Tonight finds us all in Guadeloupe -- an island in the French West Indies -- where we are completing a home exchange -- the first half of which started last summer when a family from Guadeloupe came to stay at our house on Clifton (while we went to Anna Maria). We arrived in Guadeloupe on Saturday after quite a long trip that included an emergency landing in Tampa due to a heart attack on board (I don't think he survived, sadly) followed by an overnight in Miami (which should have been in Puerto Rico, but we missed our connection). On Saturday we made it to Puerto Rico and finally Pointe a Pitre (on Guadeloupe) where we were greeted by our home-exchange host who kindly came to pick us up -- a good thing as Guadeloupe is VERY French, and while both Roc and myself speak a little, we would have been hard-pressed to find our way to their home from the Point a Pitre airport.
Guadeloupe is an island of contradictions. On the one hand, there are stunning beaches and vistas that rival any I've seen in the world, while on the other, the towns -- even the bigger ones -- are marred by graffiti and many run-down homes and businesses. Largely a dark-skinned population (I think the light-skinned population is 9%), we are very much in the minority -- a welcome change for us and something we can all learn from. Also, we've been here 4 days so far and have come across exactly 0 English-speaking tourists -- basically everyone here is French, as far as we can tell.
Tonight the island is under Purple Alert as there is a Tropical Storm named Isaac (likely to become Hurricane Isaac by tomorrow) blowing through (perhaps with winds up to 60 mph). We spent most of the day lounging by the pool here at the house under stormy skies -- swimming in the warm rains, and wondering when the winds would begin. Under the Purple Alert, cars have been banned from the streets since 6PM, so now we wait....wondering what a Tropical Storm will sound and look like. The house boards up rather quickly and nicely, so we will likely be soon locking ourselves in and hoping for a peaceful night (although we've been told it will get quite loud!) Everyone is very calm, which has helped to calm the girls as well -- so really, it is just business as usual.
We've seen many beautiful things here -- one side of the island is largely national park, which is gorgeous and which I'm anxious to get back to as soon as all the rain passes through (maybe in a day or two -- we hope). We went there two days ago and had a memorable day swimming at the base of a waterfall and climbing on rocks up a river in the rain forest! Wow -- none of us had ever seen anything like it, and although a sign at the beginning of the trail said that there were all sorts of reptiles and crustaceans in the river, the water was so clear and cool that the girls plunged right in and were splashing up and down it in no time. Amazing. I would never have guessed that might happen.
Yesterday Roc bought nice snorkel set-ups for the girls as well, so we are also anxious to get to some good snorkeling spots. With Isaac mucking things up we may need to wait a few days for things to settle down, but with any luck by Saturday we'll be able to boat out to Petit Terre ("Little Earth") and commune with the iguanas who inhabit the island there, as well as do some spectacular snorkeling (we've been told it's fantastic off the coast of Petit Terre).
Until then....
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Andersonville is Cool
In May we decided to move to Andersonville. Andersonville is cool (I actually have a button that somebody handed me at the Midsummer Fest that declares it, so it must be true) -- wide, tree-lined streets and pretty houses with big yards. In many ways it feels suburban (sprinklers and lemonade stands up and down the avenue) while in other ways it's more urban than homes we've had much closer to downtown (wide diversity of people, more street noise from the main vein about a half block away). If we go East toward the lake we first pass through Uptown which is a socioeconomic mix of people, shops and restaurants with the backdrop of a crusty el stop and a lot of old, delapidated buildings scattered about a Starbucks and a few upscale cafes. Feels more like New York than any other area of the city, as far as I can tell. There's the Green Mill where I went in my early 20s alongside the Victory Theatre -- long since deserted -- a relic from the early 1920s but still standing and, hopefully, soon to be refurbished into something grand once again. Slightly to the North in Andersonville proper, there are many great restaurants and bars, but the best part is the sense of an authetic neighborhood. While some of the neighborhoods on this side of Chicago feel like they are trying to be Lincoln Park North, Andersonville feels true to itself. Gay couples walk hand in hand pushing baby strollers, couples make out on corners, and children stop to watch the nightly corner puppet show at Berwyn and Clark.One evening last summer I drove by that puppet show after dropping Stella at a friend's house and there were about 20 kids jumping up and down screaming at the puppets, their parents looking on behind them. Last weekend it was my own kids jumping up and down -- stashing dollars into the puppets little hands. Another night after a great dinner at Ombre, we noticed 3 dancers in the window above Hamburger Mary's -- three men in gold lame speedos doing a little swagger and sway to music that we couldn't hear. Roc looked at me and I looked him. "We're not in Lincolbn Park anymore." Nope, no we're not.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Benched in Anna Maria
Across the street from my sister-in-law’s home in Anna Maria Island, Florida, there sits a wooden bench under a palm tree – a school bus stop. Reaching beyond the bench is a white sand trail lined with tropical greenery that leads to a wide beach and the glittering blue-green sea. I carry that bench with me (figuratively) every time we leave Anna Maria. It symbolizes a simpler, quieter life that I sometimes yearn for when things get too hectic, too irritating, too hard living in Chicago.
It’s a small (not-so-funny-to-my-husband) joke in our family that every time we travel somewhere I imagine us living there. This is odd because I love our life in Chicago, most days. I think it speaks to the wanderlust in my heart that is always thinking, “Why not?”
I am always incredulous when I inevitably ask of my family during any given vacation – sometimes just as we drive through some sleepy little town, “What would it be like to live here?” and they answer, “Oh, I don’t think it would be right for us. It’s too quiet. It’s too remote. It’s away from our friends. It’s away from our school.” Or my favorite, “We’d be bored.” They always have some reason why this town, this city, this country is not the right place and only Chicago will do. I then gaze out at the snow-capped mountains or the rolling vineyards or the tree-lined boulevards or – most recently – the wooden bench under the palm tree, and realize that my yearning to try these new places is not shared with anyone in my immediate family.
I don’t know why this is. I traveled a lot before I got married. I took seriously the sage advice of older friends to “sow your wild oats” and, fortunately, a lot of my travel was associated with my work and allowed me to visit such far-flung places as Australia, South America, Africa, and many jaunts to Europe. I would frequently tack on extra time before or after these trips so that I could wander around – always alone and always on foot – to generally soak in the locales, all the while wondering, “What would it be like to live here?”
In Anna Maria, the pace is slow. People ride their bikes a lot. There is no Starbucks. No fast food chains. No taxis. No movie theatres. No malls. There is one elementary school, one high school, and one grocery store. It’s Quiet.
There are also manatees living in the canals and dolphins frolicking just off-shore. There are wide, nearly-empty, white sandy beaches. From May to October, there are turtle egg nests dotting the shoreline and all of the establishments located on or near the beaches (restaurants, homes, etc) turn off their lights after dusk lest the baby turtles, upon hatching, accidentally mistake our man-made, electric lights as the moonlit sea. It’s hard to believe my family wouldn’t be happy living here, no matter what they say. I envision my husband home for dinner every night, more relaxed in this new environment, with more time to “smell the roses” in the most literal way. I envision our children becoming avid sea kayakers, marine biologists, enviromentalists. I imagine them sitting on the wooden bench under the palm tree, waiting for the bus to take them to school, the ocean breeze fluttering their hair.
My husband rolls his eyes at these reveries and tells me I’m a dreamer, unrealistic, crazy. He is, no doubt, correct. I’m on vacation, after all, and not actually living in these idyllic places. And yet, why not? People move every day. People work and go to school and live their lives in a multitude of unlikely places. Pick up and move. Pick up and move. We do it all the time, albeit, in Chicago proper. Until I convince the rest of my family otherwise, the bench comes with me.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Leaving on a jet plane
Till today.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Back in Time at the Sheffield Garden Walk
It was the Sheffield Garden Walk this weekend. The kids put out their lemonade stand, cranked up the tunes and did their best to steal customers from the 5 other stands on our block. While Clifton may not have stately trees arching over it like most of the other streets in this area, we do have the best gardens -- primarily because of the big (by city standards) front yards and the lack of shade (there are good things about not having a lot of trees). Watching the swarms of people strolling our normally serene streets and snapping photographs of the gardens and houses reminded me how fortunate we are to live in this old neighborhood.
I was reminded of other stuff, too. Walking down Webster and hearing the strains of Poi Dog tonight reminded me of Sheffield Garden Walks gone by. 15 years ago I would not have missed Saturday afternoon at the Sheffield Garden Walk for anything in the world. It was one of the biggest weekends of the summer. My favorite year was following a softball game for The Brown Dogs -- a team made up of my then-boyfriend, Dave, a bunch of his friends, their girlfriends and, of course, our chocolate lab (a.k.a., the Brown Dog). I remember playing a game of softball at Wrightwood Park (at that time it seemed to be on the edge of the earth) then skedaddling over to McGee's -- at the heart of the Garden Walk then, and still today. This morning when I walked the dog (not the Brown Dog, who went with Dave -- but instead with our Boston Terrier, Domino), I was surprised and nostalgic to see McGee's already in full swing at 11:00 AM. I smiled as I noticed all conversations automatically pause momentarily as the el train screamed overhead, only to be continued seconds later as if our brains hadn't just been completely rattled senseless by the noise.
I stopped at a boutique selling half-price yoga clothes (although I hate yoga) and chatted with the young DePaul students working there who were characteristically enamored with Domino. "Ya know, the Sheffield Garden Walk used to be on Webster, not Sheffield," I commented sagely, as if I were 850 years old. The girls sized me up a little, nodded politely and replied, "Really? That's funny." Okaaaayyyy, not really anywhere for that conversation to go...
Yesterday I took the girls to the Kids' Corner where they had pony rides, a petting zoo, and a terrible singer screeching away about an octopus. While we stood there listening and cringing I noticed with amusement a sign that read, "Help support are teachers" (hmmm...is it really the teachers who need help?) I honestly don't recall if there was a Kids' Corner back when the Sheffield Garden Walk "was on Webster." And I never realized that there was actually a Garden Walk until several years post-singledom when Roc and I ventured back into the neighborhood some lazy Saturday afternoon (by mistake). Now that we live here, I take an unexplained pride in the DePaul area -- same as I did in Old Town and, apparently, same as I will in the next neighborhood (there's always one a-coming). I am prone to that, I guess. I relish the ideals of a community and in taking care of our streets and homes -- wherever and whatever it may be.
The reality is that the Sheffield Garden Walk, like so many of Chicago's street fairs, brings out the Americana in everyone. The kids running around with their scooters and wagons, the seniors admiring the gardens, the hipsters partying in the sun. There really is something for all of us -- and it's the meshing of these different walks of life that makes the whole thing feel right.
It wasn't the Sheffield Garden Walk of my twenties -- I'm not gonna wake up with a headache and I don't have any exciting stories to tell (oh, I have some good ones); but it was the Garden Walk of my forties -- when my kids rode a pony and sold some lemonade.
I was reminded of other stuff, too. Walking down Webster and hearing the strains of Poi Dog tonight reminded me of Sheffield Garden Walks gone by. 15 years ago I would not have missed Saturday afternoon at the Sheffield Garden Walk for anything in the world. It was one of the biggest weekends of the summer. My favorite year was following a softball game for The Brown Dogs -- a team made up of my then-boyfriend, Dave, a bunch of his friends, their girlfriends and, of course, our chocolate lab (a.k.a., the Brown Dog). I remember playing a game of softball at Wrightwood Park (at that time it seemed to be on the edge of the earth) then skedaddling over to McGee's -- at the heart of the Garden Walk then, and still today. This morning when I walked the dog (not the Brown Dog, who went with Dave -- but instead with our Boston Terrier, Domino), I was surprised and nostalgic to see McGee's already in full swing at 11:00 AM. I smiled as I noticed all conversations automatically pause momentarily as the el train screamed overhead, only to be continued seconds later as if our brains hadn't just been completely rattled senseless by the noise.
I stopped at a boutique selling half-price yoga clothes (although I hate yoga) and chatted with the young DePaul students working there who were characteristically enamored with Domino. "Ya know, the Sheffield Garden Walk used to be on Webster, not Sheffield," I commented sagely, as if I were 850 years old. The girls sized me up a little, nodded politely and replied, "Really? That's funny." Okaaaayyyy, not really anywhere for that conversation to go...
Yesterday I took the girls to the Kids' Corner where they had pony rides, a petting zoo, and a terrible singer screeching away about an octopus. While we stood there listening and cringing I noticed with amusement a sign that read, "Help support are teachers" (hmmm...is it really the teachers who need help?) I honestly don't recall if there was a Kids' Corner back when the Sheffield Garden Walk "was on Webster." And I never realized that there was actually a Garden Walk until several years post-singledom when Roc and I ventured back into the neighborhood some lazy Saturday afternoon (by mistake). Now that we live here, I take an unexplained pride in the DePaul area -- same as I did in Old Town and, apparently, same as I will in the next neighborhood (there's always one a-coming). I am prone to that, I guess. I relish the ideals of a community and in taking care of our streets and homes -- wherever and whatever it may be.
The reality is that the Sheffield Garden Walk, like so many of Chicago's street fairs, brings out the Americana in everyone. The kids running around with their scooters and wagons, the seniors admiring the gardens, the hipsters partying in the sun. There really is something for all of us -- and it's the meshing of these different walks of life that makes the whole thing feel right.
It wasn't the Sheffield Garden Walk of my twenties -- I'm not gonna wake up with a headache and I don't have any exciting stories to tell (oh, I have some good ones); but it was the Garden Walk of my forties -- when my kids rode a pony and sold some lemonade.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Someday
We are settling into our summer routine now that we have been home from Colorado for a couple of weeks. I'm not a huge fan of sending the girls off to summer camp (it's the best time of the year in Chicago; why would I want them away from us?), so although the girls sometimes get a little sick of each other (ie, I said, "Stay out of my room!"), it seems we do best when we have time to wander. When they were little we would traverse the city visiting various playgrounds in random neighborhoods or meandering through museums for as long as we could manage. Now that they're older our outings can be more varied....last week included a visit to our old high-rise neighborhood, Lakeshore East (near Millennium Park) with the dog; a day at the Art Institute spent sketching in the Modern Wing, swimming at the Wilmette Pool, riding roller coasters at Great America and a couple of trips over to Adams Playground to play in the splash area. All and all, as Lola said, "A week of adventures" -- and a week to be grateful for, particularly because I'm able to work from home right now.
While I'm good at appreciating all the good experiences and people and memories that we've been blessed with, I know I'm also good at worrying about the times ahead that may not be so sweet. Spending time with my kids is what drives me relentlessly through pretty much every aspect of every day. My goal is to spend as much time with them as possible because I know that someday I'll be sitting here at my computer wondering where the time went, as well as wondering what I'm going to talk to Roc about. I've already figured out that I'll be 50 the year that Isabel goes to college -- probably not a good year for me (or Roc, by association). Right now we are so, so busy in our daily lives that we often have barely a moment to catch up on each day's events, but I know that someday we'll be the old couple sitting out on the porch wondering where our kids are and why they don't visit us more often. Cat's in the cradle...
Why is life set up that way? Middle age is so full of responsibility and busyness that we seem to often bustle through the very best moments and then later age -- I'm not exactly sure what else to call it -- gives us more time than I imagine we will need or, even worse -- want.
For now, I relish the small hand that snakes into mine as we walk down the street....even when I'm already maneuvering the dog and two cups of coffee...always room for one more. I cherish the wet kisses that suck (er, lick) my cheek, even though it's a bit wetter than anyone would actually enjoy. I make a point of laying down with my big 11-year old every night so that we can talk or read because, especially with her, I know that time is flashing by and she might soon not want me there. I sit in the parks and watch them run around playing and think how little they were the first time we came. Songs about time and regret make me cry. Songs about happiness and love make me wish more fervently for more time, even though I know it will never be enough.
Mostly I try not to think too much about someday because I'm pretty sure that it won't be as beautiful as everyday is now. After all, if I enjoy every day the best I can, then maybe someday will never actually come.
 |
| Days gone by... |
While I'm good at appreciating all the good experiences and people and memories that we've been blessed with, I know I'm also good at worrying about the times ahead that may not be so sweet. Spending time with my kids is what drives me relentlessly through pretty much every aspect of every day. My goal is to spend as much time with them as possible because I know that someday I'll be sitting here at my computer wondering where the time went, as well as wondering what I'm going to talk to Roc about. I've already figured out that I'll be 50 the year that Isabel goes to college -- probably not a good year for me (or Roc, by association). Right now we are so, so busy in our daily lives that we often have barely a moment to catch up on each day's events, but I know that someday we'll be the old couple sitting out on the porch wondering where our kids are and why they don't visit us more often. Cat's in the cradle...
 |
| ...and today |
Why is life set up that way? Middle age is so full of responsibility and busyness that we seem to often bustle through the very best moments and then later age -- I'm not exactly sure what else to call it -- gives us more time than I imagine we will need or, even worse -- want.
For now, I relish the small hand that snakes into mine as we walk down the street....even when I'm already maneuvering the dog and two cups of coffee...always room for one more. I cherish the wet kisses that suck (er, lick) my cheek, even though it's a bit wetter than anyone would actually enjoy. I make a point of laying down with my big 11-year old every night so that we can talk or read because, especially with her, I know that time is flashing by and she might soon not want me there. I sit in the parks and watch them run around playing and think how little they were the first time we came. Songs about time and regret make me cry. Songs about happiness and love make me wish more fervently for more time, even though I know it will never be enough.
Mostly I try not to think too much about someday because I'm pretty sure that it won't be as beautiful as everyday is now. After all, if I enjoy every day the best I can, then maybe someday will never actually come.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
South Africa
My awesome parents are headed to Africa in October - never been, just feeling it might be a good idea -- which has brought back reflections of my own trip to South Africa some years ago. Summertime is the best time to do this kind of musing, by the way. Along with the sunshine and warmer temps, summer seems to bring with it new clarity regarding just about everything. Lately I find myself thinking about experiences that happened years ago -- apparently for no reason other than my mind is less cluttered and more free to wander during these quieter, calmer months. As for South Africa, it's been a while since I've really "gone back" to that particular time, and although the entire experience is really memorable, there was a game reserve that I visited - Londololozi - that stands out in particular.
The routine at Londolozi was peacefully monotonous. We would awake early, around 5:00 AM, head to the main lodge for a huge breakfast buffet (marveling at the monkeys swinging around just outside the open-air seating), and then head out on one of the specially outfitted, topless land rovers for a morning safari. We would return a few hours later for lunch and a free afternoon, followed by an early evening safari and an outdoor, grilled meal served at large communal tables.
The game rangers at Londolozi were generally young, white South African men who had studied to become rangers and were well-trained regarding all of the animals and flora that we saw on our daily jaunts. The trackers (ie, the men who would sit at the front of the vehicles and hunt for animal tracks), were generally well-weathered, black South African men who were not necessarily trained, but who had so much knowledge of the bush that all one could do was sit back in wonder as they repeatedly led us to spots where we could closely observe a multitude of animals (lions, hyena, elephants, rhino, cheetah, to name a few), in their natural habitats.
Being young and alone, I was befriended by some of the game rangers early in my stay and began attending their after-hours parties. The rangers were required to dine with all of the guests at dinner, but afterwards I would go with them to a different area of the reserve where the staff would have their own more casual gatherings. These experiences were great fun as they offered a window into what seemed to me to be authentic South African culture -- something I greatly admired and was happy to be included in.
One night, my new friend John M. suggested that we go into the bush alone -- he wanted to show me something. I agreed and wasn't much concerned when he strapped on a rifle (red light, anyone?) before heading out on the land rover. As we made our way into the bush we passed an old pickup truck with a huge mound of impala in the back. Some were still breathing, but all were doomed to be our dinner the following night. It was one of the first times I acutely realized where our meat comes from -- and probably laid the groundwork for my later decision to go veggie. At the time I was wolfing down a lot of cheeseburgers and, on this trip, impala. John explained that killing and serving the animals for dinner (kabobs!) was an efficient way of handling over-population. Just like the deer back at home. Sigh.
We continued onward; me holding a large lamp that John entrusted to me and which I clumsily jerked around the darkness as he called out instructions, hoping to spot something interesting. Have you ever been in the African bush at night alone with a dude you just met a coupla days ago? It's a surreal experience. Aside from the excitement of doing something so completely unexpected, the sounds we heard during that night drive were like something out of a movie. Add to that the fact that John would periodically kill the lights and the engine of the land rover so that we could sit in darkness to "hear better" and, well, it was pretty much an incomparable experience.
Eventually, after crashing around through some trees and bushes (never leaving the vehicle) we came to what seemed to be a large clearing. My heart was pounding out of my chest as John directed me to shine the lamp directly in front of us. There -- to my astonishment -- was a pride of 15 or more lions lounging about in the pale moonlight. To our right two were mating. John looked at me; I gawked at him and he grinned broadly. Apparently, mission accomplished. I grinned in return and thought, "Okay, a little weird, but best date ever!", while the words to Prince's song strummed along in my head, "...animals strike curious poses...."
Fast-forward to 2011 and it nearly feels like that whole episode never happened -- good thing I have some photos (pre-digital, so only a precious few) to remind myself. In them I am young, naive and obliviously happy. They record one of those brief and rare moments in a lifetime -- in my lifetime, at least -- when I achieved something I was always looking for back then, and even sometimes today -- anonymity. I yearned for the feeling of being "lost" and creating a new me. Who can say why. I have a close and loving family that, then as today, I miss intensely when I'm away for too long. And yet -- there was/is something magical about wandering alone in a place where no one knows you -- and where no one knows you are. I think it's possibility.
When it came time for me to leave Londolozi, I was sad, sad, sad. I'd been there only a short time, but the lifestyle and beauty of the land, the people and the animals had resonated deeply. I didn't want to leave, but I did anyway, telling myself that I would go home, save money, and come back to stay. I remember sitting in my seat on the little prop plane, literally waiting for a giraffe to leave the runway so that we could take-off, and thinking, rather dramatically and grandly, "This is where I belong."
Of course, those feelings faded after I returned home to work, friends, family and a new boyfriend (hello, Roc!), whom I later married. I did keep in touch with some of the people at Londolozi for a few months afterward -- actually, based on letters I've recently uncovered in my stash of treasured notes, we kept in touch longer that I realized - mostly via fax - which is hard to imagine now. Funny how time washed away the relationship part, but left the strong connection to South Africa intact. Our minds do that sometimes.
A friend suggested that I could "find" some of the people I met at Londolozi on Facebook if I really wanted, but I'd rather not. I like to remember them just as they were then -- young and idealistic, entertaining the tourists...showing off the lions and showcasing the best thing of all...possibility.
The routine at Londolozi was peacefully monotonous. We would awake early, around 5:00 AM, head to the main lodge for a huge breakfast buffet (marveling at the monkeys swinging around just outside the open-air seating), and then head out on one of the specially outfitted, topless land rovers for a morning safari. We would return a few hours later for lunch and a free afternoon, followed by an early evening safari and an outdoor, grilled meal served at large communal tables.
The game rangers at Londolozi were generally young, white South African men who had studied to become rangers and were well-trained regarding all of the animals and flora that we saw on our daily jaunts. The trackers (ie, the men who would sit at the front of the vehicles and hunt for animal tracks), were generally well-weathered, black South African men who were not necessarily trained, but who had so much knowledge of the bush that all one could do was sit back in wonder as they repeatedly led us to spots where we could closely observe a multitude of animals (lions, hyena, elephants, rhino, cheetah, to name a few), in their natural habitats.
Being young and alone, I was befriended by some of the game rangers early in my stay and began attending their after-hours parties. The rangers were required to dine with all of the guests at dinner, but afterwards I would go with them to a different area of the reserve where the staff would have their own more casual gatherings. These experiences were great fun as they offered a window into what seemed to me to be authentic South African culture -- something I greatly admired and was happy to be included in.
One night, my new friend John M. suggested that we go into the bush alone -- he wanted to show me something. I agreed and wasn't much concerned when he strapped on a rifle (red light, anyone?) before heading out on the land rover. As we made our way into the bush we passed an old pickup truck with a huge mound of impala in the back. Some were still breathing, but all were doomed to be our dinner the following night. It was one of the first times I acutely realized where our meat comes from -- and probably laid the groundwork for my later decision to go veggie. At the time I was wolfing down a lot of cheeseburgers and, on this trip, impala. John explained that killing and serving the animals for dinner (kabobs!) was an efficient way of handling over-population. Just like the deer back at home. Sigh.
We continued onward; me holding a large lamp that John entrusted to me and which I clumsily jerked around the darkness as he called out instructions, hoping to spot something interesting. Have you ever been in the African bush at night alone with a dude you just met a coupla days ago? It's a surreal experience. Aside from the excitement of doing something so completely unexpected, the sounds we heard during that night drive were like something out of a movie. Add to that the fact that John would periodically kill the lights and the engine of the land rover so that we could sit in darkness to "hear better" and, well, it was pretty much an incomparable experience.
Eventually, after crashing around through some trees and bushes (never leaving the vehicle) we came to what seemed to be a large clearing. My heart was pounding out of my chest as John directed me to shine the lamp directly in front of us. There -- to my astonishment -- was a pride of 15 or more lions lounging about in the pale moonlight. To our right two were mating. John looked at me; I gawked at him and he grinned broadly. Apparently, mission accomplished. I grinned in return and thought, "Okay, a little weird, but best date ever!", while the words to Prince's song strummed along in my head, "...animals strike curious poses...."
Fast-forward to 2011 and it nearly feels like that whole episode never happened -- good thing I have some photos (pre-digital, so only a precious few) to remind myself. In them I am young, naive and obliviously happy. They record one of those brief and rare moments in a lifetime -- in my lifetime, at least -- when I achieved something I was always looking for back then, and even sometimes today -- anonymity. I yearned for the feeling of being "lost" and creating a new me. Who can say why. I have a close and loving family that, then as today, I miss intensely when I'm away for too long. And yet -- there was/is something magical about wandering alone in a place where no one knows you -- and where no one knows you are. I think it's possibility.
When it came time for me to leave Londolozi, I was sad, sad, sad. I'd been there only a short time, but the lifestyle and beauty of the land, the people and the animals had resonated deeply. I didn't want to leave, but I did anyway, telling myself that I would go home, save money, and come back to stay. I remember sitting in my seat on the little prop plane, literally waiting for a giraffe to leave the runway so that we could take-off, and thinking, rather dramatically and grandly, "This is where I belong."
Of course, those feelings faded after I returned home to work, friends, family and a new boyfriend (hello, Roc!), whom I later married. I did keep in touch with some of the people at Londolozi for a few months afterward -- actually, based on letters I've recently uncovered in my stash of treasured notes, we kept in touch longer that I realized - mostly via fax - which is hard to imagine now. Funny how time washed away the relationship part, but left the strong connection to South Africa intact. Our minds do that sometimes.
A friend suggested that I could "find" some of the people I met at Londolozi on Facebook if I really wanted, but I'd rather not. I like to remember them just as they were then -- young and idealistic, entertaining the tourists...showing off the lions and showcasing the best thing of all...possibility.
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