Vienna Waits For Me

As I sit here on a cold, dreary Central Florida winter day, battling the same annoying case of Covid that half the population seems to have, nothing seems as pleasurable as revisiting our six weeks in Europe that made up the third phase of our sabbatical. You’ll recall J and I started our six months off in the UK and Northern Spain, followed by a multi thousand mile road trip that took us from Florida to Yellowstone National Park and back again, with multiple sights along the way.

On October 7, having barely slept, we finished last minute packing into two backpacks and carry on suitcases, and started our journey. Uber to MCO (for those of you not versed in Central Florida lingo, Orlando International Airport is actually the former McCoy Airforce Base, whose initials it still uses). After a flight to Newark, we boarded our Air Austria flight to Venice. All the flight attendants wore red, down to their stockings, and despite some bumpiness there were free drinks and good food, albeit little sleep.

We arrived in Vienna very early on Sunday morning and managed to find the train to take us to the Prater station, which, to our surprise, was at the edge of a very large and old fashioned amusement park. Ferris wheel, roller coasters, fun houses, and games of chance…it reminded me of Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen, which informed Walt’s ideas for Disney….I guess I just can’t escape! Pulling our suitcases through a deserted carnival the day after the last day of Oktoberfest was a little eerie.

Lobby of the Superbude

The Superbude Hotel, recommended by one of J’s colleagues, was just on the far side of the park. A very hipster style place, with lots of retro, mid century modern stuff in the lobby, including an astronaut space suit. Our room, which fortunately was ready by 10 am, was perhaps modeled after a tent? How appropriate. A pattern of mushrooms on the wallpaper, net hanging from the ceiling to mimic tent walls (?), folding chairs attached to the wall.

After a brief rest we decided to wander toward the city center via the canal. We’d been told there were lots of bars and establishments on the canal – we could see signs of that but they certainly weren’t open on a cold and rainy fall Sunday.

Eventually we made our way to the old city center. Lots of grand, ornate buildings situated next to utilitarian structures clearly built after the war. We ventured into St. Stephen’s, the main cathedral in Vienna. Highly decorated, multiple altars, and a Virgin Mary icon that is supposed to have wept…and to whom many were lighting candles.

It was now raining even more so we headed back to the hotel in a slightly more direct fashion. We hadn’t yet mastered the subway system. After a little more napping, we went to a nearby restaurant in the non carnival side of the Prater, which is dominated by the Sigmund Freud University and the Messe Vien (a conference center) and home to lots of small shops and cafes. The restaurant, Stuwer, was great and local. J had wild boar schnitzel (we were later informed that wild boar are farmed domestically and not actually being hunted in the wild!), and I had fried carp served over carrots and leeks. Two things I learned – (a) carp is an edible fish and (b) Weiner means Viennese style. Also discovered that spritzes (red or white wine or Aperol mixed with seltzer) are huge in Austria. And they are good – with none of the nasty sweeteners that tend to be added in the states.

The next day was our one full day in Venice before heading toward the Salzburg Lakes for a week of hiking. My diary reflects that I was fighting off an upper respiratory infection but felt ok. How appropriate, given my current circumstances.

Breakfast for me was something called “eggs in a glass.” Medium boiled eggs in a small bowl, liberally sprinkled with chives, and bread and butter. Chives are also very popular.

I had done a lot of work by then to figure out the underground, so we walked to the nearby Messe station, took the U2 one stop to the U1, which took us to the main train station from which we’d be leaving tomorrow.

Then, using GPS (thank God for GPS which connects even without Wi-Fi) we walked ten minutes to the Belvedere Palace, one of the huge Hapsburg palaces. It was originally the summer residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy. There are two palaces, upper and lower, surrounded by formal gardens. The museum is in the upper palace, so that’s what we explored. Built in 1723, the ceilings are painted, highly ornate, and the signs did a good job of explaining the function of each room.

There’s an enormous collection of Klimt, including the famous “The Kiss,” which even has its own signs posting its location. The Messerschmidt character heads also reside here.

It was very interesting to view the Expressionist and Modernist works against the backdrop of 18th century baroque rooms. And it’s a manageable size museum.

After Viennese coffee and chocolate torte at the cafe (how could we not) we walked another thirty or so minutes to the Museum Quartier. This took us past the Secession Building, the headquarters for an iconoclastic group of artists led by Klimt (and whose members seemed to come and go based on personal and other conflicts). The building is ornately painted and has a golden globe on top; designs harkening back to the English Arts and Crafts movement, at least to my eye.

The Museum Quartier is a collection of art museums and event spaces, and also home to the Vienna University of Technology (architecture and design), and is full of pedestrian walkways and lots of trees.

After a quick lunch we went to the Leopold Museum, which has an amazing collection of Vienna 1900. See the film, Portrait of Wally, for more background on the museum’s less than salubrious history. The museum is constructed of white travertine marble, and is light and airy. There are numerous references throughout to settlements reached with the original owners of a number of the paintings.

We saw lots more Klimts, and rooms of Egon Schiel’s paintings. He died at age 28, in 1918 of the Spanish flu, only three days after his pregnant wife- and the same year that his mentor, the much older Klimt, died. It was also the year he had his first successful show.

It turns out that I was so enamored with the various print and graphic styles and their potential use in future projects most of my photos are of various posters and not of the great Klimts and Schiels!

I had never really before focused on the immensity of Vienna as a cultural and intellectual capital in the early 20th century- Klimt, Schiller, Freud, Mahler, Wittgenstein- you name it. And then along came the world wars and isolation for some decades.

By this time we were pretty museumed out, and took the train back to the hotel. Dinner that night was at L’Osteria, a nearby Italian restaurant that’s part of a chain but clearly a local student hang out and quite inexpensive.

It was time to try to get some sleep. Some real Austrian adventuring was about to begin the next day.

Transitions – Back to the U.S.A.

When last I left this blog, J, S, M and I had just completed our 77 mile hike through the Yorkshire Dales. After our celebration in Kettlewell (where I am pretty sure I inadvertently donated my now no longer manufactured hiking baseball hat to the Bluebell Inn) and an overnight in Grassington, the next day we took a horribly crowded train back to King’s Cross in London. Our original train was canceled, which led to mass confusion on the next train for those who had reserved seats versus those who didn’t or originally did or….you get the picture.

Once in London, M and S’s daughter, B (of Balkans fame) ( https://fromswamptosummit.com/2019/07/20/things-we-brought-to-the-balkans-were-on-our-way/ ) joined us and we all enjoyed a “cruise” down the Thames to Greenwich where S could indulge all of his astronomical interests by standing on either side of the Greenwich meridian at the Royal Observatory. J and I also had a look at the British Museum (incredibly crowded and apparently mummies are much more popular now than when I used to go inspect them in the 1970s). Also, the entire first floor is set up like a quasi shopping mall, which does cast the whole experience in a different light.

Regardless, I loved London as much as ever and J and I spent two of our three nights there going to the theater – Aspects of Love (really strange Andrew Lloyd Webber musical based on a novella by David Garnett) and a classic English comedy/farce, The Play That Goes Wrong.

Our final phase of the trip left a little to be desired. On an airline that shall not be named the following happened:

(1) Reached Orlando at the time of a massive thunderstorm that closed the airport;

(2) Circled Orlando until we were close to running out of fuel;

(3) Landed in Melbourne to refuel;

(4) Sat on tarmac because storm moved to Melbourne and it was too dangerous to refuel;

(5) So many hours had passed our crew was no longer legally able to work;

(6) Alternate crew was to be sent from Orlando via taxi;

(7) Were permitted into a secured hallway of airport (we hadn’t gone through customs) where the local airport officials doled out the world’s worst junk food from large cardboard boxes (think Combos filled with pizza cheese) – it was a bit like being one of the animals at feeding time in the zoo;

(8) After 6 hours in Melbourne the new flight crew arrived (to sardonic applause from the passengers);

(9) Flew 15 minutes at under 6000 feet to Orlando and landed;

(10) Were informed that we were so late that all the customs officers at the glitzy Terminal C had gone home;

(11) Taxied around the airport looking for a parking place (think looking for a spot at the mall during the Christmas shopping season [back when malls were a thing]); and

(12) Were finally welcomed at Terminal A in one of the Spirit gates. You know you’ve reached a new low when that’s your home port.

Regardless, a wholly successful phase one of sabbatical. Phase two was to start only two weeks later. The changing of the guards seems an apt metaphor for phase 2 – our U.S.A. Road Trip.

The Rain in Spain…and in Hastings

Except fortunately, it didn’t, in Spain. At least, unless you count a few drizzly moments, which I refuse to do.

From Rye, in East Sussex, we took train and plane to Bilbao, in the Basque Country of Northern Spain. Along the way, we disembarked in Hastings, where it really did rain. To avoid a very long wait for our 7 pm flight from Gatwick we decided to check out Hastings, which turned out to be a singularly unsuccessful pit stop.

This is the only picture I have of Hastings.

We lugged ourselves and all our luggage into the Old Town; we could see the Castle up on the hill and thought about the Battle and 1066 and all that, but that’s about as close as we got to any sights. The beach/boardwalk runs along the front – there were loads of people, but let’s just say the glory was more than faded. It didn’t take us very long to decide to trudge back (in the rain) to the train station.

We finally took off from Gatwick for a short and uneventful flight to Bilbao – except for the part where J’s water bottle (which he had cleverly stowed in the outside pocket of his back pack and placed in the overhead bin) started to leak on everyone below.

We arrived in Bilbao after 10 – there’s an hour time difference for reasons that date back to Franco and WWII – only to find we’d missed the last shuttle to the Holiday Inn Express where we were staying for a night. In any event, a taxi safely delivered us, sans any further mishaps.

After a truly excellent “continental” breakfast – why are coffee machines so much better in Europe? – we managed to take the shuttle to the airport and figure out how to purchase bus tickets to San Sebastián. It turned out the ticket machine was broken, so as always, the answer was “download the app and buy online.” At least J was able to extract my credit card when when in a moment of desperation I pushed it into the only other slot available in the ticket machine – which turned out to be for bills only.

After a longish bus ride, we arrived for more lugging of luggage, and finally made contact with A and son in law N at the Deutsche Bank where we were getting euros. Travelers note – there are two Deutsche banks near the water in San Sebastián.

The major dining experience in this part of Spain is pintxos – basically the Basque word for tapas. A language note – Basque is considered a “language isolate”, not related to any other language. It likely dates back to the indigenous peoples of the area. “X” is pronounced “ch”, similar to the pronunciations you see in the Yucatán.

Pintxos take all forms – mushrooms in rich sauces, small sandwiches, scallops, oxtail, and ubiquitous fried potatoes, to name just a few.

After sampling several for lunch, we made our way to our Airbnb, where daughter S and boyfriend T arrived at almost exactly the same time. They’d been in Biarritz the night before and appeared to have had a more seamless journey than J and I.

The Airbnb was on one of the city’s many pedestrian streets. There are wonderful clothes shops and elegant, balconied apartment buildings edging the avenues, The beach is a long crescent of sand packed with bathers, cliffs on either side of the bay.

As fate would have it, we were in town at the same time as a college friend, C, and his two sons and son in law. They’d been in Pamplona for the running of the bulls (which sounds as gruesome as I had feared) and were staying in Bilbao. In fact, when we arrived in Bilbao we were greeted by numerous men and women all wearing white outfits with red bandanas in honor of the event (C himself had grown a Hemingway-like beard just for the occasion). We were able to rendezvous with him and his son, and enjoyed even more pintxos (by now I had a potato overload), gelato, and a beautiful walk along the beach to see the sunset.

The next day was rainy and dreary. We found a hole in the wall pintxos place that was just as good as the higher end one from the day before, and then ventured off to the Museum to try to learn a little more about Basque culture, although very few explanations were translated into English.

Basque hats – some of the women’s ultimately outlawed; you can speculate why….

We had an absolutely marvelous dinner at a restaurant across the street from the Airbnb – prawns served with heads fully attached, fried peppers, samples of hand pulled dry cider. The star was dessert – a French toast type thing that was stuffed with custard and caramel i Ed, and a Basque Cheesecake with a vanilla sorbet. And a cheeseboard with walnuts in their shells – which led to a walnut cracking competition among certain of our party.

The cracking of the walnuts

By the way, we found Spain unbelievably inexpensive, both for food and drink. A good bottle of wine could easily be found for under 4 euros.

We only had two nights in San Sebastián before our next move – to the beach town of Plentzia, about thirty minutes outside Bilbao. All of us left feeling we needed another night in San Sebastián- but perhaps not anymore patatas bravas!

Rooftop Tent or Five Star Hotel?

Miami

I’m at my first in-person partners meeting in two years, staying at what I’m sure is a five star hotel. Who knows how far into the three digits it’s charging.

But this is life after the pandemic – or at least after we’ve gotten used to the pandemic – and much has changed in the hospitality industry. Or perhaps what I’m really demonstrating is that I’ve simply lost touch with the modern world of hotels over the last two years.

It started when I left my law firm’s dinner at a reasonable hour, returning to a really lovely room in a hotel that shall not be named. I was looking forward to enjoying a super expensive package of nuts from the minibar – which in my naïveté I just assumed was still a “thing.” But when I realized my keycard wouldn’t unlock said minibar I dialed 0 – at least that usually still works – to inquire about the issue. I was informed that Covid somehow had required the emptying of all minibars (despite the fact that minibars, whose ingredients are individually packaged and as pristine as a first snowfall, would hardly appear to be spreaders of Covid).

So giving up on that, I thought I could at least make a cup of decaf coffee in the fancy Illy coffee maker that was on top of the empty locked minibar. But Illy coffee machines should be banned as apparently no one, hotel staff included, knows how to use them.

With all the high falutin’ technology in this room – there was an imbedded TV screen in the bathroom mirror (what??) you would think you could at least turn the lights off with the help of one switch. But no, the switches were multiple and varied and at the end of the evening I found myself looking for manual off and on switches on each light fixture as the only way to power down. At least they still have switches. By the way, that omits the earlier hunt for the bathroom light switch, which turned out not to be close to the door but required a venture into a dark bathroom to find it somewhere in the center of the room over the middle of the vanity.

As I re-read this it certainly sounds like a rant of first world problems. But I’d never have thought that climbing up a ladder to my comfortable queen size mattress in my rooftop tent, illuminated by a little string of built in, battery pack operated LED lights, would be easier than staying in a swank hotel!

Returning to Running

Lake Ivanhoe – my regular running route

Among the other things that have taken a pause during the pandemic (this blog included, at times) is my running regime. Mind you, there was never much of a regime there in the first instance – but typically there were one or two 5ks per week on the Y treadmill and a longer weekend run. Just enough to make sure I had some real cardio to accompany yoga and stair climbing for whatever that next big hike/climb might be.

The Y is no more for me, at least until Orlando looks like it’s on the road to recovery. Somehow a gym full of people all breathing deeply on one another just doesn’t make sense. But surely, you say, the wide open spaces are still there for a run?

Well, yes, but I must admit it’s hard to get motivated when when your past plans for adventure (Katahdin in Maine) all fall through and it’s well nigh to impossible to make any plans certain for the future. We were hoping for Bolivia, but now, due to schedules, not to mention an uncertain political situation, that’s not for sure. J dreams of the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco, as do I, but who knows which countries will even allow us in next summer? You get my point. Normally, by October we’d be booking plane tickets.

The olden days of 2019 – flying over Istanbul

Since running for me is instrumental, lack of a defined goal is hard. But one thing that I have discovered over the last couple of months is audio workouts. Chained to my Fitbit as I am (see Chained To My Fitbit, a post from 2015 when I got my very first one), earlier this year I bought the Premium package, which comes with a steady diet of online workouts for every part of your anatomy, mindfulness and sleep meditations, and yes, audio work outs for running, intervals, and walking. And they work! Even without that defined goal, when a cheery voice in your AirPods tells you there’s just two more minutes at threshold pace – you do it!

So off I toddled this morning to try out a new workout – this time a running meditation. I was doing pretty well with it but for the distraction of a witch paddle board event on Lake Ivanhoe. It’s hard to keep repeating a mantra when you’re being entertained by 50 plus paddle boarding witches! In any event, I’m back at the running. And I’ll just keep dreaming of what next summer could hold. Mountains of the Moon in Uganda? Alaska? Rather than think about the current situation as an absence of a plan, I need to consider it a point of infinite possibility.

Mountain dreaming

The Economics of Adventure Travel

Trekking in Nepal

When people ask about our next adventure, I know the real question they have is…how much does all this cost? I’ve been thinking about answering it for a long time, but perhaps it’s less awkward to do so in a blog post.

The internet is filled with blogs from twenty-somethings who grab their backpacks, buy rail passes, stay at youth hostels, and make their way around the world before embarking on a more sedate life to come, all apparently on the proverbial shoestring.

Backpacks are required – on the Speyside Way

But suppose that you’re well beyond your twenty-somethings, are well established on that more sedate life to come, and are now ready to do all the things that you didn’t do way back then. And while you may have more resources than you did years ago, you don’t want to spend every last bit of your savings on the possibility of making it up a 20,000 foot mountain somewhere — that is, unless you’re planning to retire on top of one.

So here are a few hints as to how we’ve managed over the last eight years to climb Kilimanjaro and go on a safari in Tanzania, climb Mt. Elbrus and visit Moscow, hike the Speyside Way in the Scottish Highlands, trek the Inca Trail in Peru and the Everest Base Camp Trail in Nepal, climb the Ecuadorian and Mexican Volcanoes (ok, we didn’t summit the Mexican one!), and make it to the top of Stok Kangri in India. And how we’re planning to trek through Montenegro, Croatia, Kosovo, and Albania with family and friends this summer.

  • Consider using a U.K. based company. While we have had fantastic experiences with some well-known U.S. companies, the reality is they are more expensive. You’re typically paying for a U.S. guide to be with you at all times, and I’m sure they would argue that there are higher standards of accommodation, safety, etc etc. And while on our beginning climbs we certainly wanted that, as we became marginally more experienced, we felt a lot more confident.
  • Our last few trips have been with three different U.K. companies that utilize English-speaking guides local to the area. They have been great. In Nepal our guide was the son of a gurkha. And in India our guide was a native of Ladakh, the site of Stok Kangri. Nothing could beat making a special trip to Upper Pangboche to celebrate Buddha’s birthday at an ancient monastery with our Nepalese guide.
Monasteries on Buddha Day in Nepal
  • Be flexible about accommodations. You really don’t need a five star hotel everywhere you stay. With the less expensive companies, we’ve typically had a very nice hotel in whatever major city we’ve been in, followed by a mixture of small guesthouses, tea houses (well, that’s all there is on the Everest Base Camp Trail), and this summer’s trip to the Balkans promises whatever are called “home stays.” I think one’s on a farm.
Yak ‘n Yeti Hotel in Kathmandu
Our accommodations in Ladakh
  • Don’t worry about the food. It’s fine. Quite frankly, I haven’t noticed any difference between the food on the more expensive trips than the less expensive. It’s really more a function of what the food is like in that location to begin with. On Mt. Elbrus, you’re stuck with whatever the cook decides to serve to the barrel dwellers that day regardless of who you’re traveling with. Some of the best food we ever had was in India, provided by a head cook and his two sons.
Barrel dining
  • Be willing to fly economy! I’ve travelled for 24 plus straight hours in economy class. On international flights there are free drinks. There are plenty of movies. It’s going to be miserable anyway, so you might as well wallow in misery in economy rather than spend thousands of extra dollars. (Ok, for those of you who are adept at frequent flyer points I do acknowledge there’s probably a better way, but I’ve never been able to make it work.
  • Gear is a one time cost. Admittedly, there’s a certain outlay to begin with, but the more you use it, the cheaper it is! HOWEVER, do not skimp on the cost of 1. hiking boots, 2. backpacks, and 3. hiking poles. You will be sorry if you do.

So how much money are we really talking about? Let’s get down to dollars and cents. Exclusive of international airfare, we paid less than $2500 each for a 12 day trip to India, inclusive of three nights at a hotel in Delhi, four plus nights at a hotel in Leh, domestic flights to and from Delhi, and trekking/camping with a team of 20 horses to lug our stuff around, not to mention a host of guides and cooks. As for Nepal, we paid less than $2500 per person for two weeks, inclusive of all lodging, food, and domestic flights (the famous flight into Lukla on the world’s shortest runway at 11,000 or so feet) for a private trip with J, M, and S, one main guide and two porters, arranged at dates of our convenience. And this summer? Eight days in the Balkans for $1,240 each.

It’s doable, both financially and practically. Don’t let the idea you can’t take two straight weeks off daunt you. I’m a lawyer and I connect via email for all but a few days on these trips, as I find that determining the world hasn’t ended without me actually reduces my stress. In the immortal words of Nike, just do it.

Back to the Beginning – Our Journey to Leh, Ladakh, Jammu & Kashmir, India

This title sounds a bit like “Trinity Park, Durham, North Carolina, United States, Earth, Milky Way, Universe,” which I found very amusing to list as my address in middle school. My travel diary for our Stok Kangri adventure – which was indeed to such a remarkably named location – starts this way: “My Fitbit claims it is 10 am but by now we having been traveling long enough I only have the vaguest idea. I believe it’s about 2 am Sunday in Orlando after I woke up on Saturday morning at 2:15 am.”

Kira the cat is uncertain about the backpacks

2:15 am was our planned wake up time. Yes, we were very paranoid about all that could go wrong between our house and the airport for a 6 am flight, not to mention the packing that remained to be done before we boarded our Uber. What? You don’t think it’s a good idea to go to a cocktail party the night before a big trip?

After quite a long wait at the airport – because nothing did go wrong – we made it to JFK, and boarded the same Emirates flight to Dubai that we took last year on our way to Nepal. It was probably the same plane. The flight was full, lots of Indian families traveling back to visit relatives over the summer holidays. I read; watched two movies, including The Shape of Water; and crossed Northern Europe and Russia on the way to the UAE. Fortunately we didn’t have to change terminals this time, although it was still quite a substantial walk to the gate. We boarded our next flight in good time and were on our way to Delhi. Turns out New Delhi is really just a portion of the ancient city of Delhi. Hence the use of both names. For those of you who have asked.

The views upon the takeoff from Dubai are so strange. Canals carved in the desert resembling tattoos.

Once we arrived in Delhi we knew to look for the e-visa line thanks to our travel companion S who’d arrived a day before and encountered no queues there. We were duly met by our Delhi group leader and transported to the Ashok Country House hotel. We passed numerous chain stores (like Benetton), all closed as it was Sunday. “Normal” looking stores were interspersed with carts and people selling anything you could imagine. The hotel was dated and a little quirky but perfectly nice, and we went off to the pool to meet our fellow trekkers. It was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. Our group ranged from two 61 year olds down to two 27 and 28 year olds. Four from the US and seven from the U.K. All of us seemed quite compatible and we shared a few Indian beers. We all found it remarkable that the alcohol content was given as a range – a “light,” which was “up to 5%” or a “strong,” which was between 5.2 and 8%.” Did that mean a light could have 0?

Our wake up call the next day was 4:30 am and we were off to the domestic airport in Delhi for the hour and a half flight to Leh. In contrast to Katmandu, there weren’t any monkeys at the airport, though. See Leaving for Lukla or Monkeys in the Airport. I think we were the only westerners in the entire plane. At the Leh airport we met our guide, R, who was from Ladakh. There is a big military presence – soldiers with scary looking guns everywhere and signs warning if you violated the rules you would not just be shot, but shot dead. You could tell we were near disputed borders. Ladakh was its own kingdom until 1834 and its residents are very conscious of having a separate identity from India. It’s largely Buddhist, and shares a lot culturally with Tibet. The Dalai Lama was to visit while we were in India, over his birthday, no less, and his was cause for great celebration.

Ladakh is very barren, a high plateau landscape. A few planted fields separated by poplar trees. Our hotel, the Hotel Mogol, had a rooftop cafe, a restaurant, and our room was large. It worked.

Our first day in Leh – which is at around 11,000 feet – was supposed to be spent acclimatizing. One reason we picked this particular guide company was a really good acclimatization plan. We were to have several days hiking around Leh before starting the trek and climb. Day 1 involved lunch, beers, a nap, and a yoga class at the Mahabodhi Yoga Center for several of us. It was remarkably similar to a US yoga class and felt very familiar.

Mahabodhi Yoga Center

Afterwards, we met R for a very rapid stroll to the “market” and the “local market.” Streets were covered with rocks, mud, motorcycles, people, mangy dogs, all vying for a spot. Lots of cafes and guest houses. Leh is bigger than you would think from its population figures, and we were there during the tourist season for visitors from the rest of India. According to R, after Ladakh was featured in a 2009 movie called “3 Idiots,” it became a popular tourist destination – which has brought benefits but also increased trash, not to mention the noise pollution of hundreds of rental motorcycles cycles revving their way along the main streets.

The hotel served dinner at 8 pm. There was hot water in our rooms between 6 and 8 am and 6 and 8 pm. We had another couple of days ahead of us to explore monasteries and visit the second highest drivable pass in the world at 17,500 feet.

Life was good. And, as you’ll see soon, there was to be an oracle in our future.

Work Wanderings – A Tour of the Eastern Seaboard

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I’ve been fortunate that mostly I haven’t had to travel for work. I’ve been able to reserve travel for days of vacation where email chains me only because I allow it to. This is a good thing, because I’ve never successfully merged a business trip with pleasure on the side.

So when I faced an absolutely horrific week of work travel, I thought it might be time to don my big girl pants and not allow myself to wallow in misery for the sake of doing so. I had just returned from Cincinnati two weeks before, where my client and I stayed at a hotel that barely met the standard of a Best Western in a very small city.  The room had the classic under window heating/air conditioning unit that chug chugged away all night like the little engine that could.  Eventually I just turned it off.  And let’s not forget the restaurant that was unable to manage more than six or eight people at a time, leaving me to eat a black bean veggie burger at the bar. The server wasn’t at all sure they still had them, and I did have the feeling that steely icicles had only recently been microwave melted from the patty. Believe it or not, the convention of the moment – because it was a true convention hotel – was for pastoral music ministry. I kept hearing people hum How Great Thous Art as I went up the elevator.

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So after Cincinnati I had a one week break in Florida and it was back on the road again. Left on a Sunday for Buffalo, New York- a place I had never been before. The highway from the airport was lined with bright orange daylilies. I stayed at the Hotel at LaFayette. It turns out boutique hotels are no more expensive than a Hilton Garden Inn. The hotel, in the midst of slightly rundown mid city Buffalo, was built in 1902 by the first female U.S. architect. It had a beautiful central staircase, and a brewery down below. My room looked out onto a public terrace, which left a bit to be desired from the privacy perspective, but it was huge and cool and the muted colors – a grey toned Italianate poster filled the whole wall over the bed – and provided a respite after a long day.

After a return trip that took me through Detroit back to Orlando, on Wednesday I took off again, this time for Northern Virginia. Flying into Dulles, stops in Fairfax and Falls Church. And once my work duties were over, it was time to drive – starting st 7:30 at night – to Richmond, Virginia, the site of the next work obligation.

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Arriving at 10, I stayed at my second boutique hotel of the week – aptly named the Quirk. It is a converted department store, themed around pink. There is original art work in each room, the mini bars are in pink retro mini fridges, and the bathrobes aren’t terry cloth but a lightweight cotton calico.  The ceilings were easily 15 feet high.

Before I returned to Orlando, I got to have lunch with my niece G, a recent Virginia convert from California, at the Kitchen on Cary. And yes, I really did have a sandwich that involved fried green tomatoes, Virginia ham, and pimento cheese.

I didn’t manage a whole lot of steps or much training at all last week. But driving back down 95 South to the land of the pines (for you Wagon Wheel fans out there) – through the green kudzu entwined forests, close to North Carolina – I felt so at home. I haven’t talked a lot about North Carolina on this blog. I may have just hit the point where I have lived in Florida over half my life – but I still call North Carolina home.

But knowing where home is just makes adventure the more exciting. Next up – we think we’ve found a 20,000 foot fairly non-technical mountain.

Leaving for Lukla or Monkeys in the Airport

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Twenty years ago, Husband J and I and our dear friends M and S used to sit in restaurants with small children in tow (who were frequently vying to see which of them could engage in the most dangerous dinner table activity involving condiments) and fantasize about the exotic trips we’d take once we were empty nesters. We started small – with St. Augustine, graduated to Iceland and discovered we actually made good traveling companions – and now I write this from Namche Bazaar in Nepal on our trek to Everest Base Camp.

But first things first. How did we get here? After enjoying a night at a hotel at the Hyatt, courtesy of our daughter A, we got up at the ungodly hour of 2:45 am to check in for our flight to JFK. At least we could return to our rooms after. At JFK we had the pleasure of the Airtrain tour of the whole airport since it turned out going from terminal 5 to 4 required visiting every other existing terminal first. Tours of the backsides of airports ended up being a theme of the trip.

Emirates lived up to its name, free drinks, good food and an unending supply of movies. After 12 long hours our gigantic Airbus descended in Dubai as gracefully as one of the egrets on Lake Ivanhoe. And we could even see the landing through the cameras affixed to the outside of the plane.

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We took yet another airport tram – this time to circumnavigate the airport in a short 45 minute journey from terminal 3 to 2 with a visit to terminal 1 thrown in for good measure. Terminal 2 was a far cry from the rarified and modern Emirates terminal. It was teeming with people, all wearing every variety of regional dress of the Arab world imaginable.  As usual, I realize how provincial we are in our outlook. Where were the groups of men in white robes, wrapped a bit the way the Masai wrap their cloaks, from? How about all the men in long cotton shirts, sitting barefoot in lotus position? And the group of ten or so women lying on the floor, completely encased in their black burkas, with one older woman awake and sitting guard over them?

Finally our four hour layover ended and we boarded FlyDubai for a four hour flight to Katmandu. I had the pleasure of sitting next to someone who immediately fell asleep and hogged the entire armrest, not to mention part of my chair. More about him later. There’s a karma story coming.

After finally getting some sleep on the plane, we landed on time in Katmandu. Fortunately we didn’t face another airport tour. Hint to travelers – get your visas before you arrive! It was the equivalent of a TSA pre. Our duffel bags all arrived as did our guide, Z.

Katmandu traffic is insane. The city was packed, people selling wares along the street, tiny shop after tiny shop. Hordes of motorcycles weaved between vans and vehicles, for all the world like a motorcycle gang out of Mad Max.

It took close to an hour for what we learned the next day was only a 20 minute drive. Finally turned into what I think was a more elegant section of town (it was dark) and to the very nice Yak ‘n Yeti Hotel. We had a lovely quick meal at the bar – and then spent another hour repacking and reweighing everything to get our luggage down to 15 kg. They are serious about the weight on the flight to Lukla.

A 5 am we journeyed back to the airport. It was a scene of chaos. Trekkers, guides and monkeys (yes, monkeys) running through the airport getting ready to board the 20 person flights to Lukla. Well, not the monkeys. Went through at least three metal directors and M and I kept getting relegated to the special women’s line – but never had to remove shoes and no one worried about liquids.

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The plane ride lived up to its reputation. 20 people, 10 a side and an open cockpit. It turned out we were one of the last flights out – the rest were canceled for weather reasons. We flew between sharp green mountains , clouds floating around us, and eventually a glimpse of the high snow covered Himalayan peaks, pasted against the sky like white jagged metal.

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Landing in Lukla is like landing on an aircraft carrier. The runway is short and if the pilot doesn’t make an immediate right turn you’ll run into the side of the mountain.

We deplaned, found the bathroom (first rule of travel – go to the bathroom whenever you get the chance), and had a cup of tea at a nearby tea house. We were ready to trek.