tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16604821328998547712024-02-19T01:29:12.970-08:00Fotogyspies JournalsFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-977739999467715652012-04-26T19:01:00.001-07:002012-04-26T19:01:45.884-07:00On The Road Again: New Orleans and Beyond<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City Park, New Orleans</td></tr>
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Jim: A friend once asked Angie if she would move to a town just because they had a good restaurant. Without skipping a beat she answered “Sure!” I'm not positive that she would actually do that, but I know she would drive 2000 miles for a great breakfast.<br /><br />Angie: I would! A few years ago I read in Gourmet magazine about<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Under the Hill Saloon, Natchez</td></tr>
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this place in southern Arizona called the Bisbee Breakfast Club. (I still haven't forgiven Conde-Nast for canceling Gourmet. I used to get some great ideas for recipes from them, but even better I learned about restaurants around the country that I might want to visit. And their photography was excellent. And I was all set to attend one of there foodie workshops where you get to meet and sample the work of New York's best chefs, when they went out of business—so suddenly that their editor, Ruth Reichl didn't even know it was coming.) Anyway I told Jim we had to go to Bisbee, and on our next trip to the Southwest, we did.<br /><br />Jim: Yeah, and I have to tell you this. When we're on the road, we often stop at a Cracker Barrel for breakfast, and I always gross Angie out by ordering the country breakfast special with eggs, grits, and biscuits and gravy. <br />Angie: I can't stand biscuits and gravy!<br /><br />Jim: When I saw biscuits and gravy on the menu at the Bisbee Breakfast Club I had to try them. They were out of this world. The biscuits were big, light, and fluffy, and the gravy was flavored with some herbs—I think rosemary and thyme and I'm not sure what else. Delicious!<br />
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Angie: They were. I tasted them, and I have to agree with Jim that
they are wonderful. So I can't wait to go back to the Bisbee
Breakfast Club, and though I won't order biscuits (there are too many
other great things on the menu, and they don't fit into my low carb,
high alcohol diet), I'm sure Jim will share some of his with me. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere in Mississippi</td></tr>
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Jim: So on this trip to New Orleans and then to the Southwest, we are
looking for some more great eating along the way. I told Angie that
instead of calling it a photography trip, we should call it a food trip
with some photography thrown in. And we've decided to make this blog
mainly about the food, so if you're interested in combining traveling
with good eating, stay tuned. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans</td></tr>
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<br /><br /><br />Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-47219072892426265092010-05-25T17:40:00.000-07:002010-05-26T04:41:45.031-07:00First Report from Spain 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFY4CmNTQXxEuDpoEIPspbhOryAnF8sESsFfEap2lDBMaf0tkfp5TuHgSKobucrm7e1_reFCbpK-j6pXcCgVKFmbjoE4KQBTzM9JOFDKjwkVZl8n5XMvo0e27ChfTSnVM7qfksxhR0lY/s1600/_MG_9469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;">Remember that you can click on any photo to see a larger version.</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"> </span><img border="0" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFY4CmNTQXxEuDpoEIPspbhOryAnF8sESsFfEap2lDBMaf0tkfp5TuHgSKobucrm7e1_reFCbpK-j6pXcCgVKFmbjoE4KQBTzM9JOFDKjwkVZl8n5XMvo0e27ChfTSnVM7qfksxhR0lY/s640/_MG_9469.jpg" width="640" /></div> We immediately loved Madrid, a very modern town with lots of history. One of the biggest surprises was this train station, with a tropical garden in the center. We wish we could say that it was as efficient as it was beautiful. Well, actually it is, in one respect, because the trains arrive and leave on the dot. But our experience trying to get a Eurorail pass here was right out of Kafka. It's too long to tell here, but here are a few details. We stood in line marked "International" as instructed, only to find when we got to the front that we had to draw a ticket first. So we drew our ticket and came back to the line. It moved fairly fast until it got to the number just before ours, which was 822. Then the number above the ticket window switched to 472. We protested to the agent at the window, who informed us that we were supposed to have gone to another window, as directed on a screen that we hadn't noticed. Since our number had already come and gone, we had to draw another ticket. Finally we made it to the right window, only to be told that we had to go to another station (by train) to get the pass. The whole thing took us a half a day, but we finally got our pass.<br />
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The good news is that you can travel all over Spain by train and by bus. And the trains between some of the major cities travel at 180 miles an hour, so that you can get to where you're going a lot faster than by car. We feel that we've really missed the boat, so to speak, for not developing a system like this if the U.S.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb9_JV-HgygJoQPMgznz2arqjkrEwdtw_HxtsBo4jOkm_DK01BdI0esaX4_PABGfy_xLGCbZfS58N9tdfz7xOf7cF0dxmKoAnG1IoQer0_wu32mpCa948NJ3XPK2UPmoHWBOgwuRbiOQ/s1600/_MG_9452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb9_JV-HgygJoQPMgznz2arqjkrEwdtw_HxtsBo4jOkm_DK01BdI0esaX4_PABGfy_xLGCbZfS58N9tdfz7xOf7cF0dxmKoAnG1IoQer0_wu32mpCa948NJ3XPK2UPmoHWBOgwuRbiOQ/s320/_MG_9452.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbncm7j-ESDecN7FPvBG7sHh4rEZkiMxs46PsHT2yfqOYBnynRZ6fcKZxi1e_KNRySbNOxBe1cjXtHCj1lggE4U98v6FKidfsWmo27yFXEuHUIllXli2mrawHUhrA1yloWgObKN9Dft8/s1600/_MG_0944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbncm7j-ESDecN7FPvBG7sHh4rEZkiMxs46PsHT2yfqOYBnynRZ6fcKZxi1e_KNRySbNOxBe1cjXtHCj1lggE4U98v6FKidfsWmo27yFXEuHUIllXli2mrawHUhrA1yloWgObKN9Dft8/s320/_MG_0944.jpg" /></a>The charm of Madrid comes from both the old and the new. Just off the Plaza Mayor is the newly decked out and reopened Mercado of San Miguel. It contains 33 booths selling seafood, cheese, wine . . .and you can shop to go or do as the young hip crowd in Madrid do and enjoy your copa de vino and tapas standing or sitting, if you're lucky, at a table.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu35r6mxKFDsXKg1KFtGZTFGIlHJT5g-XKlB2SxjDBrPkngaFVTXEBkHHRCLjOtVzjQiGDxI13h8nNU6olCgPc2k-WOqbzgjKvKLKAlazQQeBaENuBfTHsXxwV8-iWIRohPj17hhzg5mg/s1600/_MG_9442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu35r6mxKFDsXKg1KFtGZTFGIlHJT5g-XKlB2SxjDBrPkngaFVTXEBkHHRCLjOtVzjQiGDxI13h8nNU6olCgPc2k-WOqbzgjKvKLKAlazQQeBaENuBfTHsXxwV8-iWIRohPj17hhzg5mg/s320/_MG_9442.jpg" /></a></div>We were glad we'd decided to spend three nights in Madrid, because it gave us time to just wander around as well as visiting some of the obligatory sights (like the great museum El Prado, where we got to see works by Spain's great painters like Velasquez (Angie's favorite), Goya, El Greco, as well as some great Rubens and Rembrandts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhZk3zLjYlVXJPqOVvr8CFG4lRi1cOCpb14oBmHcHZ2dlUBtFECCTMqV7hgRb_hVCuTuX2CWVEtRhQR1zpaQhoLPLFwnMKPxkrGZH5MImY0ITspk7yVp7SkFbktypSQ1GghhtPmC3A2k/s1600/_MG_1050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhZk3zLjYlVXJPqOVvr8CFG4lRi1cOCpb14oBmHcHZ2dlUBtFECCTMqV7hgRb_hVCuTuX2CWVEtRhQR1zpaQhoLPLFwnMKPxkrGZH5MImY0ITspk7yVp7SkFbktypSQ1GghhtPmC3A2k/s320/_MG_1050.jpg" /></a></div>Naturally we loved wandering the crowded streets of the old section of town, with its colorful shops, but it was a restful relief to stroll through El Parque de Buen Retiro (something like "the park of good retreat"), full of grass, trees and shade, and lovers taking advantage of it all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSGXYRRge6LZy6uRqW59BKPtXmywB98Pji-EicKTGrvveN3a4SFgC4UIMGGNTmZMquucUQN2vwToAN5V3j0etb1VPqD98KBOv8AcZb4HyNsaQPwXeRbOJyne7auFX8Hz1h2xX2wZuV8Q/s1600/_MG_1018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSGXYRRge6LZy6uRqW59BKPtXmywB98Pji-EicKTGrvveN3a4SFgC4UIMGGNTmZMquucUQN2vwToAN5V3j0etb1VPqD98KBOv8AcZb4HyNsaQPwXeRbOJyne7auFX8Hz1h2xX2wZuV8Q/s320/_MG_1018.jpg" /></a></div>There was something magical about the place, and we even think that some of the trees harbored forest spirits, if not elves.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEBijrfBCiSzYUl0OCEWGr-Ftzoe_o4FxO49csFiWpymbii2djWtXuYyEEpenZLB0aqoBpbMJjM_V1NFWMYQn3I5yMqpjZqCzviQNYcptwdoRYuwhi7EcPcii6euQf8pglG48-369C84/s1600/_MG_1080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEBijrfBCiSzYUl0OCEWGr-Ftzoe_o4FxO49csFiWpymbii2djWtXuYyEEpenZLB0aqoBpbMJjM_V1NFWMYQn3I5yMqpjZqCzviQNYcptwdoRYuwhi7EcPcii6euQf8pglG48-369C84/s400/_MG_1080.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>Between Madrid and Barcelona we got off the train at a little town call Catalayud and took a taxi twenty miles up into the hills to the Monasterio de Piedras (Monastery of Stone). It has been converted into a national park and a lodge where we felt like royalty while we enjoyed some of the region's great food and wine.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLttqagF9-XijDtr5kBJ1aoRfIxtRWZV5EEy3quPj82C2hczsxAyKSqAXnLkt0PmgT13UIpcHBDZ7WDbNugcQV1gvbG19ynZ65mbJxVt8G5hgl__tGTxhEfU2iVAHPVNZUpbf20flF10/s1600/_MG_9813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLttqagF9-XijDtr5kBJ1aoRfIxtRWZV5EEy3quPj82C2hczsxAyKSqAXnLkt0PmgT13UIpcHBDZ7WDbNugcQV1gvbG19ynZ65mbJxVt8G5hgl__tGTxhEfU2iVAHPVNZUpbf20flF10/s400/_MG_9813.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>Trails around the Monastery went through part of the preserve, a land of canyons, streams, and waterfalls. A tip from our friend Jay had sent us to this place that revealed a side of Spain we wouldn't have experienced otherwise.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>One of the highlights at the Monasterio was the aviary with the "vuelo de los rapaces" or the flight of the falcons. We were amazed at the control the falconers (two intrepid women) had over these birds, helped by generous handouts, of course, and a little frightened when the birds grazed us with their powerful wings as they came in for a landing. <br />
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From the Monasterio, we caught the high speed train on to Barcelona, which turned out NOT to be our favorite city in Spain, for many reasons, one big one which we'll explain later. The center of the city is attractive and modern, although a few blocks from the main thoroughfares, the streets are dirty and the buildings covered with graffiti (not that a little dirt and litter bother us a whole lot--we've traveled in places that are worse--but Spain is a modern European country, and Madrid led us to expect better.) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTSrogL8MA6fi4SyKWMzPgDe93bvDOSNWZngvy2O5c4Y1scftdMX1UZovXJYvSCt0ytNjztBFkn7iIJANdClX68k3wvwjSu1Xhbjjs8O49OxudZFiDo7AOTgpIxsH_fxSvoC7_pdMC-k/s1600/_MG_9913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTSrogL8MA6fi4SyKWMzPgDe93bvDOSNWZngvy2O5c4Y1scftdMX1UZovXJYvSCt0ytNjztBFkn7iIJANdClX68k3wvwjSu1Xhbjjs8O49OxudZFiDo7AOTgpIxsH_fxSvoC7_pdMC-k/s400/_MG_9913.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>What saves Barcelona, of course, is the beautiful modern archictecture, especially the Gaudi masterpieces that are scattered around the city.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEE1bQIaBgdtYaNlpeQm0-o8EcGvG9YmGCeBCq570xQzCDnE4PMGZd04zC1OBemX4_-P097xN5A0_euM-GyjqKnNWAWFCjQJcqs0IaOquviC_B-fgeHJHsab2gaJ_3bhWK_JUKKOq_yo/s1600/_MG_9847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEE1bQIaBgdtYaNlpeQm0-o8EcGvG9YmGCeBCq570xQzCDnE4PMGZd04zC1OBemX4_-P097xN5A0_euM-GyjqKnNWAWFCjQJcqs0IaOquviC_B-fgeHJHsab2gaJ_3bhWK_JUKKOq_yo/s1600/_MG_9847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEE1bQIaBgdtYaNlpeQm0-o8EcGvG9YmGCeBCq570xQzCDnE4PMGZd04zC1OBemX4_-P097xN5A0_euM-GyjqKnNWAWFCjQJcqs0IaOquviC_B-fgeHJHsab2gaJ_3bhWK_JUKKOq_yo/s320/_MG_9847.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It was no novelty to see women in high heels riding motorbikes in Barcelona. In fact, although this photo doesn't show it, motorbikes outnumber cars on the streets downtown. When the light changes to green you have to watch out for the barrage of them crossing the intersection.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCWYSxil_ql3B5WXdMqbjEHrxuRNgte9s79L3zsr7WhGGUreSJ-mbdKDNbt_S1hO42NpcCqmjOC7GQ70sb5V_87xe9GBVr-PYdUiJy4Djkl7wKe3DxDto0drgPuNOQbDuvJwZ7t1z5wY/s1600/_MG_1342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCWYSxil_ql3B5WXdMqbjEHrxuRNgte9s79L3zsr7WhGGUreSJ-mbdKDNbt_S1hO42NpcCqmjOC7GQ70sb5V_87xe9GBVr-PYdUiJy4Djkl7wKe3DxDto0drgPuNOQbDuvJwZ7t1z5wY/s400/_MG_1342.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>OK, here's the story about our experience in Barcelona, as Jim tells it:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Barcelona 2010: The Magician's Assistant</b></span><br />
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You'll see this coming before I did. That's because I never thought it would happen to me. I was ready for the woman with the sick baby. When she tried to hand it to me, I would turn around and let her drop it on the ground, if that was what she wanted to do. I would ignore the crowd of urchins trying to attack me, hold my possessions securely and yell “Ladron! Me robaron! Me robaron!” I would fend off the street vendors offering watches, sunglasses, and the like. I would decline advice from the overly helpful young man on the corner. My camera strap was over one shoulder and under an arm so that the camera could not be snatched away by someone riding by on a motor scooter. My wallet was in a zippered and velcroed pocket which I could hardly get into myself. The crowd in the Gaudi Catedral de la Sagrada Familia in Barcelona was not particularly heavy. Boy was I naïve!<br />
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But let me make a little digression. We find that traveling in Spain is a lot different than traveling in Mexico. For one thing, there is such a mix of people here that we can't tell where anyone is from until we hear them speak. There are tourists from all over Europe (we've run into very few Americans) and such a mix of cultures and appearances! We've been especially impressed by the number of really tall, very slender women, always fashionably dressed, that we've seen on the streets of Madrid and Barcelona. One thing we haven't seen in any numbers are the begging Gypsy women that I remember pestering us on my first trip to Barcelona (that was almost 40 years ago—Generalissimo Franco was still in power.) OK, now back to the Gaudi Cathedral.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wKLYtpVbIipkm-2mKA55AWXzUA5gDqNhBANgrHQSNnLidkTURU8PFFwiLwyH1HJgoJv7EQ6W1PYmJ6f7TCIwmEnIP9e3WbTahpFcdOcQYW2tL4ioNlBZjFpS71vFZ_n9ei9rjxVc1FM/s1600/_MG_1358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wKLYtpVbIipkm-2mKA55AWXzUA5gDqNhBANgrHQSNnLidkTURU8PFFwiLwyH1HJgoJv7EQ6W1PYmJ6f7TCIwmEnIP9e3WbTahpFcdOcQYW2tL4ioNlBZjFpS71vFZ_n9ei9rjxVc1FM/s400/_MG_1358.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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It's really hard to get a good original shot inside or outside the cathedral. For one thing, it is still under construction, although building began in the 19th century. Then the portions are so sweeping and the light so varied, that it is hard to decide where to point your camera. I was changing lenses from a wide angle to a longer lens when I noticed my back pack was open. That's funny, I thought, I must have forgot to zip it shut the last time I changed lenses. I checked, and nothing was missing. No problem, but I've got to be more careful. I zipped it shut, and aimed my camera toward a detail in the vaulted dome of the cathedral. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EUfGQTxGTxpnZJ229jK2KpYSkUmCK-mtDEpyLDgJDgRKHrYaAaUUWIfju_IvxkfYVYpTH6xINNDdrcrN6owVxPnQPqFV_u-qouVM-V7R0GR7qfi_LdVXUnUssSxLQmimlPoqIz8Misc/s1600/_MG_1375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EUfGQTxGTxpnZJ229jK2KpYSkUmCK-mtDEpyLDgJDgRKHrYaAaUUWIfju_IvxkfYVYpTH6xINNDdrcrN6owVxPnQPqFV_u-qouVM-V7R0GR7qfi_LdVXUnUssSxLQmimlPoqIz8Misc/s320/_MG_1375.jpg" /></a></div>One of those very tall, slender, well dressed woman with a tiny pocket camera pushed up against me, aiming her camera at the same thing I was looking it. Irritated, I moved aside to let her get her shot. It never fails, I thought. Someone sees you with a professional looking camera and they think they should be getting a picture of whatever you're shooting. I mentioned that to Angie, then aimed my camera again. There she was, pushing into me again. I left the spot in disgust, and within a few minutes we exited the cathedral. I sensed something different, felt for my wallet, and of course found the pocket where it had been unzipped and empty.<br />
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From now on, a warning to any photographers near me. If you get too close, you're likely to feel a sharp elbow in your ribs or worse, even if you're a tall, good looking woman!<br />
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I got lots of sympathy from these guys at the Sagrada Familia!<br />
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Kind of interesting that the woman in the information booth where I made my complaint gave me a preprinted map to the nearest police station and the telephone number to report my Visa card stolen. Visa delivered us a new card by FedEx the next day!<br />
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A note about language. One of our problems in Barcelona was that all the signs are in Catalan rather than Spanish. And while we could figure most of them out, some of them left us totally perplexed. We asked one of our cabbies how many Barcelonans spoke Catalan, and he said 10 per cent. But the government wants to preserve the language, so everything official is written in Catalan, and it's taught to all of the school kids. So the parents don't speak it, but the kids do--a situation every teenager would love! We wouldn't have recognized the police station if we hadn't asked some guy in a truck for directions and he invited us to hop in and took us there.<br />
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And then service people in Spain don't believe that Americans (or Brits for that matter) can speak Spanish. While we speak enough Spanish to get around, understand directions, order food, and even carry on conversations with our patient friends, we don't consider ourselves fluent in all situations. That is made worse by the fact that there are dialects and accents in Spain that don't in anyway resemble what we are used to hearing in Mexico. We can understand people who speak standard Castellano pretty well, but that seems to be a minority when you get out of Madrid. And what's worse, when we are recognized as American tourists (which isn't very hard), people just assume we are speaking English, even when we are using Spanish (admittedly with an American accent). When we got to the police station, Jim asked the officer in charge if he spoke English, thinking it would be easier to conduct official business in our first language. But the officer said not at all, and we went ahead and handled our report in Spanish without difficulty. He even complimented Jim on his Spanish. But another officer who knew a little English, who was giving us directions back to our hotel, insisted on talking to us in English. Our Spanish was much better than his English, which we could barely understand, but he thought he had to talk to us in English anyway. Later we stopped in a little pizzeria for a bite to eat, and Jim offered the coupon books which we hadn't used after our aborted trip to the Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia to our waitress, she said "I'm sorry, but I don't speak English." Jim said, "But I'm speaking Spanish!" and she replied, "Now you are, but not before." She had no trouble understanding him once she realized he was speaking Spanish and not English as she expected him to. Most people in Spain who deal with the public do speak English, since it is the universal language for all the Europeans who travel (except maybe the French). The exception seems to be people in official positions. Like the person at the train station who dealt with international reservations. He spoke only Spanish. Go figure.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1gzTYf7m_FSYw8iIh7V4a2aK2RDvZ7ek3CnHxM64LPGucPomfa2eiyHjyCdtKBEdPoNpopfsGyQ04kV7iSgqhep5MVTbXvtId2wEFyU-EdB1SJHo1IH3usSDKUa5IL_c8dckm-gpv4k/s1600/_MG_9975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1gzTYf7m_FSYw8iIh7V4a2aK2RDvZ7ek3CnHxM64LPGucPomfa2eiyHjyCdtKBEdPoNpopfsGyQ04kV7iSgqhep5MVTbXvtId2wEFyU-EdB1SJHo1IH3usSDKUa5IL_c8dckm-gpv4k/s640/_MG_9975.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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From Barcelona we trained down to Alicante, a resort town on the Mediterranean south of Valencia. It's a beautiful town with a wide Esplanade along the waterfront. In the summer it's jammed with European tourists, but at this time of year it was lively, but not overcrowded. It was a great place to relax after our Barcelona experience.<br />
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One thing we loved about Alicante besides the beautiful women was the great food. We found a little Italian restaurant (owned and staffed by real Italians) which served some of the best seafood and pasta that we've ever eaten. Every meal, of course, accompanied by a bottle of very good wine, all at about a third of what it would cost us in Ann Arbor for something not nearly as good. and every meal was followed by a free serving of lemoncello, a very tasty Italian aperitif. The name of the restaurant is La Pecatta di Gola (the sin of gluttony). Viva la temtacion!<br />
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That's all for now. Look forward to seeing you all soon.<br />
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With love from the Fotogypsies.Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-54792303012543134722010-03-30T09:21:00.000-07:002010-03-30T09:21:16.166-07:00"For all in tents . . ." a poemI've been carrying the first one and a half lines of this poem in my head for decades! Then, when Angie and I were on our sailboat Escapade in the mid Eighties, we had an experience that began to add life to them. We were motoring down the intra-coastal waterway past Marine World when we saw two porpoises making a streak in the water past us. We fantasized that they were making their break for freedom. The idea continued to percolate and finally came together as a poem while we were traveling in Newfoundland a couple of summers ago.<br />
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For all in tents<br />
and porpoises and whales<br />
kept captive for our delight<br />
I apologize.<br />
Nor do I think it right<br />
to discriminate<br />
against beasts of the field,<br />
although there may be some debate<br />
about the food we eat--<br />
I love my meat.<br />
But it makes me sad<br />
to see hogs and cattle<br />
stuffed into pens like sausages.<br />
I would rather we take<br />
just what we need<br />
from all the gods have given--<br />
that would be heaven!<br />
We have grown too many,<br />
but at the least<br />
I will take my pleasure<br />
from seeing the beasts<br />
where they freely roam<br />
in their native home--<br />
or not at all.<br />
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Jim GeorgeFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-70973196141286474172010-03-05T05:23:00.000-08:002010-03-05T05:23:02.959-08:00New Orleans: Update and Epilogue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXrmWckVQIf_vf4vxkP2FXEAQg2i6HCkwHL6YKwLMzmaTKdARYVqezC02IITRCv8nqVA2Ee3CpYAyCYKJt6zK5Vw8rtdqwBLyCc0GUcTOJjasC2RkShBWkhy2j6xbsRTyM05i1JlZwOc/s1600-h/IMG_3614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXrmWckVQIf_vf4vxkP2FXEAQg2i6HCkwHL6YKwLMzmaTKdARYVqezC02IITRCv8nqVA2Ee3CpYAyCYKJt6zK5Vw8rtdqwBLyCc0GUcTOJjasC2RkShBWkhy2j6xbsRTyM05i1JlZwOc/s320/IMG_3614.jpg" /></a> Last night we met our friend Walter Craft, who has most recently been living in Wisconsin, and who for the last 50 years or so has been touring the country as a singer/guitar player. Walter, who started his musical career while living in New Orleans and is now in the process of moving back, introduced us to parts of New Orleans we might not have seen otherwise. When people not from this area think New Orleans, they usually think the French Quarter, and perhaps the Superdrome, and not much beyond that (well, since Katrina, probably the 9th ward, too). Walter directed us to the area around Frenchman Street, just across Esplanade from The French Quarter, where the artists and alternative types have been hanging out since rents in the Quarter became prohibitive. We ate and listened to some acoustic country, blues, and rock-a-billy music at a bar way out in the Plantation district, and ended up in this little co-op coffee shop, The Neutral Ground, in the Garden District. Thanks, Walter, for showing us that there is more to New Orleans than meets the eye of the tourist.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<b>Epilogue:</b> When Jim was in New Orleans as a teenager, he was going to stay there, and he had a job lined up as a short order cook. But as he was sitting in the Paddock Lounge listening to music, he met someone from his hometown who had just driven a moving van load of furniture down. (The name on the furniture van happened to be B. F. George--no relation). He offered Jim a ride back to Muskegon if Jim would help him on the van. Jim accepted, went home to finish high school, and so the story went on. It's interesting to think what seem like little decisions at the time can affect the course of a life, and to imagine what the alternatives might have been like.Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-56944304331283353122010-03-04T15:40:00.000-08:002010-03-04T16:27:21.366-08:00Back to New Orleans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaYWb-SxOObuVl3Mlov560K7GvXq2HXXHFMvFisvip-H0Uul6UL1h2vO8uk-IQxhw_aWwKc4a87FmB6a4aQy_lAlbG7Shng_bAAKdPb-8YmcBHiF6fnBA_etygeZc6c25VcOL2Ki1a4E/s1600-h/IMG_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaYWb-SxOObuVl3Mlov560K7GvXq2HXXHFMvFisvip-H0Uul6UL1h2vO8uk-IQxhw_aWwKc4a87FmB6a4aQy_lAlbG7Shng_bAAKdPb-8YmcBHiF6fnBA_etygeZc6c25VcOL2Ki1a4E/s320/IMG_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We both love New Orleans. Jim's fascination with the city started when he hitchhiked down here in the summer before his senior year in high school. (That was 57 years ago!) The adventure started when he'd lie in bed at night in Muskegon, Michigan, listening to to the clear channel broadcast of a traditional jazz show. (For those of you too young to remember clear channel radio--and I'd guess that's just about all of you--before FM radio, only a few AM channels were authorized to broadcast at night. These channels could be heard all across the country when atmospheric conditions were right.) The program host was a man named Richard Allen, who must have been in his twenties at the time. Richard was a jazz aficionado who later became a musicologist at Tulane University, famous enough to have his obituary in the New York Times when he died at the age of 80 a year or so ago. Anyway, Jim wrote Richard and asked him if they were still playing music like that in New Orleans. Richard wrote back saying they were, and invited Jim to look him up if he ever got to New Orleans.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgauRKwD__2eB7ZpW5GyiMO92bETGnUuV7vL6y0zJ2978OLxv0C_Pt356c4Dyc7vUvLbgC68_8DOys152SOBUdBG8TU9LPCKqtQQS281CnCVyu3_PJYLLGiXj5uw-LfD5pn1xCnaJEVxc0/s1600-h/IMG_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgauRKwD__2eB7ZpW5GyiMO92bETGnUuV7vL6y0zJ2978OLxv0C_Pt356c4Dyc7vUvLbgC68_8DOys152SOBUdBG8TU9LPCKqtQQS281CnCVyu3_PJYLLGiXj5uw-LfD5pn1xCnaJEVxc0/s400/IMG_1.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>That was enough for Jim, whose first record album had been Louis Armstrong and the Hot Fives and Hot Sevens from the 1920's. As soon as summer vacation came, he packed a heavy trunk (this was in the days before backpacking around the world became popular) and with seventy bucks in his pocket hit the highway with his thumb out. After some delays, which included a stint as a short order cook in Henderson, Kentucky, where his older brother Bob was stationed doing his basic training, he finally arrived in New Orleans. He found a room in the old Warehouse district across Canal Street from the French Quarter for a buck a night. This was about a block over from La Quinta where we are staying now. In that day, there really were warehouses here. To reach the room he stayed in, Jim had to climb a rickety stairway and go along a boardwalk outside one building to another warehouse that had been divided into 10 x 10 rooms without windows, fans, or locks on the doors, where he stayed while he was in the Crescent City. I hate to think what would have happened to Jim if there'd been a fire in the building.<br />
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As soon as he could, Jim went to find Richard, who lived in the corner apartment on the top floor of this building on the corner of Royal and St. Peter Street in the quarter, right down the street from where Preservation Hall is today. Richard's apartment was filled with piles of old 78 rpm records, so many that you had to make your way through narrow paths to the only furniture in the room not covered with records, an old iron bed. Richard knew all of the jazz musicians in town and told Jim where he could hear them. These included Johnny St. Cyr and Paul Barbarin, both of whom had recorded with Armstrong in the 20's and 30's, plus a bunch of other great old timers like Billy and DeDe Pierce, Armand Hug, George Lewis, Jim Robinson, Sharkey Bonano, and a slew of others whose names he has forgotten. He saw his first New Orleans Street parade put on by the Jolly Bunch Social and Pleasure Club and led by Oscar "Papa" Celestin's Olympic Jazz Band. Louis Armstrong was said to have played in that band with "Papa" Celestin before he left New Orleans.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinE7oA1efhQRziO5f7QqqeiHEmo8AfmchQ2TTtBH2c07i-T4wBz2NGV86rOIzTG3vSA1EprDFRydrQbJ4svQpsEfuxKiNo2MkmVa1lDDPHKXW5daw_K1JBostnd00rkZiVdRvrwy-3ew8/s1600-h/IMG_14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinE7oA1efhQRziO5f7QqqeiHEmo8AfmchQ2TTtBH2c07i-T4wBz2NGV86rOIzTG3vSA1EprDFRydrQbJ4svQpsEfuxKiNo2MkmVa1lDDPHKXW5daw_K1JBostnd00rkZiVdRvrwy-3ew8/s200/IMG_14.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
Today the generations following in the footsteps of these great musicians carry on the tradition in Preservation Hall, but in the 50's there were several clubs along Bourbon Street where you could hear really fine traditional music. 333 Bourbon Street, The Famous Door, and especially the Paddock Lounge all featured great bands. Jim remembers sitting at the bar in the Paddock, shaped like a horseshoe with the band sitting on a stage in the middle of the shoe, listening to "Just a Closer Walk with Thee," an attractive woman who Jim is pretty sure was a prostitute standing behind him listening to the music with rapt attention. We heard the same music last night at Preservation Hall, with a band that included Charlie Gabriel, lately of Detroit but the fourth generation in a family of New Orleans musicians.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5aydZmssb1qtY6Q9RKBRrBD9nwlHIxEMlmlaYkbTJDfU5KjgE35BMYZvVPYaejcoBiNyGUc0NiaZzxrG5hBn0xBZm5_Mfd8h0h3goxcq2341ftdgGQDq2G5-dGT7XHDYU4QhhExMi1Qc/s1600-h/IMG_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5aydZmssb1qtY6Q9RKBRrBD9nwlHIxEMlmlaYkbTJDfU5KjgE35BMYZvVPYaejcoBiNyGUc0NiaZzxrG5hBn0xBZm5_Mfd8h0h3goxcq2341ftdgGQDq2G5-dGT7XHDYU4QhhExMi1Qc/s400/IMG_12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Today the bars on Bourbon Street are pretty much bad blues, rock, and karaoke. (The biggest change in the French Quarter that Jim sees is the degeneration of Bourbon Street. Otherwise, the Vieux Carré still has pretty much the same flavor as it did 57 years ago.) But you can still hear some pretty good, very spirited music on the streets, like this group playing near Jackson Square in front of the Cathedral.<br />
These guys, laid back as they look, were so good that even other musicians stopped to listen.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtC2aWQC5AbsJKRtlfWKsBL37DAEwwXYclT140pObkUkAHw-X04eaqP4iKy9RHwCGdMae7mR7JhMNmb1HceNZFmM2sakuz3p7ifPgWSYo1CbaVoWqrC1REFvWij8fCm5mTok0leqosiU/s1600-h/IMG_13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtC2aWQC5AbsJKRtlfWKsBL37DAEwwXYclT140pObkUkAHw-X04eaqP4iKy9RHwCGdMae7mR7JhMNmb1HceNZFmM2sakuz3p7ifPgWSYo1CbaVoWqrC1REFvWij8fCm5mTok0leqosiU/s320/IMG_13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PCES6QWbMapbGFgV1k6lHNipcLMiTp06lIpCkClvMzseeei2YXwnt9qoJlOhrhTdGqz77fp3QnvP_ZgR7rbwVSUyiu2H_CuOSuzCGcUwI9zZAjXGNlN-mQzx-fE5ogLv7uiqniVvma4/s1600-h/IMG_11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PCES6QWbMapbGFgV1k6lHNipcLMiTp06lIpCkClvMzseeei2YXwnt9qoJlOhrhTdGqz77fp3QnvP_ZgR7rbwVSUyiu2H_CuOSuzCGcUwI9zZAjXGNlN-mQzx-fE5ogLv7uiqniVvma4/s320/IMG_11.jpg" /></a>In front of the Cafe du Monde, an outdoor Cafe down by the riverfront that dates back to the 18th century, we got to talking to Nick Molina, another street musician. Forty-nine years old, Nick is a native of New Orleans. We enjoyed his style of guitar playing, which included stride piano type arrangements of Beatles tunes and other popular music of the 60's and 70's. When we complimented him, he was glad to take a break and talk, and we enjoyed the conversation as much for the chance to listen to his thick New Orleans accent, which to us sounded a little like a mix of Southern and New England, as for his delightful comments on the traditions of the city. Nick is a big sports fan, and he had plenty to say about the Saints' recent win in the Superbowl. The parades and celebrations had begun a week before the big game. It seems that an announcer for the Saints (a former football star whose name I'm sure you would recognize if we could remember it) had said that if the Saints ever made it into the playoffs, something they hadn't been able to do in 43 years, he would march through the quarter in a dress. He died before they made it, but in his honor, Nick said it seemed like the whole town turned out in dresses for a big parade that was bigger than Mardi Gras.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG61cR9et_zb_eyAfRLOUPJONkRq7pc68OjOw3sKAWhtvHiT8gghrwcQOZuzmDfOGo3GubB_Q8buD2e-KqI574k2XIIf0oPZvP3Kg4d0ZDDdNqlrsncF9EYBEHTZNWwEpGuvt0DnCaBrU/s1600-h/IMG_3589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG61cR9et_zb_eyAfRLOUPJONkRq7pc68OjOw3sKAWhtvHiT8gghrwcQOZuzmDfOGo3GubB_Q8buD2e-KqI574k2XIIf0oPZvP3Kg4d0ZDDdNqlrsncF9EYBEHTZNWwEpGuvt0DnCaBrU/s200/IMG_3589.jpg" width="200" /></a>The whole town still seems pretty excited about the win, but Nick was a little nostalgic about it all. "It'll never be the same, now that they've done it," he said. "We all hoped for so long, but once you've made it to the top, there's nowhere else to go." I guess there's a caution there about getting what you long for. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXeusw8haMtPZdv_16Klg5Fcvi_uP4-nj6HyNZ6SIDfp-z7l0fHoDq3pgi-H7ZTS9saTwFWp_dY60sUMHO3R9mPgk-f84Tjo2cFifbI0jjvuNccfLe3IynKRkhZ3S5RwocNJWJVM_flk/s1600-h/IMG_1375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXeusw8haMtPZdv_16Klg5Fcvi_uP4-nj6HyNZ6SIDfp-z7l0fHoDq3pgi-H7ZTS9saTwFWp_dY60sUMHO3R9mPgk-f84Tjo2cFifbI0jjvuNccfLe3IynKRkhZ3S5RwocNJWJVM_flk/s200/IMG_1375.jpg" width="200" /></a>The big attraction at Cafe du Monde, aside from just being there, is the café au lait accompanied by beignets, the French holeless donuts smothered in powdered sugar. Jim remembers sitting in the cafe as a teenager, drinking his chicory enhanced coffee on a sweltering August day with the overhead fans offering a little relief, wondering what the white stuff was that he had to keep brushing off his clothes. Then he realized that he was getting snowed on every time a waiter walked by with his tray held high, delivering beignets to some customer.</div><br />
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<b>The St. Louis Cemetery I</b><br />
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Of course, New Orleans is famous for it's above ground cemeteries, like this one, where part of the movie Easy Rider was filmed, and where Marie Leveau, the voodoo queen is believed to be buried.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHp4J6849rHzjcNeMG-s9ht-4FDI4ud8dYWl_TnnchZetSxgbyzA_ZrPnCekIczbtJd1SibfuYmpMpJmpQPzZAl2SNtD_TWOMxGG6CqM-qSJTIh1EqTI0DZspFdFZHZ1ZkZ48FodJqLWc/s1600-h/IMG_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHp4J6849rHzjcNeMG-s9ht-4FDI4ud8dYWl_TnnchZetSxgbyzA_ZrPnCekIczbtJd1SibfuYmpMpJmpQPzZAl2SNtD_TWOMxGG6CqM-qSJTIh1EqTI0DZspFdFZHZ1ZkZ48FodJqLWc/s320/IMG_7.jpg" /></a>The rules are strict about defacing the graves in any way, but somehow someone connected with this one manages to decorate it to his or her taste. An attendant told us that the management often whitewashes this tomb, but it's not long before it returns to this state. Jim says that Angie can manage to find art just about anywhere, and thinks that this photo proves it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc521MMbPeljVPd_dnGBk0O_huYlWZ044JzB9CbObgamj4oj6p8ijc7WnzW9zTihoVo4eQM7bx-yi2mN1kqYk5c8aPhb3aV3wGn6pyFaC0CXw1urKSTMpZHKnh-0wvArTR1NawMKxlfCg/s1600-h/IMG_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc521MMbPeljVPd_dnGBk0O_huYlWZ044JzB9CbObgamj4oj6p8ijc7WnzW9zTihoVo4eQM7bx-yi2mN1kqYk5c8aPhb3aV3wGn6pyFaC0CXw1urKSTMpZHKnh-0wvArTR1NawMKxlfCg/s320/IMG_8.jpg" /></a> These are gifts for Marie Leveau left at what is believed to be her tomb.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCAILFm9l0a-kYcdvDrcuGOqrU3zA2pgQj2gwXcyrH-7kabboTb7H9P3j850TulMA_60LUaIraZ2z3_b_kCaLNr337UEd6505uAzSUy486cDlmCfBkwt8fL9Vp80Emww6G2YzleZzClI/s1600-h/IMG_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCAILFm9l0a-kYcdvDrcuGOqrU3zA2pgQj2gwXcyrH-7kabboTb7H9P3j850TulMA_60LUaIraZ2z3_b_kCaLNr337UEd6505uAzSUy486cDlmCfBkwt8fL9Vp80Emww6G2YzleZzClI/s320/IMG_10.jpg" /></a></div>Jim liked this detail on one of the grave markers.<br />
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That's all for now from the fotogypsies. Stay warm!Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-11538919236071927632010-02-28T02:47:00.000-08:002010-02-28T06:42:39.530-08:00Manatee Springs, Florida: Pigs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVTnWhvATXBUmyU30O53sVFu47h3qVdWw2xQH3OfSzjIEG_mky4EkS0bBFYOKUWOUu0okXq2Eg9iLRK54IOUNoU8iTTpj6lGww4J5IaJWNxK5dNmbqXmXvOtZ0FflTFi6RzY3cmajkY8I/s1600-h/_MG_0441-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVTnWhvATXBUmyU30O53sVFu47h3qVdWw2xQH3OfSzjIEG_mky4EkS0bBFYOKUWOUu0okXq2Eg9iLRK54IOUNoU8iTTpj6lGww4J5IaJWNxK5dNmbqXmXvOtZ0FflTFi6RzY3cmajkY8I/s320/_MG_0441-1.jpg" /></a></div>Even the locals confirm that north Florida is more like southern Alabama and Georgia than the Florida we northerners think about when we think about heading south in the winter time. That view was confirmed when we turned off highway 98 to drive down a dirt road where we were directed by a sign that said "Camp firewood for sale." Actually, we were directed by a lanky local with a lopsided grin and stubble on his chin who was painting the sign. "Just take the wood you need," he said, in a twangy accent we had never heard before. "The deal is on a sign, and there's a box for your money. It's the honor system." Then, as we started to drive down where he had pointed, he called after us, "Just watch out for my dog!"<br />
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We passed several dilapidated house trailers back among the trees before we reached his gate. We were a bit apprehensive about opening it, wondering whether the dog inside was a pit bull or a doberman, but the wood we saw stacked inside was a powerful incentive. We hadn't had a decent campfire since we got to Florida. The wood we had bought at the camp stores and even a Publix (the main grocery chain here) was so green that it wouldn't burn, and it had been so cold that there was no sitting outside in the evening without a fire. We cautiously opened the gate, quickly carried our rack of wood out to the van, put our money in the box, and closed the gate behind us. When we got back to the highway we thanked our guide for the wood. "Did you close my gate good?" he asked. "I've got a puppy in there and don't want it to get out." We assured him that we had, and drove on to the campground.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73VwXSGK4efX5e3wx-BJyofZzrKrrXBFL-K-dyIAx1mo_P7Zrx3un4uSrVDqDdTGf6hhJ5YFlb1XjgRWakxZAoDJaO31QJbCQYsTEUWkz0ikGxwQHMdD7kY38mZkJjfktGe-t-WW1vk4/s1600-h/_MG_0413-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73VwXSGK4efX5e3wx-BJyofZzrKrrXBFL-K-dyIAx1mo_P7Zrx3un4uSrVDqDdTGf6hhJ5YFlb1XjgRWakxZAoDJaO31QJbCQYsTEUWkz0ikGxwQHMdD7kY38mZkJjfktGe-t-WW1vk4/s320/_MG_0413-1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5n75YPjIdK7uB8a61IR_BGvDjEW72FRZhPyl7JCvUtoXTgqICrE9QKokziC2dj14BCTeblf2Kol5ykVcT2Bey3kSP7Fls1iTPMct4GeEw5uBm1x98xhGFtl4sLzzidbDhvB4xWNTVgRE/s1600-h/IMG_1283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5n75YPjIdK7uB8a61IR_BGvDjEW72FRZhPyl7JCvUtoXTgqICrE9QKokziC2dj14BCTeblf2Kol5ykVcT2Bey3kSP7Fls1iTPMct4GeEw5uBm1x98xhGFtl4sLzzidbDhvB4xWNTVgRE/s320/IMG_1283.jpg" /></a>Manatee Springs is a beautiful state park on the Suhwannee River. It is named for warm springs, one of them over 65 feet deep, fed by a system of underwater limestone caves. Divers in full regalia were just entering one of the algae covered springs when we arrived, making interesting patterns on the surface of the water and undisturbed by the small alligator on the far bank. We walked along the boardwalks that led back into the swamp and out to the river, getting some nice images (we hope) and watching a few manatees, which were unphotographable from our perspective, but interesting nonetheless. Walking along the paths back toward the parking lot, we were curious about the holes that someone or something had dug all along both sides of the path. The were about six inches deep and covered the ground adjacent to the path.<br />
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So that night we cooked our dinner over, and sat eating it around, our first good campfire. After eating, we were huddled around the fire (it was still cold--it snowed in northern Florida that night) when we heard three loud snorts and the sound of something running down the trail in front of our camp. Moments later we heard rustling in the bushes behind our camp. "That sounds like something big," Angie said. I thought it might be the herd of small deer that was hanging around the campground, so I went to the van to get a flashlight. Angie had just carried a large pot of water into the van to heat for doing dishes, when something charged into the campsite, heading for the spot where we had been eating dinner a few minutes before. I shone the light in that direction and saw a large sow followed by a young pig rooting about by our camp chairs. I tried to chase them away by banging on pots (it works with bears), but that had no effect, so I grabbed the big stick that we had been poking the fire with, while Angie scuffled in the dark van for her camera. (Dig the picture.) Oops, no picture. Just as Angie emerged from the van with her G10, I chased the pigs off the site, having to give the little one a whack with the stick to get it to leave.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8NY4ahFjJbabxts_u8YDtFCLTtzrApCaMYGzVfpzIxStRwwkijvCq2ax5H6D_lOlXRvEWVEOXXYVmY0IxpRn2WohvCQOB9RmbYT5uhEszlnFFtDCPGu1DfdHal0ZN-rARkwKd5rKwuc/s1600-h/_MG_0469-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8NY4ahFjJbabxts_u8YDtFCLTtzrApCaMYGzVfpzIxStRwwkijvCq2ax5H6D_lOlXRvEWVEOXXYVmY0IxpRn2WohvCQOB9RmbYT5uhEszlnFFtDCPGu1DfdHal0ZN-rARkwKd5rKwuc/s320/_MG_0469-1.jpg" /></a>I read recently that there are feral pigs in every state in the continental US, with California having the most. In some regions, such as the Smoky Mountains, they are doing serious damage to the environment. (We had had our camp invaded by pigs once long ago in California. That time one managed to get Angie's breakfast. She thought that was pretty serious.)Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-74460712512589079012010-02-16T06:54:00.000-08:002010-02-24T11:04:35.201-08:00Key WestWe're sitting here at an RV campground in Key West, with the weather a balmy 61 degrees and the wind blowing gusts of 28 mph. Yesterday was the nicest day we've had, sunny and about 68. Mostly we've been freezing our tails off, with lows in the 30s and 40s. I know that that sounds warm compared with what you've been getting, but not so good for camping. We just put our longies away a couple of days ago.<br />
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We were lucky dodging a couple of huge snow storms on our way down here. We visited Angie's brother in Charlottesville, VA, getting there just after the 20 inches of snow from one storm had been cleared away, and escaping just before the next big nor'easter hit. Heading over to Atlanta, we stayed with our new friend, Mark Hendrickson, who's throwing over his present office job to devote his life to his real love, writing. He shared some of his short stories with us, and he has real talent, plus some life experiences which give him plenty of fodder for invention. (Mark is the brother of Marla, who is married to jazz pianist Tad Weed. What a lot of talent in that family!) The three of us managed to crash the engagement party of our niece Kim, who's had quite a few adventures in her own life, and her fiance Chip. They've known each other for eight years, and as Chip says, it was a a crooked road to the engagement, and all their friends got there before he did.<br />
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We were disappointed to find that we couldn't camp in any of the public campgrounds in the Keys. They are booked up to eleven months in advance--no more walk-ins. It's getting so you can't be nomads anymore, at least in the popular locations. We found the same thing in southern Utah. Last year they kept a small percentage of spaces open for transients, but this year they are going 100 % reservation in the national parks. At least in the west you can camp on BLM (Bureau of Land Management) land if you are self sufficient, but it ain't that way in the Keys. We miss our gypsy adventures in Mexico, where you can go just about anywhere and find someplace to camp.<br />
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Our best camping experience so far was on Anastasia Island off St. Augustine. It was cold, but sunny, and the white sand beaches are beautiful. Angie got a couple of really nice images there. Otherwise, we haven't been able to do much of the kind of photography we hoped to do. Savannah was nice, too, but the weather wasn't conducive to photography--gray skies and lots of wind.<br />
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Coming through West Palm Beach we reconnected with our old friends Jack and Donna Jacobs, who lived on their sailboat Horizon in the Bahamas for 17 years. They got some of their first sailing experience with Jim on the Escapade, and we spent a lot of time with them at Man-of-War Cay when we were on our year long sailing trip 25 years ago. They gave up their boat, a beautiful wood Alden yawl, about 10 years ago, and now ride out the hurricanes in relative safety in their small house near the intra-coastal waterway.<br />
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Today we'll spend the day in Key West, which has become an absolute zoo, and not much like we remembered it from our separate experiences many years ago. And then we're off to the Everglades, where we hope to resume our picture making. From there we'll work our way around the Gulf Coast to New Orleans and southern Louisiana, visiting more friends along the way.<br />
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Update! See the photos that go with this blog here: http://www.fotogypsies.com/GulfCoast1/<br />
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Love to you all,<br />
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The FotogypsiesFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-53927303174016349832008-07-30T09:23:00.000-07:002008-07-30T15:24:07.667-07:00New Found Land!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidR-fXkkaTM03WyVyBAJgfwezlhmXefGoVT1NBnaDsvz8sZlAbt5-aokQwY84le5FEGh4HFC6hJE_JGmWJ8-wjdpAqaCbsczf6xyB0MP6JFaeZXQja9dlKBd0pjwQpYSWMn9eKvqrdA0s/s1600-h/Iceberg_TrinityNFLD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidR-fXkkaTM03WyVyBAJgfwezlhmXefGoVT1NBnaDsvz8sZlAbt5-aokQwY84le5FEGh4HFC6hJE_JGmWJ8-wjdpAqaCbsczf6xyB0MP6JFaeZXQja9dlKBd0pjwQpYSWMn9eKvqrdA0s/s400/Iceberg_TrinityNFLD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228843901105347426" border="0" /></a><br /> Newfoundland native Alfred with the gigantic iceberg we<br /> saw in Trinity Harbour, Newfoundland.<br /> (click on any image to see a larger version)<br /><br />Thursday, July 7, 2008 L'Anse aux Meadows, NFLD<br /><br />Today dawned beautiful and sunny, the third in a row after many days of rain, and the first without high winds. We took advantage of the break in the weather to book ourselves on an iceberg, whale and birdwatching cruise out of St. Anthony, high on the west side of Newfoundland. The icebergs were easy--there were two just outside the harbor. We were impressed, although our guides told us that a couple of weeks ago they were 8 times as large. The ones were were looking at now had been on their way for up to three years, and would be history in another month. In the meantime the water (we tasted a chip) and oxygen they contain had been frozen for 1000 years and was the purest on earth.<br /><br />We had just about given up on sighting a whale and were returning to port when one blew about 1/4 mile away. We gave chase, and the whale obliged us with several flipper waves and a full broach before we had to turn away. Unfortunately the boat was gyrating so much to keep in touch with the whale and to give everyone of the 50 of us aboard a view that we were unable to get any really good photos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEaY4EOSmJREIQkjfUB8qLypnr6yB64EMSmW5E69dA-KYDU1JLL7vUBKZ7LcxIbOnCrRcWyOnINSW1TEA2LFcYgPqBL_HZMS74Oon_8QOFbJ_Ol_WJMXLpdeIzqHJsuRrS7hZ4RnXSjU/s1600-h/BonavistaNFLD+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEaY4EOSmJREIQkjfUB8qLypnr6yB64EMSmW5E69dA-KYDU1JLL7vUBKZ7LcxIbOnCrRcWyOnINSW1TEA2LFcYgPqBL_HZMS74Oon_8QOFbJ_Ol_WJMXLpdeIzqHJsuRrS7hZ4RnXSjU/s400/BonavistaNFLD+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228851060892151074" border="0" /></a> Cape Bonavista Harbour with a replica of the ship <span style="font-style: italic;">Mathew</span> that<br /> John Cabot (an Italian, real name Giovanni Caboto, Angie points out) landed from in 1497 (the first European to set foot on the American continent since the Vikings).<br /><br />There have been quite a few surprises in Newfoundland. For one thing, where we expected to see weathered shingle sided buildings such as are common in Maine and New Brunswick, here on the western side of the island all of the houses were neat, mostly white, vinyl sided bungalows. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNI1FxWzE_fm5BRE1__Z3JSAAlP_t5ssl23Ui53LOLs9rFsY7yeWNDcDi43ADBR8XlsG4IctFj6YoMu2brPOvu8sFdndVRKT8tY_lopoB3oEEfajwxTfoiywwXyug-njML7oeYxU6ZwY/s1600-h/OldChurch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNI1FxWzE_fm5BRE1__Z3JSAAlP_t5ssl23Ui53LOLs9rFsY7yeWNDcDi43ADBR8XlsG4IctFj6YoMu2brPOvu8sFdndVRKT8tY_lopoB3oEEfajwxTfoiywwXyug-njML7oeYxU6ZwY/s320/OldChurch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228877688126589666" border="0" /></a><br />Wood and paint do not stand up well to the weather here, and for the last 30 years (shortly after the first highway connected all of the fishing villages), all the the new houses have been built with vinyl siding and most of the old ones have been resided.<br /><br />The highway has brought another interesting feature. In most places, the soil is too thin over the rock to allow cultivation. So people plant gardens along side the road, where the ground was broken up to create the roadbed. They stake out their rectangle (it's Queen's land, we were told, but she doesn't seem to mind), build a fence to keep out the moose and caribou, and plant their potatoes, carrots, rutabaga and cabbages. Also along the highways we saw huge stacks of firewood. Men go into the bush in the winter time, cut their wood and haul it to the side of the road on sleds pulled by snowmobiles. Each stack is marked with the owner's permit number--and nobody bothers it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK81RSrdCZNWYoAaQFS2yvkmcrfChS-WyAvOm72_6lXz4Yd_iDja6EiQNSYrziFqrZDKLLndUcUzT0WfjAvHFQORnHgPmSzVrUk6pzAseCNYYu4izGnuwBP4hZfksQM3ka_0uABqGF600/s1600-h/Untitled_Panorama1+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK81RSrdCZNWYoAaQFS2yvkmcrfChS-WyAvOm72_6lXz4Yd_iDja6EiQNSYrziFqrZDKLLndUcUzT0WfjAvHFQORnHgPmSzVrUk6pzAseCNYYu4izGnuwBP4hZfksQM3ka_0uABqGF600/s400/Untitled_Panorama1+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228856794107714034" border="0" /></a> Tickle Cove (A tickle is a narrow entrance to a cove or harbor where<br /> the rocks are said to tickle the keel of the boats as they come in).<br /> Be sure to click on this image to see the full panorama!<br /><br />July 10, 2008 Twillingate, Newfoundland "Death of an Iceberg"<br /><br />Highway 1 stretches from Port aux Basques, on the southwest corner of the island, 550 miles to St John's, on the far east end. It is the aorta from which secondary arteries stretch out to the southern coast and north up the peninsulas that reach out toward Labrador and the Atlantic Ocean. In Twillingate, an archipelago of islands jutting into the Atlantic from one of these peninsulas, we get directions to the town dump. We follow the pavement almost to the end, then turn down a gravel road that winds through rocky crags with glimpses of the ocean in the background. What a place for a dump! "It looks like Corsica," Francoise had told us at the campground. (Francoise, petite, 60 years old with jet black hair, had hitched here from Quebec City carrying her 35 pound pack.) Acrid smoke from an incinerator and a congregation of gulls told us we had arrived at the dump, and we pulled La Gitana off to the side of the road and followed a path over the rocky hillocks toward the ocean. Suddenly we saw it, looking something like the turret and superstructure of a dazzling white submarine that had somehow drifted into the bay and foundered.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56zzx422uxeqGkpdzVp8DdfIwKoHEVRkv0hhUpPqscQOZkmTimZn2ZPQVyA-DhkMtTZie0r3mUl2fGKGKq7MTR7Qevbzc3ztdYzUio1gy1bNi8QzCbcIVI3oMOuJgLnFwU5lMhHJ2bTA/s1600-h/Rockscape,+Twillingate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56zzx422uxeqGkpdzVp8DdfIwKoHEVRkv0hhUpPqscQOZkmTimZn2ZPQVyA-DhkMtTZie0r3mUl2fGKGKq7MTR7Qevbzc3ztdYzUio1gy1bNi8QzCbcIVI3oMOuJgLnFwU5lMhHJ2bTA/s400/Rockscape,+Twillingate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228866568119942578" border="0" /></a> Rockscape at the dump, Twillingate, NFLD<br /><br /><br />The iceberg began its journey in Greenland maybe three years ago, splitting off a sea level glacier that had already spent a thousand years working its way down to the sea. The water frozen into the ice and the air bubbles trapped in it are the purest on earth, uncontaminated by polymers and preservatives. You can buy the water in local shops for a couple of bucks a bottle. After breaking off from the glacier, the iceberg drifted across the sea and down the coast of Labrador and Newfoundland, until it was pushed by wind and tide into this bay. While we are watching and photographing it, we hear a tremendous crack, then another. The iceberg is beginning to break apart. One end seems to be rising and falling with the waves, independently of the other. It is obviously aground. The next morning we think the iceberg has disappeared; we don't see it until we are at the edge of the cliffs. What is left of it has been pushed up into the point of the bay. Pieces of it dot the harbor. In a few days it will be gone completely.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lIAi3tXIsdYyrn3UDx7rtw7diC9l6VoTcH2L71bj1xIJLbL1pkWbvudw2FdGcP706DGdm9MUCHJZV5fyHwE7VSzL7noxMblaUVSadl13Uo5X2AjcqrrcmYAFETGN65AiIvc7GkcD8tM/s1600-h/NorrisPointNFLD+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lIAi3tXIsdYyrn3UDx7rtw7diC9l6VoTcH2L71bj1xIJLbL1pkWbvudw2FdGcP706DGdm9MUCHJZV5fyHwE7VSzL7noxMblaUVSadl13Uo5X2AjcqrrcmYAFETGN65AiIvc7GkcD8tM/s400/NorrisPointNFLD+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228881342553967874" border="0" /></a><br />A panorama showing Norris Point on a fjord near Gross Morne National Park, in the west of Newfoundland. (You may have to use your slider to see all of this one!)<br /><br /><br /><br />July 19, 2008<br /><br />On our last day in St. John's we went to the top of Signal Hill, the only point from which you can see both the ocean and the city, one of the oldest European settlements on the continent. From here, in the days of sailing ships, merchants' agents were stationed to fly signal flags when a ship bound for that particular merchant was approaching port. A character in a novel (<span style="font-style:italic;">The Navigator from New York</span>) takes her nephew/foster son up signal hill and points out to him the directions of England, Canada, The United States. "They don't know we exist," she tells him. We felt a little the same way. Before coming here, Newfoundland seemed a wild, remote place. Once we arrived we found it full of surprises. For example, where we expected "quaint fishing villages" we found settlements of neatly kept houses. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEhAnW8VKfWlAZjY2Vf0zQUZkcbHXgtyxyPs2f-i316H7G4-E3FhtowLe3O14RGiTi5WKEQJvUo1qW6d01WtMYHAABfeM-io5rw6nAkTmslrMApTm2cupEBX_NsRc2vvIH-Tlac4JJLg/s1600-h/Harbour__NFLD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEhAnW8VKfWlAZjY2Vf0zQUZkcbHXgtyxyPs2f-i316H7G4-E3FhtowLe3O14RGiTi5WKEQJvUo1qW6d01WtMYHAABfeM-io5rw6nAkTmslrMApTm2cupEBX_NsRc2vvIH-Tlac4JJLg/s400/Harbour__NFLD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228879099814679234" border="0" /></a><br />In this region on the west side of Newfoundland, nearly all of the fishing dories are painted this same orange color. "It's tradition," a fisherman here in Little Cove told us. "It's an easy color to see if the fisherman has trouble at sea and needs to call for help. But the orange paint has become scarce, and now some of the new boats are white or blue."<br /><br />As you travel from the west, the sparsest settled and most "unspoiled" (if such a term can be applied to Newfoundland) side of the province, the terrain and the nature of the towns change, as do the accents of the people, but one thing that doesn't seem to change is the friendliness and openness of the Newfoundlanders. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vVS5hLPL65j53GRhfDX242cbf4UMsgEZadfTtnIhYw5Aolm2tHsploDmSSCAi3N3jzTcB8hO_zgXg48dhAXkhF_gFyJwaWN9_pjW_sCJfc3Th_CXFPqZOymMTOVoZsM3EvKntw-NVjI/s1600-h/Fisherman,+Agentia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vVS5hLPL65j53GRhfDX242cbf4UMsgEZadfTtnIhYw5Aolm2tHsploDmSSCAi3N3jzTcB8hO_zgXg48dhAXkhF_gFyJwaWN9_pjW_sCJfc3Th_CXFPqZOymMTOVoZsM3EvKntw-NVjI/s400/Fisherman,+Agentia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228875494543306418" border="0" /></a><br />When we went down to Dunfield, near Trinity, to see the huge iceberg we had heard was there, we ran into Alfred, who was sitting of a log talking to a couple of other tourists. "Is this your land we're trespassing on to take our photographs?" we asked him. "In Dunfield, you can walk anywhere you like," he replied.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIg6EbBHRdNva-gfIgei7QN-L1VjNeQ7Y2ouySxhLIL42M9kbfEau3mmT2OwUoCzodDUalnjNlkNGjdujvIUz-tZRFiR-v58-SrYzt4vWluM2iYf7le0pSXZLkHHlPTKBVsFkiDezKHk8/s1600-h/_MG_4100.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIg6EbBHRdNva-gfIgei7QN-L1VjNeQ7Y2ouySxhLIL42M9kbfEau3mmT2OwUoCzodDUalnjNlkNGjdujvIUz-tZRFiR-v58-SrYzt4vWluM2iYf7le0pSXZLkHHlPTKBVsFkiDezKHk8/s400/_MG_4100.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228876311948970530" border="0" /></a> Street in St. John's, Newfoundland<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjjSEg6XZO8ESNNOEyAR6Kc_JUTN33TKohOKAj7WrWa-e9xjCPjyASb2meygU2bfvcYVhDa_BwCpJAsQu8WjmGWs-cL2QExwnaM_knOONMJ4tFqUpft8hxHL-ZuWEnoAsZlIfC3JQXJw/s1600-h/Fishing+Sheds+NFLD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjjSEg6XZO8ESNNOEyAR6Kc_JUTN33TKohOKAj7WrWa-e9xjCPjyASb2meygU2bfvcYVhDa_BwCpJAsQu8WjmGWs-cL2QExwnaM_knOONMJ4tFqUpft8hxHL-ZuWEnoAsZlIfC3JQXJw/s400/Fishing+Sheds+NFLD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228893424364775682" border="0" /></a><br />Fish houses and lobster pots. The yellow wildflowers covered the island!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNt2O5mV6slvkMrMS7Y6oR6vaby1b8n9ifBcu_xrMOpRo8mkBi8xdq9tmwwrF0QB_epNydkhm10t_cnxnuqkmMmM5YYGSXdrndR8EI0kEUC0gR1QGvwymr7GhuUiMGUPPOlCpFM63fFKs/s1600-h/_MG_3382.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNt2O5mV6slvkMrMS7Y6oR6vaby1b8n9ifBcu_xrMOpRo8mkBi8xdq9tmwwrF0QB_epNydkhm10t_cnxnuqkmMmM5YYGSXdrndR8EI0kEUC0gR1QGvwymr7GhuUiMGUPPOlCpFM63fFKs/s400/_MG_3382.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228893705198178594" border="0" /></a>Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-37482357962742461522008-03-08T15:33:00.000-08:002008-03-08T16:55:17.029-08:00Land of Wonders<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDmSxBs9dJ-W8EaaO0iaNnp964IahHgfHsziPBwvZRz401_C697NbzWKhHy3eQzsWNwVslJPdDp_EuhhYMGdGIae6s5invDgyS2IUEY0rhvNTeUeVFGSNriSph9-569jW7Tf682_sFQo/s1600-h/castawayminer-bisbee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDmSxBs9dJ-W8EaaO0iaNnp964IahHgfHsziPBwvZRz401_C697NbzWKhHy3eQzsWNwVslJPdDp_EuhhYMGdGIae6s5invDgyS2IUEY0rhvNTeUeVFGSNriSph9-569jW7Tf682_sFQo/s320/castawayminer-bisbee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175532044775688290" /></a><br />On Abraham Lincoln's birthday we crossed the border at Reynosa and McAllen, and after a week in Texas, we passed over into New Mexico and reentered the United States. During all of this time we have been traveling through border country known as "the frontera," a land more Hispanic and Indian than Anglo. It is wonderful country, for its natural beauty as well for its cultural mix and man-made wonders. We can't deny the pleasure of smooth highways and super clean, well stocked (with soap and toilet paper) bathrooms. Not that these things don't exist in Mexico. We are finding them more and more often, especially in the newer Pemex gasoline stations: but you can't count on them. When we pull into a park or campground in Mexico, Angie designates herself as "the bathroom patrol," taking it upon herself to make sure that the facilities are adequately clean and functional.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilROBEn5JASWGRrQj2BpQoGsdsO0rA5uLKV1-LsiMkIqd09T9PPVgIT_ZJmJUyHIm5cI79j9MjQOsGDqkTP_xUUSYrAHdI8kGRsHWJeFNy3PG9zDFzDfVqSGQ3znLF904Y0Cjo-d0N-24/s1600-h/Mine-bisbee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilROBEn5JASWGRrQj2BpQoGsdsO0rA5uLKV1-LsiMkIqd09T9PPVgIT_ZJmJUyHIm5cI79j9MjQOsGDqkTP_xUUSYrAHdI8kGRsHWJeFNy3PG9zDFzDfVqSGQ3znLF904Y0Cjo-d0N-24/s320/Mine-bisbee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175534467137243266" /></a><br />Today we are poised on the brink of a defunct open pit copper mine in Bisbee, Arizona. You can't believe the impact that seeing this for the first time has on you. It's a mix of the kind of awe one has upon first viewing the Grand Canyon (or the Barrancas de Cobre or Chiricahua Nat'l Monument--see below), and the horror of witnessing the destruction we have wreaked on the environment, all the while knowing that it is our need for and dependence on the earth's resources that has caused this destruction. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO3vrAAvTdyMnQCckUvKpM69Cp_-btaegYbdZjGmpn5GslRUe1zsouZI2sna51hqru2rXfJZMX7k4SogwoMtPWlzpLD5V6QzaNGNPxEOilOpU_2p-3MGlW7JruK6KNoufDHuRBz7Oc-Y/s1600-h/Lucero-Bisbee.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO3vrAAvTdyMnQCckUvKpM69Cp_-btaegYbdZjGmpn5GslRUe1zsouZI2sna51hqru2rXfJZMX7k4SogwoMtPWlzpLD5V6QzaNGNPxEOilOpU_2p-3MGlW7JruK6KNoufDHuRBz7Oc-Y/s320/Lucero-Bisbee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175533904496527474" /></a>Bisbee itself is a fascinating town full of artists, colorful people and colorful buildings. We met Allberto Lucero, who calls himself a llanero, part hispanic and part indio, in a parking lot where he was working as an attendant. In his lifetime he has been a soldier (a Viet Nam vet) cowboy, actor, story teller and now author of a book of stories his greargrandmother, who lived to be 102, told him.<br /><br />We missed a bit of border country drama this morning. On the highway below where we are camped, a white car forced a van off the road. Soon the van was hemmed in by white and green SUV's, the vehicle used by the border patrol, and there were a dozen or so Mexicans sitting along the edge of the road, waiting to be hauled away--victims of a failed attempt to reach the promised land (or as Willie Nelson sings, "the broken promise land.")<br /><br />One of our favorite spots here was the town of Truth or Consequences, just because it is so quirky. T or C is little more than a village with two main streets, actually one making a loop, about six blocks long. It was originally called Geronimo Springs but changed its name to satisfy the producder of a radio quiz show about 58 years ago. Well, you'd think a in a town named after a quiz show people would have some answers, but when we asked directions (trying to find an artists' party we had heard about), nobody seemed to know the names of the streets or the location of one of the biggest and most colorful (purple) buildings in town. We found the party, the annual meeting of the local artists' association, and met a lot of interesting people. We concluded that there are two kinds of people--poles apart--in T or C: artists, intellectuals, and bohemian types on one hand, and on the other, people who had just filtered down out of the mountains where they's been holed up for about a hundred years. We camped in a low end trailer park (Angie vetoes the term tr***** tr***) for $16, which included a soak in the naturral hot springs baths and enjoyed it so much that we stayed a second night. But this time, because the winds were so strong that we were afraid to put the top up on La Gitana, we stayed in the Charles Motel and Spa, which also included hot tubs, all for $37.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKyxqapITDFMC5hzaT4AMAmfYaBP_BuouEcoFVR7kSSSbywyEe1_HTgTC2F3byRu_RGfXobZgpMgDZvQO7rRG20qa14SOjJzdANMNFzOffg9hL5NIdAUORX-Vtfa1haWHfDYVmZd1C3-c/s1600-h/Chiricahua.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKyxqapITDFMC5hzaT4AMAmfYaBP_BuouEcoFVR7kSSSbywyEe1_HTgTC2F3byRu_RGfXobZgpMgDZvQO7rRG20qa14SOjJzdANMNFzOffg9hL5NIdAUORX-Vtfa1haWHfDYVmZd1C3-c/s320/Chiricahua.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175536915268602018" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />We could easily spend months exploring the natural wonders of this little section of New Mexico and Arizona, weeks on any one of them. Maybe the most astounding to us were the rock formations and grottoes of Chiricahua National Monument, partly because in this little chain of mountains between two deserts they were so unexpected. We hiked until we were exhausted, shooting endlessly, knowing that in no photo would we be able to capture the impression this rugged and beautiful land was having on us.<br /><br />After seeing Patagonia and Arivaca, we plan to check out two of the other wonders of this part of the world, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, before heading for Ann Arbor. Hope you are all well and those of you in the northland have been able to dig out from under the latest snowfall.<br /><br />Love from the Fotogypsies<br /><br />Oh, the picture at the top? A castoff mannequin from the Queen Copper Mine tour.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhteVWgnXj6DdnxeHKOtVeTRM6vfA5ymHQ5FmAhexjgDqTeVtdmxlWBGBppby7fLxHvCTWE_BazSWdcb_aWQmxLulLspQT1lwlY8Ht3yQT1Lri4pkaW9JLprO2yutKD3Jn-CmjBXkT8sE/s1600-h/JIMANGIECASAOAXACA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhteVWgnXj6DdnxeHKOtVeTRM6vfA5ymHQ5FmAhexjgDqTeVtdmxlWBGBppby7fLxHvCTWE_BazSWdcb_aWQmxLulLspQT1lwlY8Ht3yQT1Lri4pkaW9JLprO2yutKD3Jn-CmjBXkT8sE/s320/JIMANGIECASAOAXACA.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175538504406501570" /></a><br /><br />The Fotogypsies in OaxacaFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-35426694266132743202008-02-14T11:20:00.000-08:002008-02-14T18:38:23.685-08:00Falling in Love again with Oaxaca<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7WB7FZpixIApOJ2KtKDaW1RGYmy_nKQ0HvOhRki_taE-jusVsSrTlOrNX6ur0e_klprEXsibEwfSQNWTn7-CW9baJWwRN5Wqo1DaZHGUltBluljeOY4MXlfWL5pIzr9Xw5wr-DCSgnc/s1600-h/IMG_0855.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7WB7FZpixIApOJ2KtKDaW1RGYmy_nKQ0HvOhRki_taE-jusVsSrTlOrNX6ur0e_klprEXsibEwfSQNWTn7-CW9baJWwRN5Wqo1DaZHGUltBluljeOY4MXlfWL5pIzr9Xw5wr-DCSgnc/s320/IMG_0855.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166918356261519794" /></a><br /><br />If you read our report from Oaxaca two years ago, you know how disappointed we were with the changes that were being made in the city. But most important you'll remember that the three Triqui girls that we were helping to go to school had, because of the terrible economic conditions here, dropped school and gone to Mexico City with their family to try to eke out an existance there. Well, they're back! Our first day in the Zocalo, Catalina, the mother, and Angela Flor, the youngest (and our godchild) "discovered" us, Angela Flor, happily shouting "Padrino, Madrina!" <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Q-qFW_m2cxI4UyZLmDdplkLaOEBdtFDLiENSA74_ag_ecZlKsrXa2_swATvFtJve0GU0znVJUTO9CofA1OS3_TdqneC7NFoZrGf6i-_v7-YvygO1GuMg-u1NzMSttsqoCea9bXmytYA/s1600-h/IMG_0859.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Q-qFW_m2cxI4UyZLmDdplkLaOEBdtFDLiENSA74_ag_ecZlKsrXa2_swATvFtJve0GU0znVJUTO9CofA1OS3_TdqneC7NFoZrGf6i-_v7-YvygO1GuMg-u1NzMSttsqoCea9bXmytYA/s320/IMG_0859.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166920469385429442" /></a> We were just as happy to see her as she was to see us, and especially when we learned that she and her older sister Chela were back in school. Meli Erika, the oldest at 14, didn't feel comfortable starting the fifth grade again, but may go to summer school to catch up.<br /><br />We're getting used to the changes here. The Zocalo, or main plaza, which was ripped up and totally remodeled two years ago, is still one of the prettiest, if not the prettiest, in Mexico, surrounded by cafes where you can sit with a cafecita or a beer and watch the world go by. Cosmetically and hygenically it is improved, though there are some bizarre touches, like the fact that the all of the garden areas, and there are many, are planted with poinsettias in pots. They are pretty, but there are so many beautiful flowering plants in Mexico, that a little variety would be nice. Why pots? Because in a month or so, the will all be pulled, and something else will be planted in their place. All of this would be great, except that we know that what Oaxaca needs more than anything else is a new water system, and also that all of the money that is currently going into beautifying the city is ending up in the pockets of the governor's family and friends. The PRI party, which was ousted nationally when Vincente Fox was elected, still has its grip on Oaxaca, which is what all the ruckus was about in 2006. Unfortunately there is still fear and discontent among the locals here, although the scene is very quiet as far as tourists are concerned.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzIAaG4R_2uSa4f5KZ8TMzh8Z_G68UgpkQM67xc5Y4cJqphWhJpd2-cVA58lSahu-jUYZ1KBCbHYCAZPo0pDnNjtZOKpglJuRDAewKiw-_7qUUhVdyUBILYVL9lw3uwNkNI3gWLb9bok/s1600-h/IMG_0868.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzIAaG4R_2uSa4f5KZ8TMzh8Z_G68UgpkQM67xc5Y4cJqphWhJpd2-cVA58lSahu-jUYZ1KBCbHYCAZPo0pDnNjtZOKpglJuRDAewKiw-_7qUUhVdyUBILYVL9lw3uwNkNI3gWLb9bok/s320/IMG_0868.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166923462977634770" /></a>We've been been haveing a great time connecting up with all of our friends here. Lulu, the singer whom we met at Tres Patios with Memo the piano player 10 years ago, Memo, Pablo, the guitar player pictured in our "La Gente" gallery with Miguel SanPierre, the saxophonist at "El Sol y La Luna." Unfortunately these two jazz clubs don't exist any longer, but we did get to hear Pablo and Miguel in a quartet at a house party.<br /><br />One of the friends that we admire most here is Andres, the stepgrandfather of our three "ahijadas." The whole family came to Oaxaca after they were driven off their lands in the mountains in a dispute that the government fomented because the land was valuable for coffee plantations. The father of Luis, who is the father of the three girls was shot and killed when he was two. Luis's mother married Andres, who was also shot twice in the back. So Andres is in a wheel chair. But by selling newspapers on the street, then selling merchandise wherever he could, he's managed to acquire a decent house for himself, as well as some property in the barrios on the side of Monte Alban. These would be considered in the slums by any standard, but for Andres, owning them is quite an accomplishment. Fortunately for them, Luis, Catalina, and the children share the house in town with Andres and Marcelina. Andres is one of the cheeriest people we know. He loves to play his guitar (his playing is about two steps above Shakey Jake's), and to practice his English with us. . (English is his third language, after Triqui and Spanish.) His dream has been to drive a car, and this past year he was able to buy one with hand controls. He says "Everyday I wake up and see the sun I thank God to be alive." We try to practice the same attitude!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gB-Toz6-HynH7McPY8sCk10HYAKfWhTzx9MNJ195PmLYINWDJrUJsztYVx52I4bUhsB9iG9fq5G3prfmIsXL-kME7AfbfWzpPdBK07_DNsYnt1dx9dKxlMi_1skIBwy8VZj3V8EH4os/s1600-h/IMG_0878.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gB-Toz6-HynH7McPY8sCk10HYAKfWhTzx9MNJ195PmLYINWDJrUJsztYVx52I4bUhsB9iG9fq5G3prfmIsXL-kME7AfbfWzpPdBK07_DNsYnt1dx9dKxlMi_1skIBwy8VZj3V8EH4os/s320/IMG_0878.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166930356400144866" /></a><br /><br />Love to all from the Fotogypsies!Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-91433833158662312442008-01-30T14:09:00.000-08:002008-01-30T14:24:39.792-08:00The Halls of Moctezuma and "Ashes and Snow": Two days in Mexico CityThe Halls of Moctezuma<br /><br />We are standing in front of a magnificent building across from the Cathedral in Mexico City, a building we hadn’t really noticed before. The plate next to the portal says this was where Moctezuma (called Montezuma in the US) lived in the sixteenth century when the Spaniards wrested the area form the Aztecs (or according to some, when Moctezuma betrayed them and handed the country over to the enemy.) We can see down the long corridor that runs through the building all of the way to the next block, and realize there are numerous rooms off to each side with interesting architectural details. Over the portal it says Monte de Piedad (mountain—or meadow—of piety). Intrigued, we go inside, and are even more intrigued by what we see there. Some rooms are filled with art objects, a whole room dedicated to the art of Oaxaca, others with showcases of jewelry, one specifically to diamonds. But other rooms are full of people standing in long lines leading to what look like cashiers or ticket windows. And in one room they are sitting in chairs in front of screens like the Arrivals and Departures screens in airports, showing numbers that look like lottery numbers. The walls of all of the rooms are formed of beautiful stone, in various patterns that suggest that they might have been built at different times. Finally, consumed by curiosity, we ask the woman attending the Oaxaca room what is going on. “Empeño”—this is the national pawn shop! Only in Mexico! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9eoCDXIM6IT51GvIlxHHnmKFeAIz-QBZEoEmEAEw9jiCCWMENreSk7Ow8cmWBlF2rOyGuJgDJu9MEQwgT3umXvrtek1R9_MxGRNlvJXmc79zPyZDO7Df64e1EgyrtxIjsOQ0_Q7X2aLY/s1600-h/ashesandsnow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9eoCDXIM6IT51GvIlxHHnmKFeAIz-QBZEoEmEAEw9jiCCWMENreSk7Ow8cmWBlF2rOyGuJgDJu9MEQwgT3umXvrtek1R9_MxGRNlvJXmc79zPyZDO7Df64e1EgyrtxIjsOQ0_Q7X2aLY/s320/ashesandsnow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161398422286908402" /></a><br /><br /><br />“Ashes and Snow”<br /><br />The Zocalo, or main plaza, of Mexico City, unlike that of Oaxaca and many other cities we have visited, is one big open stoned paved square, surrounded by the Cathedral, the Palacia del Gobierno, and other impressive buildings. A big, totally empty square. Except the day we arrive in Mexico City, it isn’t. Almost half of the plaza, which takes up what would be a very large city block, is occupied by a wondrous building made entirely of bamboo and what look like box car sides. And there are people lined up to get into the building, snaking back and forth, filling the whole rest of the Zocalo and then surrounding the building itself. Even for a Sunday, this is an amazing sight. They are all lined up to get into a photography exhibit by Gregory Colbert, which has been mounted in this magnificent structure called the Nomadic Museum, designed by the Colombian architect Simon Vélez. We can’t begin to adequately describe this exhibit, except to say that the zen like images up to 12 by 20 feet and hung over water in bamboo alcoves in halls that resembled a bamboo cathedral, took our breath away when we saw it the next day. And to judge by what we saw, it had the same effect on the thousands of Mexicans who shared the experience with us. You can see the images at www.ashesandsnow.com and though it won’t be the same as seeing the images with thousands of others in the bamboo cathedral, you will get the idea. The exhibit is sponsored by Rollex and the Mexican government and free to the public. Only in Mexico! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfukAEbIQEJUrgD9Do3DarEIv_ClX5mBSfqAYvywZFJ9okRjTUPcNALlUeZvWmQui8oKJY9g_AxF4taYQV_mdlukEArnpIb8VDTS73xdg8JcFB73ge73u0m_fn4Ic7usGOr4_7ARzOpos/s1600-h/budhistboy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfukAEbIQEJUrgD9Do3DarEIv_ClX5mBSfqAYvywZFJ9okRjTUPcNALlUeZvWmQui8oKJY9g_AxF4taYQV_mdlukEArnpIb8VDTS73xdg8JcFB73ge73u0m_fn4Ic7usGOr4_7ARzOpos/s320/budhistboy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161397696437435362" /></a><br /><br />BTW we first learned of this exhibit through the Ann Arbor Camera Club. We feel incredibly lucky to have been in Mexico City when it was there. It will be in Mexico until the end of April. It’s worth flying down to see it, or if it ever comes to a city near you. . .Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-15987634683422992532008-01-30T13:28:00.001-08:002008-01-30T16:08:31.394-08:00Sanctuario El Rosario, MichoacanANAYELLI and SOFIA in Maruata, playing in a large clay jar that their mother had made.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNtbVGgEK4cN44FDtOTNgVRgWdFFVu3mN1Eqv-WULukjocgs6bVUR_BXxfm-wi-qNqwVmRqTaTMxPi2v9XQmMzA2BFdciO0SfLpuxRbANIiaTZfiPhvwDN2_b8FXzwznuhdoFP-mrYuQ/s1600-h/Anayelli&Sofia-Maruata.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNtbVGgEK4cN44FDtOTNgVRgWdFFVu3mN1Eqv-WULukjocgs6bVUR_BXxfm-wi-qNqwVmRqTaTMxPi2v9XQmMzA2BFdciO0SfLpuxRbANIiaTZfiPhvwDN2_b8FXzwznuhdoFP-mrYuQ/s320/Anayelli&Sofia-Maruata.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161392482347138002" /></a><br /><br /><br />IN PURSUIT OF THE MONARCHS<br /><br /><br />We had driven up, up, up over a stone and brick road for 12 miles. Now we were in a large field that serves as a parking lot, facing a steep path lined with wood stalls where women were cooking or arranging souvenirs and memorabilia. As we started up the path, lugging along camera packs and a tripod, an Indian woman with a large bundle of bamboos sticks about four feet long stopped us. "Buy a walking stick," she said. "You'll need it before you reach the top." We were skeptical, but handed over two ten peso coins (about two dollars) and took the sticks. After making it through the rows of booths that traversed the mountain side for about a half mile, slightly out of breath, we reached the entry to the sanctuary, where we paid 35 pesos a piece for entry and were assigned our guide, Jose, a nineteen year old boy. "It's two kilometers from here," he told us, and set off up a series of concrete stairs, broken every dozen or so steps by a rocky path. We were huffing from the altitude and the steepness, so that Jose had to stop often to wait for us. Not too far along, Jim asked him for help carrying the tripod, which he cheerfully agreed to do. After about a half hour climbing the stairs, all 650 of them, Jose turned to us and said, ''This is half way." We could see why the stairs stopped there. From then on the trail was narrow, twisting, and steep. Further on we reached a beautiful open flat spot called the llano de conejos (plain of the rabbits). It was great to catch our breath before we trudged on. Here we started seeing a few Monarchs. Jose pointed out a spot just off the trail where there was a spring. Butterflies carpeted the ground there drinking the water. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI590KTMNtQSR9C0bTg_lNK_7LP6CEIszfQTC6abLYyFs9bZmAtufT0WUQBc8vX4N0GD0FlKQSbf6Vz5d0A5I4YprhyjQwIkzJ6iPgR6nrXxSir9_X3y-CXUvAc3kowUlXUmJ1TlZ6c0/s1600-h/monarchs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI590KTMNtQSR9C0bTg_lNK_7LP6CEIszfQTC6abLYyFs9bZmAtufT0WUQBc8vX4N0GD0FlKQSbf6Vz5d0A5I4YprhyjQwIkzJ6iPgR6nrXxSir9_X3y-CXUvAc3kowUlXUmJ1TlZ6c0/s320/monarchs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161384966154369970" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNToBl_cp_tdmeHeoWCriG-BezF9isG1cOx6hIaGVLuBH8exQ79ticyxOZaguFLTnneyxBU4M9ovLEYDx8klQFZ-90yFEUuGutm0YTgvybiio1pC6dhZrkYYdD3FTlfzXfUGNx6-aIQE/s1600-h/monarch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNToBl_cp_tdmeHeoWCriG-BezF9isG1cOx6hIaGVLuBH8exQ79ticyxOZaguFLTnneyxBU4M9ovLEYDx8klQFZ-90yFEUuGutm0YTgvybiio1pC6dhZrkYYdD3FTlfzXfUGNx6-aIQE/s320/monarch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161386778630568898" /></a> We finally made it to the end of the trail, where an area was marked off so that we and other pilgrims could watch the butterflies without doing them too much harm. The monarchs looked like leaves on the surrounding trees, until the sun warms them enough so that the can descend. Soon, with the sun shining through the tall trees, they were fluttering all around us and sometimes landing on us. We watched in wonder at the swarms of color, in awe that it takes 3 or 4 generations for these butterfiles to make the round trip from the Great Lakes and Canada here to Mexico and back.<br /><br />Two hours later, down at the bottom, we saw the woman selling cane walking sticks. "You were right," we said."We needed them." Coming down we saw many climbers who had only made it half way and gave up. We were proud and thrilled to have witnessed this spectacular scene. Angie had the bright idea to ask the stick woman if she would buy our sticks back for half price. She seemed stunned--no one had ever asked her that before--but then agreed and gave us 10 pesos for the two sticks.Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-1024316333082777762008-01-16T15:57:00.001-08:002008-01-19T13:08:24.766-08:00Paradise on the Pacific: 2008 edition<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybNSmMFwsBNnWBsofMBMmKjXaiJiWv1nFDDeYfum9X1-YiZBficXNxWpBKsXEFeEh-IVSHlUyjdpwWxpUCdmgqWVgZ3a4Pa9SUIBPv_LeCHcTtb6uK9EL7mgYahsLPjcjK3Pxntp7G0g/s1600-h/Maruata.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybNSmMFwsBNnWBsofMBMmKjXaiJiWv1nFDDeYfum9X1-YiZBficXNxWpBKsXEFeEh-IVSHlUyjdpwWxpUCdmgqWVgZ3a4Pa9SUIBPv_LeCHcTtb6uK9EL7mgYahsLPjcjK3Pxntp7G0g/s320/Maruata.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156228118954906546" /></a><br /><br />"Maruata: Paradise on the Pacific"<br /><br />On January 6, The Day of the Kings in Mexico (El Dia de los Reyes) and the last day of Navidad, we sat eating fish with Warry (see the archive from 2006) under our awning decorated with the green battery operated Christmas lights that Mary, our friend, house sitter and cat nanny, gifted us with before we left Ann Arbor. We were listening to the PKO Ensemble playing Christmas music through the iPod and van radio. The frequency the transmitter chose to broadcast on was 89.1 fm, WEMU! (Sherry was off seeing ex-officio daughter-in-law and grandson off on a plane from Guadalajara.)<br /><br />We are camped underneath an almond tree, and every once in a while one of the fruits, a little bigger than a golf ball, will hit the ground or bounce off the roof of the van and startle us. Good thing they're not coconuts! We are surrounded by four huge coco trees, which give us lots of shade and keep La Gitana cool. Earlier this year Warry paid some of the local kids fifty pesos (about five bucks) to scale the trees and knock down all of the coconuts that might be a problem. They didn't get them all, but the van is parked so hopefully any that fall won't hit us.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxbh76rrpl5pUgDhGzFSy9n4IKC1QhcUMzaRpUKf4WcgFb17JPNvt_wHiKIRDbF6tQtxcmaQYRSlWqFmWE-nAKrR2IEFSXmhn8pWvfw50CwfYAyGsWg9h3bcGLWNanxxseJ-2bsTgnbM/s1600-h/pigs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxbh76rrpl5pUgDhGzFSy9n4IKC1QhcUMzaRpUKf4WcgFb17JPNvt_wHiKIRDbF6tQtxcmaQYRSlWqFmWE-nAKrR2IEFSXmhn8pWvfw50CwfYAyGsWg9h3bcGLWNanxxseJ-2bsTgnbM/s320/pigs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156244152067822610" /></a><br /> Maruata's "resort area" is a collection of slab-sided cabañas and palm thatched palapas scattered along three beaches and connected by a meandering maze of trails and dirt two tracks. A creek which at this time of the year can be easily forded, separates the beach area from the main village, which is made up of similar huts and outbuildings with a few cement block tiendas arranged around the town plaza and extending up to the highway. Thirty years aso there was no highway here, and electricity only arrived 12 years ago.<br /><br /> Horses, burros, chickens, and pigs wander more or less freely around the village, along with the buzzards, egrets and other exotic fauna. A few years ago the "presidente" of the village decreed that the pigs were a nuisance and stay on the village side of the creek, but evidently someone forgot to tell the pigs. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwYscdsrJiDVTKgJnWugYDllz0TKrtNOQHP1EH8e7o8JzwgRc1nlqitbW4sk60LG_dQVQVjaTcXenQQgqqyQ79pdPUDqzzdi6mm9OktmbrqaRvPDDV3HOXWpW0MrRCgW35k4R3aNa53I/s1600-h/_MG_2266.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwYscdsrJiDVTKgJnWugYDllz0TKrtNOQHP1EH8e7o8JzwgRc1nlqitbW4sk60LG_dQVQVjaTcXenQQgqqyQ79pdPUDqzzdi6mm9OktmbrqaRvPDDV3HOXWpW0MrRCgW35k4R3aNa53I/s320/_MG_2266.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156233449009320914" /></a><br /><br />Don Elodio, our host, is 89 years old. His horse died, so he no longer mounts ever day to go manage his herd of a dozen or so cattle. In fact, Warry says he does almost nothing, but he guesses when he gets to be 89 he probably won't do much either. As it is, Warry, former commercial fisnerman, steelworker, restauranteur, with one armed paralyzed, goes fishing every day, with mask, snorkel and wet suit, often far out to sea, and almost always returns with two or more fish. He gives most of it away to the villagers, and in return they stop by with baked goods and other local commodities. Warry came in two days ago with a giant Dorado, one of the biggest he's ever gotten. The local kids call him Neptuno.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiif31jp8ub5ShjSFn7Kx3rUqyZ2Nj7rwyPFng05fCjm-nFj4QVXs5zkvTQJ-f9K9H9_zAfuLdlnGxunbZQb3LupO4rNdsUEx3Cw1sKDJScHnSltgO-2MGwdUYYyxicoEcAml8FLEI6qYs/s1600-h/iggy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiif31jp8ub5ShjSFn7Kx3rUqyZ2Nj7rwyPFng05fCjm-nFj4QVXs5zkvTQJ-f9K9H9_zAfuLdlnGxunbZQb3LupO4rNdsUEx3Cw1sKDJScHnSltgO-2MGwdUYYyxicoEcAml8FLEI6qYs/s320/iggy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156238585790206946" /></a> Another resident of our campsite.<br /><br />Maruata is considered a "special spot" by Mexican hippies and new agers. One night we climbed "sunset rock" to see the sunset, and were lucky enough to see a whale lleisurely swimming by, obviously feeding because he was blowing and trumpeting frequently, all the while accompanied by this flute player.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvAkSkjqmKcUK_dlBjDetFzerbjADc84mhgLK-5jLeIEsZv8-tO2llDdePjmsBpcOEpXVOwKF5UGnvD4DhW4yLjFcwqQcZeQ1bsxHf1GmG9IFw4znJ7UNO2953o30jCs76uE2J4AItw8/s1600-h/kopapelli.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvAkSkjqmKcUK_dlBjDetFzerbjADc84mhgLK-5jLeIEsZv8-tO2llDdePjmsBpcOEpXVOwKF5UGnvD4DhW4yLjFcwqQcZeQ1bsxHf1GmG9IFw4znJ7UNO2953o30jCs76uE2J4AItw8/s320/kopapelli.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156240252237517810" /></a><br /><br /><br />Every time we visit Maruata, we stay a little longer and it's a little harder to leave. If we ever drop entirely out of sight, you will know where to look for us.<br /><br />El Dedo of Dios (The finger, or as Warry claims, the toe, of God).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Vq0N4v16nfwCLUwrUkTIZS0zEJ4fe92hY5WjgIQImrcLcwrK-IWtBipqkxDyQeEUwVYyAKzE5_Ngimhy3M4FfDm3k9MflYeBTdXx2uTTBLAy_FJcknpzPGTrSZmd64uDQN81qtoRKi4/s1600-h/dedo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:right;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Vq0N4v16nfwCLUwrUkTIZS0zEJ4fe92hY5WjgIQImrcLcwrK-IWtBipqkxDyQeEUwVYyAKzE5_Ngimhy3M4FfDm3k9MflYeBTdXx2uTTBLAy_FJcknpzPGTrSZmd64uDQN81qtoRKi4/s320/dedo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156241403288753154" /></a><br /><br />Love to you all from the Fotogypsies!Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-86598995132769756152007-12-30T13:00:00.000-08:002007-12-30T13:47:23.688-08:00Report 3: Terlingua, TX, to Sayulita, MX<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9o4Mv-meOZss2NgXEujjr-jJQRfnENdUCeggiv0Xxa8ylQMaRGKMuiCiXPqxB5QXXDUnt5V-a9-jps_n80UWqRZUTmEnhJJWUh5jEsMOy2Onu_laOEelNiMhtUG9znZmh92CxtsjUKSo/s1600-h/barrancadecobre.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9o4Mv-meOZss2NgXEujjr-jJQRfnENdUCeggiv0Xxa8ylQMaRGKMuiCiXPqxB5QXXDUnt5V-a9-jps_n80UWqRZUTmEnhJJWUh5jEsMOy2Onu_laOEelNiMhtUG9znZmh92CxtsjUKSo/s320/barrancadecobre.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149874298956026722" /></a><br />Did we say it was cold in Big Bend? It hit 18F. in Creel, up by the Copper Canyons (Barrancas de Cobre). Fortunately the days were (are) sunny and cool. We drove from Creel to Durango, Mexico, along a winding climbing and dipping road through the canyons, which, as we mentioned before, are more expansive and deeper than the Grand Canyon. It was a sight we'll never forget and a drive we'll never repeat. Muchos curvas peligrosas!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYWwJRld2iDCgTVSAypHvvKUExjsfZTDI5TBhqhokmwjZfioH7qpH9OZTGTUO6YrvEniI1uxmqJ4PnK4YUS8Q6RO4B1xEIYRLLOsRcZCIqF6jE_mJuvD8uij55nuvOI7eJ6XxMUiv_4o/s1600-h/Virginia.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYWwJRld2iDCgTVSAypHvvKUExjsfZTDI5TBhqhokmwjZfioH7qpH9OZTGTUO6YrvEniI1uxmqJ4PnK4YUS8Q6RO4B1xEIYRLLOsRcZCIqF6jE_mJuvD8uij55nuvOI7eJ6XxMUiv_4o/s320/Virginia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149875892388893554" /></a><br />The barrancas de cobre are the home of the Tarahumara Indians, who are reportedly shy and even hostile to outsiders. The ones we met were friendly, especially the women, but maybe that was because they were used to tourists and making a little money off us. It's easy to see how the deep canyon country can shelter some pretty isolated and isolationist types!<br /><br />When we hit the flatland heading towards Durango, we knew we were in cattle country! We saw more cows there than we did in the whole state of Texas. Tad, we got lots of cow pictures. Hope some of them work out! We were lucky to be passing by this round up and lucky there was a place to pull off the road where Angie got this shot.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ1dRuZbbcxGrODPDcxOx93lPhJPb7vwbc9DerCgZ29cJxaelCWK4IrCmKfDcHSWI-hpGhuCiCNMOK5sjw3-ZUhrJmxuYHvt0GvtPLO4sbnnXeLsOlJgtXQdBLRO3clNgWtBDEOwXnWs/s1600-h/_MG_0699+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ1dRuZbbcxGrODPDcxOx93lPhJPb7vwbc9DerCgZ29cJxaelCWK4IrCmKfDcHSWI-hpGhuCiCNMOK5sjw3-ZUhrJmxuYHvt0GvtPLO4sbnnXeLsOlJgtXQdBLRO3clNgWtBDEOwXnWs/s320/_MG_0699+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149877649030517634" /></a><br /><br />We're always amazed by the people we meet and how much we have in common with them. In Durango, we ran into Fred and Kaly, from Seattle. Fred plays the guitar and also has spent a lot of time on boats, and Kaly is a former ESL teacher. Mentioned to Fred that we had thought about painting La Gitana's name on her transom, and it turned out that he is proabably the most reknowned sign painter in the Northwest. People paid to fly him to San Diego to paint the transoms of their boats. In about 15 minutes, La Gitana was sporting her moniker.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ucRdYcforntVbgmo10G-9-ljv5XhVKffCYrMoRD5wIWd0gv5r619h8ZM0s3txs89z3wCXKLd-d3DDB6NyRvcmo1Jzeg6-oEoKl0ETM0slgx4dJxq4BYm9b0IgkO58tHwaQlzFlgKSEw/s1600-h/LaGitana.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ucRdYcforntVbgmo10G-9-ljv5XhVKffCYrMoRD5wIWd0gv5r619h8ZM0s3txs89z3wCXKLd-d3DDB6NyRvcmo1Jzeg6-oEoKl0ETM0slgx4dJxq4BYm9b0IgkO58tHwaQlzFlgKSEw/s320/LaGitana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149880152996451218" /></a>By the way, those palms aren't painted in the back windows; they are reflections of the palm trees on the beach of Teacapan, on the Pacific, where we spent Christmas with a bunch of really great people. We've been invited to visit some of them in Veracruz, and in Gold Beach, Oregon, and we'll take them up on it when we get in their neighborhood (that will be this trip for Veracruz).<br /><br />Three days after Christmas we hit the road again heading for our Pacific paradise, Maruata. However, everyone in Mexico is on vacation right now, and half of them are on the Pacific Coast. We holed up in one of our favorite places, Sayulita (near Puerto Vallarta), waiting for the traffic to lighten up. We love the place. So do the Mexicans, and the campground is jammed with wall to wall tents. They sprout around us at night like mushrooms. Not usual environment (we prefer quiet, uncrowded places), but we can't say we aren't experiencing Mexican culture! When we got to Sayulita, the campground owner asked us who the gypsy (la gitana) was. Jim pointed to Angie, of course.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20R8_QJFkHSJVr7c-otM3HsD8QcRznap0vesPFVZwIu441odDt1EhzzrRRSqZqtt6SzoIg6qD5nbIo-5m8HtGzvoHeT3CyM_wD890IyqjZ0RtjeyhA09Pk65uFN6gzdsZjyR-e-ADUBs/s1600-h/IMG_0399.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20R8_QJFkHSJVr7c-otM3HsD8QcRznap0vesPFVZwIu441odDt1EhzzrRRSqZqtt6SzoIg6qD5nbIo-5m8HtGzvoHeT3CyM_wD890IyqjZ0RtjeyhA09Pk65uFN6gzdsZjyR-e-ADUBs/s320/IMG_0399.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149884813035967394" /></a><br /><br />Happy New Year from the Fotogypsies!Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-50245802733020952712007-12-19T15:35:00.000-08:002007-12-19T16:59:16.255-08:00Big Bend National Park to the Copper Canyons of Mexico<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoRl5a0pv12VpqufXKif8CCT1nSeiTS2JymLUmcCOtfF3buLFANGMFQYUSKAcfpz-eJ8VZOy0UapxrYJIKbMpOncd0rXD97UhsUT0gaRWNXd36Y8R2obJ-t24xGmyOWx5z6xm13r437o/s1600-h/SantaElenaCanyon-BigBend.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoRl5a0pv12VpqufXKif8CCT1nSeiTS2JymLUmcCOtfF3buLFANGMFQYUSKAcfpz-eJ8VZOy0UapxrYJIKbMpOncd0rXD97UhsUT0gaRWNXd36Y8R2obJ-t24xGmyOWx5z6xm13r437o/s320/SantaElenaCanyon-BigBend.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145850348391371570" /></a><br />We were excited to be heading into Big Bend National Park after spending what seemed like years in Del Rio chasing down a short in La Gitana's electrical system and then going across the border to Acuña, MX, to get all our permits. Crossing the Rio Grande we were startled to find ourselves in a scene from the movie "No Country for Old Men.'' Back in the US on our way to Big Bend, we saw a lot more terrain that looked just like the movie. It's a great movie, by the way, so if you haven't seen it, do so.<br /><br />Big Bend is 801,701 acres of some of the most spectacular vistas we have ever seen. It includes the entire Chisos Mountain Range, where raging volcanoes created an incredible mix of desert, rock piles, and jagged peaks. The park is full of wildlife. Going in we saw our first band of javelinas, an animal that looks a lot like a small pig. But they're not pigs, the rangers insist, they are completely unrelated animals, collared peccaries, and are found in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, as well as Mexico. Looked like pigs to us! We also saw coyotes and a bobcat, but never saw the mountain lions that also inhabit the park.<br /><br />Jim was in campground bathroom brushing his teeth, when a kind of rough looking guy tried to start up a conversation with him. Jim was answering in monosylables, until the dude pointed to the miner's light Jim was wearing and asked, "Where you bought that light?" His accent intrigued Jim so he asked where he was from. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1M6rE2dYx7sMTDn7gWYUTycJ3527sxECtBxYdUnOKbghThfVZLDb39fyHFwERrcprP9C3XzLgRhHx0nPwYfcCMeZOqjgDuLcHXTs42W63JkWtA9SeWYgP8vBMse-PfrGOZRESkkeAI4M/s1600-h/CajunKeith&JIm.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1M6rE2dYx7sMTDn7gWYUTycJ3527sxECtBxYdUnOKbghThfVZLDb39fyHFwERrcprP9C3XzLgRhHx0nPwYfcCMeZOqjgDuLcHXTs42W63JkWtA9SeWYgP8vBMse-PfrGOZRESkkeAI4M/s320/CajunKeith&JIm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145849442153272082" /></a><br /> "Laugh'yet, Loosiana, I'm a Cajun," the guy laughed. 'Keith Meaux's my name. Thats M E A U X like in Geaux Cajuns." That broke the ice and Jim was still talking with him when Angie got worried and came looking for him. Jim introduced them, and then went back to the van. Angie learned how much Keith loved to talk (maybe because he was traveling alone with his dog Missy, a Golden Retriever that Angie fell in love with.).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAKNTthelbxKZjnCkX5Z2gf-JGd2ZFK2UXtVvdCJkL9O02ICmyapHlG5S9U6E_T6ljSgnoU7opX3Ki-w8UFX_tjx5WtdkVaTS8ceiZAJB1BaANRCeIS-7cL8a2Z1VP1WPp-JXMHt2zwY/s1600-h/Angie&Missy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAKNTthelbxKZjnCkX5Z2gf-JGd2ZFK2UXtVvdCJkL9O02ICmyapHlG5S9U6E_T6ljSgnoU7opX3Ki-w8UFX_tjx5WtdkVaTS8ceiZAJB1BaANRCeIS-7cL8a2Z1VP1WPp-JXMHt2zwY/s320/Angie&Missy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145849901714772770" /></a><br /> She found out he was a pharmacist (My daddy and grandaddy were both pharmacists, he said), and that he loves to travel. He's been all over the U.S., either on his Sportster Harley, or when he has his wife, kids, or dog with him, in his pick up truck with a cap on the back. He's a true Cajun. His son is studying photography in Las Cruces, and he was going to pick him up to bring him home for Christmas, but taking his time.<br /><br />Another highlight of Big Bend was going to the hot springs. We had to drive La Gitana down a bumpy, rocky road, then walk down a trail past ruined buildings and cliffs marked with birds' nests of clay, pictographs, and petroglyphs to the banks of the Rio Grande, where we found an old salt soaking in the 105 degree weather and one of the Mexicans who wade across at every tourist point to sell their "contraband" handmade walking sticks to the tourists squatting by his side. Until 9/11 this mixing of tourists and Mexicans who live in isolated pueblos in the Coahuila and Chihuahua deserts was encouraged, but now they are considered security risks to the US. We basked in the water, and if you got too warm, you coud drop a leg over the rock into the Rio Grande, or even take a dip if you didn't mind the pollution.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNGCa5UGzkSR-Grbt1RkfhEUeSjJt4xommqL8OTKK0Zis6edxp-yyogF9M5SBbE3nnZsSsrelOYTM94ZQyYpmMviKg_jCBOp2FETtBubJQfU7u4t1r2slIaoadMCeCohjfr-IA0M6zZA/s1600-h/Kathy'sKosmicKowgirlKafe.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNGCa5UGzkSR-Grbt1RkfhEUeSjJt4xommqL8OTKK0Zis6edxp-yyogF9M5SBbE3nnZsSsrelOYTM94ZQyYpmMviKg_jCBOp2FETtBubJQfU7u4t1r2slIaoadMCeCohjfr-IA0M6zZA/s320/Kathy'sKosmicKowgirlKafe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145851044176073538" /></a>As we left the park, a wonderful pink apparition rose before our eyes. It was Kathy's Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. Unfortunately the Kafe was closed and we didn't get to see the Kosmic Kowgirl, but there were three women there playing guitars and singing folksongs. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixPzfnBkdP_7zpzdSh-dwllyxH9uXrPTQR34fn2A_6fA3inP-AKVAfxp4zFFf2LX2ZjggtThNcqFTEYheP_xGDRpIpFr4EyR0_BgHfaQixIZ4dAm-CQYrCCDbfze1Jok3jSS3mGkYoEk/s1600-h/Patricia@KKKK.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixPzfnBkdP_7zpzdSh-dwllyxH9uXrPTQR34fn2A_6fA3inP-AKVAfxp4zFFf2LX2ZjggtThNcqFTEYheP_xGDRpIpFr4EyR0_BgHfaQixIZ4dAm-CQYrCCDbfze1Jok3jSS3mGkYoEk/s320/Patricia@KKKK.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145852001953780562" /></a>They sang a couple for us and Jim was tempted to get out his guitar and join them, but we had to push on for the border.<br /><br />The first part of Chihuahua, between Presidio and the city of Chihuahua, was some of the most desolate country we have encountered. It could have been used for a movie set on the moon. But as we drove further south, things began to look more prosperous. First we saw vegetation, then farms and ranches with more cattle than we had seen in Texas, and orchards of pecan and apple trees.<br /><br />We hoped to bypass the city itself, with its 1,100.000 people, but Jim managed to get us right in the middle of it looking for a <br />Wal-Mart to buy an extra water jug. <br /><br />Heading out towards Creel, and the Barrancas de Cobre (copper canyons) we left the farm land and began to climb into evergreen covered mountains. The mountains and canyons here (the canyons are 4 times larger than the Grand <br />Canyon and the deepest one is deeper) are the home of the Tarahumara Indians, perhaps the most reclusive and traditional Indians in North America. They are reputed to be shy and even hostile to outsiders, but Angie managed to get some great portraits, which you'll have to wait for our next downloatd to see.<br /><br />That's all for now from the fotogypsies. Happy Holidays!Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-90594134241225895782007-12-12T15:12:00.000-08:002007-12-12T16:33:09.429-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxHzZLfh9rn4QmyeVrbX63zp9oiwQ9st8UbMpN3ASw1IleiKopbCPsn2llYuejXpA6duSYzPpeMNVd6szIy34nxqlvhzC_LI-_RJvj0SnEkOdKaVipZ7QXsb6YljeZLXefgwopulOnBg/s1600-h/IMG_0261-2-web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxHzZLfh9rn4QmyeVrbX63zp9oiwQ9st8UbMpN3ASw1IleiKopbCPsn2llYuejXpA6duSYzPpeMNVd6szIy34nxqlvhzC_LI-_RJvj0SnEkOdKaVipZ7QXsb6YljeZLXefgwopulOnBg/s320/IMG_0261-2-web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143235412349814034" /></a><br /><br /><br />12 December 2007 <br /><br />After three days of glorious weather, temps in the 80's, we feel like we've been plunged back into winter again. And here on the Mexican border in Del Rio, Texas, of all places. If La Gitana (the gypsy) didn't have a heater my hands would be too cold to write this. We came here because of the name, of course, and to get our insurance and vehicle permit for traveling in Mexico. Then we'll be on our way for a few days in Big Bend National Park, where it's even colder than it is here. The weather forecast does say it will warm up to the fifties, so we're hoping!<br /><br />On our way down we took X-ways to St. Louis, where we planned to head off on blue highways through the Ozarks. But Angie had a yen to go to Fayetteville, Arkansas, to visit the studio of Michael and Shelley Buonaiuto. They are the artists who make the little figurines of people bursting with life that are so popular at the art fairs. Luckily this kept us on the X-way, because we ran into an ice storm that would have made the mountain roads treacherous. Though nothing like the ice storms that hit this region a few days later, it left an inch thick coating of ice on our van.<br /><br />After a quick visit with Michael, who was up to his ears packing orders for Christmas (Shelley was in Florida), we headed straight south for the Texas-Louisiana border. We ran into dense fog in the mountains, and when it flattened and cleared, we drove through long stretches that reminded us of nothing more than the poorer regions of North Carolina or the UP.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GHXAhrJpFRwIyt8kqiTMxfvdEKNS2kNt2zaj5ni4AuGnCvTzQzDkFGgxfDJ3ebfv-4Zf1tnK5br-yvYMFFkILM5oEkmnp7n0bpS0qDvySQJWaEneoT0ERdh4nY4sK5FbOmZGrvdAAdA/s1600-h/IMG_0273-web.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GHXAhrJpFRwIyt8kqiTMxfvdEKNS2kNt2zaj5ni4AuGnCvTzQzDkFGgxfDJ3ebfv-4Zf1tnK5br-yvYMFFkILM5oEkmnp7n0bpS0qDvySQJWaEneoT0ERdh4nY4sK5FbOmZGrvdAAdA/s320/IMG_0273-web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143230387238077698" /></a><br /><br />Night caught up with us right after we crossed the Texas border (near Texarkana). We realized we couldn't make Padre Island in one easy day (and those are the only kind we like), we diverted to Austin, where we knew we could hear some good music. While we were listening to the Michael Malone quintet, a very progressive and hot group, we had one of the visual highlights of our trip so far. In the Elephant Room, the restrooms are in back of and on either side of the stage, and women have to cross between the stage and the audience to get to theirs. We noticed one tall, good looking young woman in tight jeans heading that way, and you can be sure that Jim was watching when when she came out. Soon, so was everyone else in the club, because she had an eight foot tail of TP trailing from the back of her jeans. Everyone tried to stifle their giggles, but she and her date were gone by the end of the set.<br /><br />Our first night on Padre Island we pulled into Mustang Island State Park, scene of much craziness during spring break, but now practically empty. We'd been intrigued by the name and wondered if there were really wild horses there as there are on Okracoke, but the campground there was dismal, with the RV's stacked on top of each other, so we thought we might try camping on the beach. The beach is narrow, with barely enough room to drive along between the high water mark (it was high tide when we drove in) and the loose sand where the dunes begin. The wind was honking straight off the gulf, the salt spray was flying, and we were afraid we might get stuck in the sand if it rained, so we settled for boondocking in the main beach parking lot. We shared this part of the beach with only one other camper, a homeless man who was hauling his worldly goods in a makeshift trailer behind his bicycle. He set up his tent at one end of the beach, so we chose the other and spent a quiet evening looking at the Big Dipper and Orion and listening to to surf pounding the shore.<br /><br />The next day we moved to the free (to us--our favorite kind!) Malequite Campground, and though we didn't find a lot that interested us photographically, we spent a quiet day resting up and meeting some great people. This campground has no amenities, and as a result seems to attract campers we have more in common with. Our nearest neighbors had all spent a lot of time sailing and/or living on boats, so we had lots of stories to tell.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5ZgsgJrJD_lTMOOkda7iGH21kVDyYAjs8NeSTWqzcF2SdViUIsvjCxj8ZViy8ugMnb6WtvcYzII5lqmJT7FLHDqPtlwUNiqIf1h_BU8Vzr62NeVZfbcBd73idZqIGU8X75tSn1eF7R0/s1600-h/IMG_0284-web.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5ZgsgJrJD_lTMOOkda7iGH21kVDyYAjs8NeSTWqzcF2SdViUIsvjCxj8ZViy8ugMnb6WtvcYzII5lqmJT7FLHDqPtlwUNiqIf1h_BU8Vzr62NeVZfbcBd73idZqIGU8X75tSn1eF7R0/s320/IMG_0284-web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143245041666491682" /></a><br /><br /><br />Jim "taking it easy" on Padre Island. (In case you're wondering, he's cleaning bird doodoo off the picnic table.) The bus next to us isn't typical of our neighbors--but then we seldom saw him and never saw his partner, if he has one.<br /><br /><br /><br />(Click on any of the photos to see a larger version.)Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-28027226369485978412007-11-19T11:27:00.000-08:002007-11-19T11:40:00.488-08:00Blue Highways to Texas, 2003<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxR2FpxaBebryYd569uB-e4VeZrolFWmpL_GdHfA-y0QfnZqZkzl3-mZ19hyAdxMTMxShO_id8psbwKyeiQttR1hv52G0fky6rco0pkusqxjMzQyhw0vuq_vwdN7z1_tJ55etlmRlFQ6I/s1600-h/Howie,HollyBeach.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxR2FpxaBebryYd569uB-e4VeZrolFWmpL_GdHfA-y0QfnZqZkzl3-mZ19hyAdxMTMxShO_id8psbwKyeiQttR1hv52G0fky6rco0pkusqxjMzQyhw0vuq_vwdN7z1_tJ55etlmRlFQ6I/s400/Howie,HollyBeach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134635593465559042" /></a><br /><br />October 9, 2003 Ann Arbor to Eagle Pass, Texas<br /><br />Dear Friends and Family,<br /><br />We spent the night in a luxurious motel room (a suite, really) here in Eagle Pass Texas, ready to cross over into Piedras Negras, Mexico. What a change this king size bed and the extra room with couch, desk and refrigerator, from Howie, who has little more than a bed and storage space, and where we have to be careful not to bump our heads when we turn over in middle of the night. Not to downgrade Howie! She is serving us well, and we are growing very fond of her.<br /><br />HOWIE<br /><br />For those of you who haven’t met Howie, she is the full size 1990 Ford Econoline cargo van that we bought from Howard Bond. We had been talking for years about getting a used van, outfitting it for camping, and making a trip like this, so when Howard, in one of his newsletters, offered the van that he had been using for his workshops in Colorado and the UP, we jumped at it. Howard had already outfitted her to suit a photographer, with secure storage for cameras and tripods and other valuables, a platform for setting up a tripods on the roof, and bunks for himself and Margaret, and even a pot to pee in. She was even white, to be cooler in hot climates! She had 100,000 miles on her, but almost all highway miles, and Howard had taken such meticulous care of her that she only looks and acts half her age. About all we had to do to make her suit us was (since we are both a little larger than Howard and Margaret) was to make Howard’s bunk extendable into a double bed and take out a partition between the driver/passenger compartment and the rest of the van so that we could push the seats back a bit further. We also went down to Elkhart, Indiana (RV heaven) and bought a super captain’s chair for the passenger side (the driver’s side already had a pretty good one). You can guess who sits in that one most of the time! <br /><br />We’ve been taking a lot of back roads and “blue highways” and so getting a good look at the midsection of our country in a way that you don’t see it from the expressway. . . . From St. Louis we headed down route 67 toward Memphis, which took us through the Ozarks. We were enjoying the scenery, which reminded us a little of western North Carolina, when we realized there was something very different about this place. There were no billboards! How nice not to be bombarded with blaring announcements of auto dealerships and flea markets every 500 feet. We wondered if Missouri had a law banning billboards in this region. In Arkansas the green hills gave way to rice paddies and cotton fields (and interesting junkyards!) and we realized we were in “the South.” <br /><br />MEMPHIS<br /><br />One of the best things about traveling the way we do is that you meet such interesting people. Mary Beth was one of those. As soon as we drove across the Mississippi into Memphis, we stopped at the visitor’s center. Mary Beth was standing behind the counter looking like she wanted something to do, so Jim walked up and said, “You look like you’re just waiting to talk to us.” <br /><br />“I am,” she said. “I’ve been waiting all morning.” She turned out to be a kindred spirit, down to sharing a love for the comic strip “Arlo and Janis.” In fact, she had just bought her “ex-hippie” husband, who dreamed of going off sailing, a little sailboat. She told us all of the best things to see on a short stop in Memphis, excluding some saying “You won’t like that--it’s too touristy!” We didn’t get to them all, thinking that we would come back to Memphis sometime, but we ate the best BBQ’d ribs we’ve ever tasted on Beale Street, and listened to some great blues played by some old guys in a public park. One of my most moving experiences was standing in front of the Lorraine Motel looking at the balcony where Martin Luther King was shot. I couldn’t help thinking how our country might be different if our best leaders hadn’t been assassinated in the 60’s. The entire motel is now the centerpiece for the Civil Rights Museum. A local panhandler pointed out the windows in the building across the street, now abandoned, where the shots that killed King came from.<br /><br />"LOOSE SLOTS"<br /><br />We wondered what new scenes of Southern life we’d see when left Memphis on Highway 61 and crossed the line into Mississippi. What we saw was traffic--tons of it--and billboard after billboard advertising casinos. They proclaimed “loose slots” --illustrated by seductive images of women--and shows by lots of stars we remembered from decades ago plus some contemporary ones: Alice Cooper, The Moody Blues, Lisa Marie Presley . . . The traffic was so crazy with cars weaving wildly in and out that we thought we were on I-94 to Detroit.<br />Then we saw a stretch limo pull into the median pull out to make a u-turn, and about 20 cars followed it. Undoubtedly one of the celebrities with his or her entourage of paparazzi.<br /><br />LOUISIANA<br /><br />When we left Tunica County, the billboards disappeared, replaced by mile after mile after mile of perfectly flat river delta land blanketed with cotton fields. As we drove through them, we pictured another era when we might have seen men and women and children dragging their heavy bags through the fields picking the cotton. Later we saw how it is done now, with giant machines stripping the white puffy balls from the plants and delivering them to a compacter that produced huge bales the size of semi trailers. The names of the towns we drove through make a kind of poetry--Alligator, Hushpuckena, Arcola, Percy, Panther Burn, Nitta Yuma, Anguila, Blanton, and Onward.<br /><br /> We left Hwy 61 in St. Francisville, Louisiana, to take the ferry across the Mississippi to New Roads, from where we wound through cypress groves and bayous , across the bed of the Atchafalaya--which would be the Mississippi today if nature had her way. After crossing the longest bridge we’ve ever seen (it is at least 15 miles long) across the bayous, we arrived in Lafayette (Laff-yet) LA, center of Cajun country. We were a little disappointed in the town of Lafayette itself, but we were struck by the number of French speaking tourists we saw. We enjoyed the tongue in cheek bilingualism of the town, especially the sign over the university stadium urging “Geaux Cajuns!” <br /><br />Our interest picked up when we headed down to New Iberia (where the legendary jazz trumpeter Bunk Johnson was rediscovered, given a new set of teeth, and put on the comeback road) and headed across the marshland of the Louisiana Gulf coast. Another woman in a tourist information office gave us a serendipitous suggestion, which sent us to the perfect campsite. But before we got there we stopped to visit the Rockefeller Nature Refuge. We had stopped where we saw some interesting scenery by a boat access area to the marshland. Angie was getting an egret to pose for her when a local pulled his car over and said, ‘You’re pissing into the wind here. If you want to see some great scenery, go up past the ranger station to Place Lake Road, turn left and take it up to the end.” We followed his directions and found ourselves on a one-lane road that went right out into the marshes with water on both sides. As Jim squeezed past a pickup that belonged to a couple of old guys that had stopped to fish, he rolled down the window and asked, “How far does this road go?” The old fisherman grinned and replied “All the way to the end.”<br /><br />We camped on Holly Beach, near the Texas border, and as I mentioned, it was the perfect campsite. Beach as far as you could see in either direction, hard white sand to park the van on. Nobody else on the whole beach (well, a couple of temporary visitors). And our private drama when the police came in to arrest three drunks who had driven onto the beach to do wheelies. The rest of the time, though, it was perfectly serene. We set up our mosquito cabana, lit a bonfire, and spent the evening watching the gentle waves roll in from the Gulf under the full moon. Of course, every paradise has its flaw, as we were reminded when we ended up sharing our bed with millions of mosquitoes which some how got into our van in spite of the screens. We got up in the morning looking like we had the chicken pox,<br /><br />Jim had been warning Angie for days about the boredom of driving across Texas. “We’ll get back on I-10 and just gut it out and try to make it in one day,” he said. But once we got past the truly amazing oil fields and refineries between Port Arthur and Houston we were pleasantly surprised by the lush rolling country we passed through. They call it the Hill Country of Texas, although is more like the rolling plains of Iowa than real hills. Only during the last hundred miles, when we left the expressway to head for Eagle Pass did we drive through the miles of chaparral and mesquite that we had been expecting.<br /><br /><br /><br />Love to you all! <br />Jim and AngieFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-54792685687373107992007-11-18T07:30:00.000-08:002008-01-16T15:56:12.728-08:00Paradise on the Pacific<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEA5bq4-8Ucv1mCKQH2qyuNBATDiuTAh7ODwrbxSz6SMQxVvNesCnrDJDbgQcFfX_8gQeKMuMSJmjLkLkswBwZltMIgF6-QZ1LzXbl5sfK7ZrR3YK-FY5FM3wqtAvLCMo5Po4uGC5npkg/s1600-h/Egret+%26+Wave,+Maruata.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEA5bq4-8Ucv1mCKQH2qyuNBATDiuTAh7ODwrbxSz6SMQxVvNesCnrDJDbgQcFfX_8gQeKMuMSJmjLkLkswBwZltMIgF6-QZ1LzXbl5sfK7ZrR3YK-FY5FM3wqtAvLCMo5Po4uGC5npkg/s320/Egret+%26+Wave,+Maruata.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134203493985777570" border="0" /></a><br />Maruata, Michoacan 25 Febrero 2006<br /><br /><br />“Hace mucho frio,” the lady in the little food tienda said to us. “It’s cold!” Yeah, we thought, it must have gotten down to 65 last night. We were glad to have a blanket on the bed, and when we got up at about an hour before sunup to go look for sea turtles on the beach, we wore sweatshirts—at least until the sun came up. Of course by 2 p.m. it was 90 again. Nothing to do but read, take a siesta, then go for a swim in the ocean to take up the time until 4 or so, when it begins to feel like spring time again.<br /><br />Maruata hasn’t changed since we were here last year, when we decided it was as close to paradise as we were ever likely to see. We are afraid that some day the developers will get to it, but Warren and Sherry, who spend five months here every year living out of their stubby old blue school bus, think it won’t, since the village is communally owned by the tribe of Nahuatl Indians who live here. They originally lived where Mexico City is today, but were driven off their lands by the descendants of the Spaniards and had to make a new life for themselves by the sea. Poor things! Now they live by fishing, and, since the highway came by here about 20 years ago, by catering to tourists. You have to be a special kind of tourist to come here, though. There are few gringos. Most are Mexicans, or alternative types from all over the world, Greece, Russia, France, Canada, Czechoslovakia. You either throw up your tent under a palm thatched ramada, or park your van or camper on the beach. Or you do as we do and pay Elodio and Martina a few bucks to park inside their wooden fenced compound where you have the luxury of shady palm trees, a place to hang your hammock, restrooms with flush toilets and (cold) showers, and best of all, the pila, or cement reservoir, where you can wash up or do your laundry. Since the lavanderia in Puerto Angel was out of water the day we laid over there to have ours done, we spent two days at the pila catching up. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwSv6BV3ciECHEZl0R3wiIo1U5x2XDzwHzN2O9Rxq91gXpS1_mIoSSdWKsZRxVViQaTeg0gvdsO01IXWC5LimEHHoEzjEQU-VLhK0OjkuS7UgF95a4oubsgUkxED2ddBeoobl1OmqHf_c/s1600-h/Tortuga-Maruata.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwSv6BV3ciECHEZl0R3wiIo1U5x2XDzwHzN2O9Rxq91gXpS1_mIoSSdWKsZRxVViQaTeg0gvdsO01IXWC5LimEHHoEzjEQU-VLhK0OjkuS7UgF95a4oubsgUkxED2ddBeoobl1OmqHf_c/s320/Tortuga-Maruata.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134283131269380034" /></a><br /><br /><br />Elodio is 87 years old. Nearly every day he saddles up his horse, attaches his lariat and machete to the saddle, mounts and goes off to work on his property. His only concession to his age is that he mounts the horse from a stump. Elodio gets a kick out of Jim playing the guitar, and keeps telling him to sing. It’s best that Jim just play the guitar! Warren and Sherry are semi-permanent residents. Warren spent many years on the fishing boats out of New Bedford. Now, at 60, he goes swimming everyday with wetsuit, weights, and spear gun, and he always comes home with fish. He gives many of them to the villagers, who all love him, and to other campers if he likes them. Our first day here we invited them for dinner and Angie made pasta with the shrimp we had bought in a little port on the way here. In return, we got fish for dinner the next night, and we have more in our cooler for tonight. Sherry sometimes teaches belly dancing, in Colorado, where they live the rest of the year, and here to anyone who is interested. Angie spent an hour with her yesterday, and was exhausted afterward! She didn’t know that so many parts of her body could move independently.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP2IWKi73TlHIQEI0-CAUnSRNcRScaP5ybsbS24dQ8hll2z7PaeupR-nS0DIOmd4uJSeKPsi6Zi8Tv60kklLDP5p9rl6BNXUkj7_NuwPgyhS2O6CsIpHOBcSI4wfVcLCdPzspE9FWFNvE/s1600-h/Elodio.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP2IWKi73TlHIQEI0-CAUnSRNcRScaP5ybsbS24dQ8hll2z7PaeupR-nS0DIOmd4uJSeKPsi6Zi8Tv60kklLDP5p9rl6BNXUkj7_NuwPgyhS2O6CsIpHOBcSI4wfVcLCdPzspE9FWFNvE/s320/Elodio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135762884941805602" /></a><br /><br />The locals here are mostly very friendly towards us. Sherry told us about Anselma, who makes clothes from manta, which is like unbleached muslin, so we visited her, and Jim bought a pair of long pantaloons, and she altered a skirt for Angie and made her a pair of pantalons to measure. She put ties around the bottoms of the legs to help us keep the mosquitoes and sand fleas out. Lupita bakes almost every day, loaves of bread with cheese in the middle, empanadas, and on special occasions pizza. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpJR30HfvMSPLTs1L958D54PCd_xV90018aHaCjNDfo3NjdT9Ovx32K8qSW2Hn_sio0O2npxKzPKco1LigYIdbPUt4m8OS_bKyaLL3PGeaT1BYyi5eBeXrXeybBoCJD0LjGunYhmWtac/s1600-h/Sherry_Warrie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpJR30HfvMSPLTs1L958D54PCd_xV90018aHaCjNDfo3NjdT9Ovx32K8qSW2Hn_sio0O2npxKzPKco1LigYIdbPUt4m8OS_bKyaLL3PGeaT1BYyi5eBeXrXeybBoCJD0LjGunYhmWtac/s320/Sherry_Warrie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135763353093240882" /></a><br /><br />Angie is sitting under a palapa writng, There’s a great breeze and she is listening to the waves crashing on shore on one of the three beaches here, the one with all of the rocks, and the holes where the water comes crashing through. Jim is out swimming off the quiet beach. Warren just came back from diving with several large fish hanging from his speargun. We’ll have fresh fish for dinner tonight, under stars so bright they almost hurt. What more could anyone ask for!<br /><br />It’s very hard to leave here, and we keep putting of our departure date, but by the time you get this, we’ll have left and be sadly making our way back toward the states.<br /><br />Look forward to seeing you all soon!<br /><br />Besos y abrazos from<br /><br />The FotogypsiesFotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660482132899854771.post-86607265908838340092007-11-17T11:45:00.000-08:002007-11-25T07:36:17.273-08:00DOWN EAST<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcrWkaWNdzMy_Of54Z4PxC8xHql6_9jf2L9_hekWjELYwJT_UAS7B9h_S1tlqyP2vzmlW_NU9E7uNAgV7e2-uSXXlDpAFyPFQHV79YFa0jt4UACtjnOjcKD1k3R6LG7Ehj4HNts2lINs/s1600-h/LaGitanaQuebec.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcrWkaWNdzMy_Of54Z4PxC8xHql6_9jf2L9_hekWjELYwJT_UAS7B9h_S1tlqyP2vzmlW_NU9E7uNAgV7e2-uSXXlDpAFyPFQHV79YFa0jt4UACtjnOjcKD1k3R6LG7Ehj4HNts2lINs/s400/LaGitanaQuebec.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134652850644154386" /></a></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIEMh61awn_NPu3Qxt5hJddOXHax50KtuPde8DvZciWknhV5vW1ovfAvHEXHbl23M5fuXVREVUcX8EY7Stkt1woDyLw3wJOWps-b9cmKox1LcZWoP23tittkyzTOlFHrQlh683h_Gq9k/s1600-h/Blue_boat_in_fog_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIEMh61awn_NPu3Qxt5hJddOXHax50KtuPde8DvZciWknhV5vW1ovfAvHEXHbl23M5fuXVREVUcX8EY7Stkt1woDyLw3wJOWps-b9cmKox1LcZWoP23tittkyzTOlFHrQlh683h_Gq9k/s320/Blue_boat_in_fog_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133900741741082482" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:100%;" >November 17, 2007<br /><br />We're busy getting ready for our big trip to the Southwest and Mexico in our new van La Gitana, the successor to Howie. Our shakedown cruise was to the maritime provinces of Canada--Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia (Newfoundland will have to wait till next year). We were lucky to get some great images, which you can see in the new gallery Down East on our website www.fotogypsies.com Angie took this one at Blue Rocks, Nova Scotia, near Lunenberg.</span> (Click on the image to see a larger version.)<br /></span>Fotogypsieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04266430625677511646noreply@blogger.com0