J and I hope to see these captains on their boat again in their true element - when they are back here up north for the summer.  They are northern people, no doubt, but the way they have adapted their best selves to the southern climes and the local people of Culebra is quite wonderful. 

Here's a photo of the late evening sky on our last day - couldn't resist it.  I loved the sky, and these little cairn sculptures are an interesting practice that brings Culebra and the Inuit cultures together.  In the second one, the Wanderbird is off in the background.

Now it's back to the rain.  On the bright side, it is slowly breaking down months of snow piles.  For the first time in ages, we are seeing the ground again.

Caribbean sunrise - and seascapes

 I open with a photograph of another shipboard dawn, taken from the deck of the Wanderbird.






This shot could have been taken almost anywhere.  Dawn skies are transcendent, wherever you go.  The rest of today's post will be an indulgence into seascapes of the sort that will never be seen up here in Maine. 

 On Flamenco beach in Culebra there is an old army tank, rusting peacefully on the shore.  A strange sight in conjunction with the natural serenity surrounding it.

Pelicans are one of my favorite birds.  They were doing a lot of fishing and flying at the tank end of the beach.

We launched our kayaks from the ship on a couple of occasions, to paddle over to shore for snorkeling.  There was yet another world that I never see - that underwater landscape of garden grottos filled with twisting corals and brilliantly colored fishes of all shapes and sizes.  Without an underwater camera, I couldn't capture that world on film.  Memory will have to suffice.

I did get one nice shot of a poor unsuspecting sea turtle that was briefly lifted free of its watery home by my dear husband.  Not a happy turtle, but he was quickly released.