Jules Nolan
August 9, 2008
Dances With Gun Molls
Sometimes when people travel, weird and unexplainable things happen. These are the stories that are recalled at dinners and cocktail parties. Usually these stories are embellished until they hardly resemble the actual events. I keep a travel journal to combat this creative embellishment, to keep an accurate account of the details. And I swear this really happened.
It was early fall a few years ago and I was craving a little Paris. I wanted the wine, the outdoor cafes and the sexy murmur of French being spoken all around me. I wanted tiny cups of espresso and chilly, rainy evenings amid beautifully dressed people. I needed a proper assiette du fromage (As with all things, this sounds so much better in French, but simply means plate of cheese). And my marriage was screaming for a little romantic booster shot.
Sadly, my banker was advising against unnecessary expenditures, especially travel to France, where my money is worth 30% less than it is worth here. The fromage alone would set me back $30 or so. With Paris out of my reach, I reached for her beautiful little step-sister – Montreal, Canada.
Montreal is an amazing weekend getaway from this part of the wor
ld. With nonstop flights from $300 and beautiful hotels at 75% of what we would pay in a US city, it’s a bargain. The city has the best of both worlds. Ancient buildings and charming cafes on cobblestone streets which are just blocks away from contemporary Montreal, with its soaring, sleek hi-rises and neon-chic clubs. But the cincher for me is the food - rich, succulent French cuisine – and wine with every meal.
We ate as the Europeans do, at a snail’s pace, late into the night, in small dimly lit restaurants with the candles twinkling and the silverware clinking against the plates. The musical lilt of hushed French lovers at nearby tables surrounded us. They were professing undying love, or wistfully recalling gut wrenching heartbreak, or discussing orthodontia for all I know. It didn’t matter. It all sounded lovely.
On this night, the hubby and I were at a small martini bar in the Old Town section, having a warm up before our late dinner reservations. Generally we make an effort to meet new people when we travel, and tonight was no exception. We sat at our table, within elbow distance of the table next to us, and began a conversation with a nice young Canadian couple. They left as they were called to their dinner reserva
tion and from a few tables away I heard a voice. “Whaddayouz, Americanz or sumpthin?”
At a table to my right a small, late 40’s, well-dressed man who looked like Joe Pesci (from My Cousin Vinny) was addressing me. “Yes sir we are.” Was my reply. “And you don’t sound so French Canadian your-own-self.” I smirked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yea, I ain’t” he said. “And neither is she” He motioned with glee at a stunning, young woman, approaching. She was gliding toward the table, leading with her protruding hipbones. Her long, blonde hair swung back and forth across her flawlessly made-up face as she glided up to us in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Allo. I ahm Tatiahhnna” she offered. Her Russian accent made her sound exactly like Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of my youth. She looked bored and serious and far too young to be this man’s date.
“Yea, and I’m Antony. Youz wanna join us?” So Mike and I picked up our apple-tinis and sat with this unusual couple. We established that Antony was a “businessman” who worked in “dvd distribution” and that Tatianna was his “sometimes girlfriend” when he was in town.
“So where youz eatin’ t’night?” Antony wanted to know. We told him the name of the restaurant that was recommended by the hotel and he replied “Awww, that’s crap. That’s for tourists. Youz are comin’ wit us.” We finished our drinks making small talk with Antony as Tatiannia silently smoked long, slender, dark brown cigarettes and scanned the room with a suspicious gaze.
The four of us climbed into Antony’s emerald green Jaguar parked right out in front of the bar. “This is gonna be some real, good Italian food” remarked Antony on the drive to the restaurant. “Youz’ll think your right in &*^%-ing Sicily.” And we sped off into the Montreal night, leaving the quaint cobblestones of Old Town and heading for the flash of Downtown.
We pulled up to the restaurant and Antony let us out of the car as he parked. Mike and I approached the door and were immediately intercepted by the maitre de. This small man sported a black pompadour and a dour, no-nonsense look. He was shaking his head, holding up his hands, his palms forward – the international signal to stop. “I am sorry.” He was saying as he approached. “We have nothing. There is nothing for you here tonight.”
Then the maitre de saw Antony and his demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, Antonio, I didn’t know it was you! It is so good to see you again. And you brought your friends. Mario will be so happy to see you!”
“Yea, geez, I’m sorry Felix. I shoulda called. Therez gonna be 6 or 8. You want we should wait?” asked Antony gushing charm.
“No, no of course, of course, right this way.” Replied Felix, and he showed us to the private bar where we met Antony’s friend, Pauley, another rather homely man, late 40’s, with his date, a stunning young woman from Trinidad in her early 20’s. She was also a “sometimes girlfriend”. I was beginning to feel like I had been plunked down in the middle of an episode of the Sopranos.
After several rounds of Sambucco (an Italian liquor), we were seated at the “A” table in the center of the restaurant. Antony told the waiter to “tell Bruno (the chef) I’m here wit friendz. He knowz what I like.” The meal that followed was unbelievably delicious, with course after course of incredible Italian food. When Mike tried to pay the bill, the waiter waved him away as if he was an annoying housefly.
Then the music started, and it was time for me to give back a little. A pianist was playing Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett favorites, but without a vocalist. Being a bar performer, I couldn’t resist but to take the microphone and croon out a few tunes. The owner then came out to compliment me and Antony for his great taste in new friends. I sang, Mike danced with the “sometime girlfriends” and Antony himself got up and danced around the dining room, waving his cloth napkin and requesting his favorite songs.
Then suddenly the mood of the room changed completely. Antony sat down and began a heated discussion with new arrivals, men that had migrated to our table. I don’t’ know what they were talking about, but almost immediately the other diners in the restaurant began to leave. We were the only guests remaining, and the evening began to take on a seriously anxious tone.
As we retreated into the private bar again for a night-cap, I could see that the “sometimes girlfriends” were also growing quite tense, scanning the room more frequently, and making their way toward the door. It was as this point that I whispered to Mike. “I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere good. Let’s 86 this joint.” We hurriedly said that our “car” had come for us and ducked out the front door before there was much time for discussion.
“So, they were mob right?” I asked Mike.
“Had to be.” He replied.
We quickly flagged a cab at the next block and I asked the driver as we turned the corner toward our hotel, “Hey, was that restaurant a mob hangout?”
“I don’t know nothing,” was his reply.
Mike and I exchanged knowing looks.
The next day as Mike and I were enjoying our morning coffee and pain au chocolate, we giggled about the previous night’s shenanigans as we grabbed the morning paper. Splashed across the front page of the Montreal Daily News was a picture of the restaurant we had visited the previous night with the headline “U.S. Mob Boss Gunned Downed in Late Night Confrontation at Local Restaurant.”
I swear this story is true -all of it – except, of course, the last part about the mob hit. That I embellished – but the story is so good that it really deserved a great ending. And it’s a big hit at dinners and cocktail parties.
It was early fall a few years ago and I was craving a little Paris. I wanted the wine, the outdoor cafes and the sexy murmur of French being spoken all around me. I wanted tiny cups of espresso and chilly, rainy evenings amid beautifully dressed people. I needed a proper assiette du fromage (As with all things, this sounds so much better in French, but simply means plate of cheese). And my marriage was screaming for a little romantic booster shot.
Sadly, my banker was advising against unnecessary expenditures, especially travel to France, where my money is worth 30% less than it is worth here. The fromage alone would set me back $30 or so. With Paris out of my reach, I reached for her beautiful little step-sister – Montreal, Canada.
Montreal is an amazing weekend getaway from this part of the wor
ld. With nonstop flights from $300 and beautiful hotels at 75% of what we would pay in a US city, it’s a bargain. The city has the best of both worlds. Ancient buildings and charming cafes on cobblestone streets which are just blocks away from contemporary Montreal, with its soaring, sleek hi-rises and neon-chic clubs. But the cincher for me is the food - rich, succulent French cuisine – and wine with every meal.We ate as the Europeans do, at a snail’s pace, late into the night, in small dimly lit restaurants with the candles twinkling and the silverware clinking against the plates. The musical lilt of hushed French lovers at nearby tables surrounded us. They were professing undying love, or wistfully recalling gut wrenching heartbreak, or discussing orthodontia for all I know. It didn’t matter. It all sounded lovely.
On this night, the hubby and I were at a small martini bar in the Old Town section, having a warm up before our late dinner reservations. Generally we make an effort to meet new people when we travel, and tonight was no exception. We sat at our table, within elbow distance of the table next to us, and began a conversation with a nice young Canadian couple. They left as they were called to their dinner reserva
tion and from a few tables away I heard a voice. “Whaddayouz, Americanz or sumpthin?”At a table to my right a small, late 40’s, well-dressed man who looked like Joe Pesci (from My Cousin Vinny) was addressing me. “Yes sir we are.” Was my reply. “And you don’t sound so French Canadian your-own-self.” I smirked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yea, I ain’t” he said. “And neither is she” He motioned with glee at a stunning, young woman, approaching. She was gliding toward the table, leading with her protruding hipbones. Her long, blonde hair swung back and forth across her flawlessly made-up face as she glided up to us in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Allo. I ahm Tatiahhnna” she offered. Her Russian accent made her sound exactly like Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of my youth. She looked bored and serious and far too young to be this man’s date.
“Yea, and I’m Antony. Youz wanna join us?” So Mike and I picked up our apple-tinis and sat with this unusual couple. We established that Antony was a “businessman” who worked in “dvd distribution” and that Tatianna was his “sometimes girlfriend” when he was in town.
“So where youz eatin’ t’night?” Antony wanted to know. We told him the name of the restaurant that was recommended by the hotel and he replied “Awww, that’s crap. That’s for tourists. Youz are comin’ wit us.” We finished our drinks making small talk with Antony as Tatiannia silently smoked long, slender, dark brown cigarettes and scanned the room with a suspicious gaze.
The four of us climbed into Antony’s emerald green Jaguar parked right out in front of the bar. “This is gonna be some real, good Italian food” remarked Antony on the drive to the restaurant. “Youz’ll think your right in &*^%-ing Sicily.” And we sped off into the Montreal night, leaving the quaint cobblestones of Old Town and heading for the flash of Downtown.
We pulled up to the restaurant and Antony let us out of the car as he parked. Mike and I approached the door and were immediately intercepted by the maitre de. This small man sported a black pompadour and a dour, no-nonsense look. He was shaking his head, holding up his hands, his palms forward – the international signal to stop. “I am sorry.” He was saying as he approached. “We have nothing. There is nothing for you here tonight.”
Then the maitre de saw Antony and his demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, Antonio, I didn’t know it was you! It is so good to see you again. And you brought your friends. Mario will be so happy to see you!”
“Yea, geez, I’m sorry Felix. I shoulda called. Therez gonna be 6 or 8. You want we should wait?” asked Antony gushing charm.
“No, no of course, of course, right this way.” Replied Felix, and he showed us to the private bar where we met Antony’s friend, Pauley, another rather homely man, late 40’s, with his date, a stunning young woman from Trinidad in her early 20’s. She was also a “sometimes girlfriend”. I was beginning to feel like I had been plunked down in the middle of an episode of the Sopranos.
After several rounds of Sambucco (an Italian liquor), we were seated at the “A” table in the center of the restaurant. Antony told the waiter to “tell Bruno (the chef) I’m here wit friendz. He knowz what I like.” The meal that followed was unbelievably delicious, with course after course of incredible Italian food. When Mike tried to pay the bill, the waiter waved him away as if he was an annoying housefly.
Then the music started, and it was time for me to give back a little. A pianist was playing Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett favorites, but without a vocalist. Being a bar performer, I couldn’t resist but to take the microphone and croon out a few tunes. The owner then came out to compliment me and Antony for his great taste in new friends. I sang, Mike danced with the “sometime girlfriends” and Antony himself got up and danced around the dining room, waving his cloth napkin and requesting his favorite songs.
Then suddenly the mood of the room changed completely. Antony sat down and began a heated discussion with new arrivals, men that had migrated to our table. I don’t’ know what they were talking about, but almost immediately the other diners in the restaurant began to leave. We were the only guests remaining, and the evening began to take on a seriously anxious tone.
As we retreated into the private bar again for a night-cap, I could see that the “sometimes girlfriends” were also growing quite tense, scanning the room more frequently, and making their way toward the door. It was as this point that I whispered to Mike. “I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere good. Let’s 86 this joint.” We hurriedly said that our “car” had come for us and ducked out the front door before there was much time for discussion.
“So, they were mob right?” I asked Mike.
“Had to be.” He replied.
We quickly flagged a cab at the next block and I asked the driver as we turned the corner toward our hotel, “Hey, was that restaurant a mob hangout?”
“I don’t know nothing,” was his reply.
Mike and I exchanged knowing looks.
The next day as Mike and I were enjoying our morning coffee and pain au chocolate, we giggled about the previous night’s shenanigans as we grabbed the morning paper. Splashed across the front page of the Montreal Daily News was a picture of the restaurant we had visited the previous night with the headline “U.S. Mob Boss Gunned Downed in Late Night Confrontation at Local Restaurant.”
I swear this story is true -all of it – except, of course, the last part about the mob hit. That I embellished – but the story is so good that it really deserved a great ending. And it’s a big hit at dinners and cocktail parties.
June 3, 2008
A quick guest post - my wife rocks!
Jules doesn't know I'm doing this, and will make me take it down, but I just had to say how cool she is.
She is on the cover of this month's Womens Inc. magazine. She rocks.
Check her out!
-Mike Nolan
currently helping out with the Butterfly of Life cancer awareness jewelry.
She is on the cover of this month's Womens Inc. magazine. She rocks.
Check her out!
-Mike Nolan
currently helping out with the Butterfly of Life cancer awareness jewelry.
April 9, 2008
Pictures of Guanajuato with kids
http://picasaweb.google.com/julenenolan/GuanajuatoMexicoWithKids
Click here for pics of Guanajuato, Mexico with kids.
Click here for pics of Guanajuato, Mexico with kids.
Lost and Found In Mexico
The city of Guanajuato, in the mountains of central Mexico is a maze of cobblestone streets that disappear around corners, hidden subterranean tunnels, alleys so narrow that lovers can meet for stolen kisses on opposing balconies. There are no right-angled corners where streets neatly intersect with avenues. Many streets don’t even retain the same name as they wind their way through this city, and sometimes they just terminate into brick walls. In fact, Guanajuato was purposely designed to be a confusing labyrinth, to protect its treasures from invading armies. 
It is a nightmare for someone like me who has a special, almost magical talent for getting lost. I cannot possibly over-state this. I am a moron when it comes to finding my way in a new city. And maps don’t help. I swear when I am supposed to go north my first instinct is to look skyward. And so, I have completely given up with standard techniques, and have taken to employing the “Rolling Stones” method of navigation. You know, “you can’t always find what you want……..” and all.
So, finding myself alone with my 3 children (14, 11, and 9) in this city of one million - primarily Spanish speaking - people was enough to give me teeth-grinding dreams for a week. I had arranged for us to attend a language school for three weeks and then take off on our own, traveling around the Colonial Heartland of Mexico. In short, we were doomed.
Founded in 1570, Guanajuato became famous because of its rich gold and silver mines. Today, it is considered the culture capital of Mexico, and is filled with strolling minstrels – college students dressed in black velvet costumes with white tights and matching Elizabethan collars. They meet on Thursday and Friday nights in the Central Garden and lead a group of revelers –anyone is welcome to join- throughout the city singing, telling jokes, and drinking wine carried by a genteel burrow. There are mariachi bands and drama troupes that stroll the streets performing wherever crowds have gathered. Dancers, mimes, painters, musicians, choirs, and actors mill around in the plazas and central garden performing for anyone who happens to pass by. I couldn’t find any of it……………...until I stopped looking.
Frustrated by a day of trying to usher my hot, tired kids to museums and gardens and plazas, I gave up and sat down at an outdoor café to have a cold drink and admit defeat. Within minutes a mariachi band – all silver brocade jackets and gold tassels - began to perform. The cobblestone plaza filled with local couples of all ages dressed in their very best clothing. They took to the center square and began performing slow, beautiful, Latin dances. One couple in particular, they must have been in th
eir 80’s, were an amazing sight. She was dressed in a crimson cotton skirt and blouse with tiny embroidered flowers of cobalt blue. He was in a matching electric blue jacket and pants. Both of them looked weathered and grey from years of life and hard work under the hot sun. And then they began to dance. They gazed into each other’s eyes and moved together in perfect symmetry. They bowed, and dipped, and smiled at each other coyly, like young lovers. The other dancers stopped to watch these two, and at that moment I learned all I needed to know about this city and her people. What they valued, what they enjoyed, what they considered important. It didn’t matter if I found the most righteous museums or fountains or paintings; I was beginning to understand the soul of Guanajuato. Now it was time to learn the language.
We attended Academia Falcon – an international Spanish language school set into the rocky, desert hillside. The classrooms, painted ochre and teal and tangerine, surrounded an outdoor common area where the children met to play “uno, dos, tres, mes amigos” – like hide and seek – and take blindfolded swats at a piñata. After class each day we and gathered with other students to share a chocolate churro and practice our new Spanish phrases. We learned Latin dancing and cooking, and even a few “naughty” words. At one point another student approached me and asked “Is Jack your son? He is HILARIOUS! You should hear how he describes you in conversation class! Do you really get lost that much?”
At the school I was lucky to find traveling companions who met my most important criteria – either being more fluent in Spanish than I, or reasonably able to navigate. Off we set, this rag-tag band of 4 adults and 3 children to explore the Michoacan State of Western Mexico. In October and November, Monarch Butterflies from the Great Lakes Region migrate to this state for their winter hibernation. In the early mornings, the branches of the fir trees in the Monarch reserve droop with the weight of millions of these creatures. By afternoon, the ground is a living carpet of orange, yellow, and black as the butterflies slowly flutter their wings and mill about…………We didn’t actually so much “find” this place – but brochure photos were remarkable!
We visited the city of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, and a most lovely city. It is Spanish-European in style, with an imposing cathedral and gardens in the center of the city plaza. The outdoor café tables sit under arched verandas where beautifully dressed visitors sip aged tequilas and snack on tapas. Many of the public buildings have stair-well murals that depict the Mexican Revolution……..Yea…I didn’t so much find those either…… but I did have the most amazing experience in the cathedral. It was a hot day, and I walked into the darkened church during mass. I was immediately hit with a familiar scent from my childhood. It was the exact combination of musty paper, incense, lilies, and sweat that I remember from years of attending daily Catholic Mass. I was instantly 9 years old. Before I knew what I was doing I bowed my head, blessed myself, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. I had a wonderful, spiritual moment sitting there alone listening to the Spanish prayer. I found inspiration.
My favorite city, Patzcuro, is situated in the highlands on the lake of the same name. In 1529, a Spanish conquistador named Guzman ruled this region with such unspeakable cruelty toward the natives that the Catholic Church and colonial government sent Bishop Vasco de Quiroga to help. Quiroga developed a utopian community, with an emphasis on education, agriculture, and crafts. All of the villagers were required to contribute equally to the society, and encouraged to develop a craft. As a result, Patzcuro has become a lovely hamlet filled with educated citizens who value arts and social responsibility. You will find beautiful weavings, pottery, blown glass, jewelry, ironwork, and furniture, and a giant lake which makes for an easy point of reference when trying to locate your hotel after a sangria or two.
We learned so much about Mexico, ourselves, and each other during this adventure. I had some of the most amazing family experiences and proud mommy moments. And I us got lost. I us got lost a lot. But here is what I found.
My kids are remarkably self-sufficient, smart, funny, entertaining people.
If necessary, and ONLY then, I can do laundry with just a washboard and ringer
.….And if you try sometimes….you find what you need.
Word Count: 1236
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
(507) 382 5404
It is a nightmare for someone like me who has a special, almost magical talent for getting lost. I cannot possibly over-state this. I am a moron when it comes to finding my way in a new city. And maps don’t help. I swear when I am supposed to go north my first instinct is to look skyward. And so, I have completely given up with standard techniques, and have taken to employing the “Rolling Stones” method of navigation. You know, “you can’t always find what you want……..” and all.
So, finding myself alone with my 3 children (14, 11, and 9) in this city of one million - primarily Spanish speaking - people was enough to give me teeth-grinding dreams for a week. I had arranged for us to attend a language school for three weeks and then take off on our own, traveling around the Colonial Heartland of Mexico. In short, we were doomed.
Founded in 1570, Guanajuato became famous because of its rich gold and silver mines. Today, it is considered the culture capital of Mexico, and is filled with strolling minstrels – college students dressed in black velvet costumes with white tights and matching Elizabethan collars. They meet on Thursday and Friday nights in the Central Garden and lead a group of revelers –anyone is welcome to join- throughout the city singing, telling jokes, and drinking wine carried by a genteel burrow. There are mariachi bands and drama troupes that stroll the streets performing wherever crowds have gathered. Dancers, mimes, painters, musicians, choirs, and actors mill around in the plazas and central garden performing for anyone who happens to pass by. I couldn’t find any of it……………...until I stopped looking.
Frustrated by a day of trying to usher my hot, tired kids to museums and gardens and plazas, I gave up and sat down at an outdoor café to have a cold drink and admit defeat. Within minutes a mariachi band – all silver brocade jackets and gold tassels - began to perform. The cobblestone plaza filled with local couples of all ages dressed in their very best clothing. They took to the center square and began performing slow, beautiful, Latin dances. One couple in particular, they must have been in th
eir 80’s, were an amazing sight. She was dressed in a crimson cotton skirt and blouse with tiny embroidered flowers of cobalt blue. He was in a matching electric blue jacket and pants. Both of them looked weathered and grey from years of life and hard work under the hot sun. And then they began to dance. They gazed into each other’s eyes and moved together in perfect symmetry. They bowed, and dipped, and smiled at each other coyly, like young lovers. The other dancers stopped to watch these two, and at that moment I learned all I needed to know about this city and her people. What they valued, what they enjoyed, what they considered important. It didn’t matter if I found the most righteous museums or fountains or paintings; I was beginning to understand the soul of Guanajuato. Now it was time to learn the language.We attended Academia Falcon – an international Spanish language school set into the rocky, desert hillside. The classrooms, painted ochre and teal and tangerine, surrounded an outdoor common area where the children met to play “uno, dos, tres, mes amigos” – like hide and seek – and take blindfolded swats at a piñata. After class each day we and gathered with other students to share a chocolate churro and practice our new Spanish phrases. We learned Latin dancing and cooking, and even a few “naughty” words. At one point another student approached me and asked “Is Jack your son? He is HILARIOUS! You should hear how he describes you in conversation class! Do you really get lost that much?”
At the school I was lucky to find traveling companions who met my most important criteria – either being more fluent in Spanish than I, or reasonably able to navigate. Off we set, this rag-tag band of 4 adults and 3 children to explore the Michoacan State of Western Mexico. In October and November, Monarch Butterflies from the Great Lakes Region migrate to this state for their winter hibernation. In the early mornings, the branches of the fir trees in the Monarch reserve droop with the weight of millions of these creatures. By afternoon, the ground is a living carpet of orange, yellow, and black as the butterflies slowly flutter their wings and mill about…………We didn’t actually so much “find” this place – but brochure photos were remarkable!
We visited the city of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, and a most lovely city. It is Spanish-European in style, with an imposing cathedral and gardens in the center of the city plaza. The outdoor café tables sit under arched verandas where beautifully dressed visitors sip aged tequilas and snack on tapas. Many of the public buildings have stair-well murals that depict the Mexican Revolution……..Yea…I didn’t so much find those either…… but I did have the most amazing experience in the cathedral. It was a hot day, and I walked into the darkened church during mass. I was immediately hit with a familiar scent from my childhood. It was the exact combination of musty paper, incense, lilies, and sweat that I remember from years of attending daily Catholic Mass. I was instantly 9 years old. Before I knew what I was doing I bowed my head, blessed myself, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. I had a wonderful, spiritual moment sitting there alone listening to the Spanish prayer. I found inspiration.
My favorite city, Patzcuro, is situated in the highlands on the lake of the same name. In 1529, a Spanish conquistador named Guzman ruled this region with such unspeakable cruelty toward the natives that the Catholic Church and colonial government sent Bishop Vasco de Quiroga to help. Quiroga developed a utopian community, with an emphasis on education, agriculture, and crafts. All of the villagers were required to contribute equally to the society, and encouraged to develop a craft. As a result, Patzcuro has become a lovely hamlet filled with educated citizens who value arts and social responsibility. You will find beautiful weavings, pottery, blown glass, jewelry, ironwork, and furniture, and a giant lake which makes for an easy point of reference when trying to locate your hotel after a sangria or two.
We learned so much about Mexico, ourselves, and each other during this adventure. I had some of the most amazing family experiences and proud mommy moments. And I us got lost. I us got lost a lot. But here is what I found.
My kids are remarkably self-sufficient, smart, funny, entertaining people.
If necessary, and ONLY then, I can do laundry with just a washboard and ringer
.….And if you try sometimes….you find what you need.
Word Count: 1236
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
(507) 382 5404
May 31, 2007
Life Lessons in St. Lucia
Long about laundry load number sixteen of the pre-trip piper-paying, I wonder. “Is this going to be worth it?” How much fun will this trip have to be to justify the weeks of sock matching and grocery hauling, necessary to leave 3 children for 8 nights. “A lot” I think. “One hell of a holy lot”.
But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.
But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle gratified if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.
“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”
The plane starts its jer
ky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.
And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first honeymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food. They were right on all accounts.
St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean”
for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I found myself embroiled. It was a battle of intuition and trust.
On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.
“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”
“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Isn’t that charming? And what’s it called? The S.S. Hepatitis?”
But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque? (Toque=stocking cap in Canadian) That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.
Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.
“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. W
hat would that cost?” Stuart asked.
“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.
That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.
The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.
This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Hepatitis as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision .But it also ends with a lesson in trust. A lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.
We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.
I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”
But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me!
My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”
“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”
“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.
“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.
“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.
Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”
In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.
But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.
But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle gratified if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.
“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”
The plane starts its jer
ky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first honeymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food. They were right on all accounts.
St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean”
for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I found myself embroiled. It was a battle of intuition and trust.On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.
“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”
“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Isn’t that charming? And what’s it called? The S.S. Hepatitis?”
But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque? (Toque=stocking cap in Canadian) That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.
Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.
“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. W
hat would that cost?” Stuart asked.“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.
That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.
The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.
This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Hepatitis as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision .But it also ends with a lesson in trust. A lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.
We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.
I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”
But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me!
My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”
“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”
“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.
“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.
“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.
Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”
In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.
A Bit Wonky Then Isn't It?
Another Christmas season is here and I can’t help but feel that I should be somewhere else. What is it about the holidays that set me to fantasizing about an island? This year my hubby tried to talk his sister into moving the family Christmas to an island. Her reply was a sharp-tongued “I hate islands”
“Come again?” I replied. “You hate islands? Really. And how do you feel about peninsulas? Might you detest a sound? Abhor a Strait? Loathe a bight? Well that’s it! It’ll have to be an isthmus – an isthmus for Christmas!”
.
She was not amused – but mostly because I don’t know what an isthmus actually is, and she didn’t think that I should be using words of which I don’t know the meaning. I assured her that would eliminate most of my vocabulary and that so long as it’s funny, I don’t really have to understand a word I say, thank you very kindly.
All of this got me thinking about islands in general and Australia in particular, because it is both an island and continent. So maybe she wouldn’t be able to hate Australia. And, if she did, Australia could hate her right back, but everyone would be so polite about it she would never even notice.
You see, Australians are seriously polite people. I spent a month traveling around with my family, and in all of my conversations with Aussies, I was never able to get anyone to assert that they hated anything. Really. Not even Americans.
My perception was that Australians were a loud and boastful people who couldn’t wait to voice their opinion about any topic. In fact, I was a little afraid that I would spend much of the month defending Americans and discussing our country’s foreign policy. I envisioned café conversations where I would have to explain that, not being a close personal friend of our president, I don’t have much in the way of influence over him, other than to cast my vote every 4 years, which they seem to ignore anyway.
But I found the Aussies to be quite the opposite of that crass, rough stereo-type. They were witty and refined. In fact, I never heard a naughty word – not even in a bar! Granted their naughty words are different from ours, but I even found that to be rather charming. Bugger? Bloody? Please. I’ll take those any day over most pop music lyrics in the US. Don’t get me wrong, they were not particularly demure, but they gave their opinions in an amiable, if somewhat confusing way.
“Yanks? Quite lovely aren’t they?”
“Yes, rather a bright bunch really ”
“Indeed! Friendly, charming.”
“They’ll be the end of us all then – won’t they?”
What? This was BRILLIANT! They took you off-guard with the complimentary dialogue, got you nodding along in pleasant agreement, and then WHAM! That last line – what they really thought – and you smiling, nodding like a complete dolt. I loved it!
Then I got to thinking. What if they were just doing this for me? What if this was some careful way they had of handling Americans – or any foreigners for that matter. So, I began to listen more closely. I overheard lunch conversations at nearby tables.
“Well wasn’t that a gorgeous steak?”
“Yes, just brilliant”
“Really very well done and nicely trimmed”
“Yes enjoyably prepared wasn’t it?”
“Bit rancid really.”
I eavesdropped on dinner conversations.
“Did you notice the waitress?
“Yes just lovely wasn’t she?”
“Indeed! So thoughtful and attentive...”
“Quite brilliant, a spot-on charmer...”
“Dressed a bit of a tramp”
And I listened in on friendly neighborhood chats.
“The new neighborhood is quite charming isn’t it?”
“Too right – it’s a beaut.”
“Splendidly close to the harbor.”
“Yes, quite convenient.”
“Bit chockers with thugs and rapists really”
And WHAM! Just like that. I fell in love. I fell in love with Australians and their country, their charming phrases and koalas and platypus’. I fell in love with this island continent and I was determined that miss “I hate islands” sister-in-law would love it as well.
Truly though, I’m being too hard on her. She is a very bright woman…well accomplished… speaks 3 languages…lives quite an exciting life in Switzerland.
Bit of a loon really.
“Come again?” I replied. “You hate islands? Really. And how do you feel about peninsulas? Might you detest a sound? Abhor a Strait? Loathe a bight? Well that’s it! It’ll have to be an isthmus – an isthmus for Christmas!”
.
She was not amused – but mostly because I don’t know what an isthmus actually is, and she didn’t think that I should be using words of which I don’t know the meaning. I assured her that would eliminate most of my vocabulary and that so long as it’s funny, I don’t really have to understand a word I say, thank you very kindly.
All of this got me thinking about islands in general and Australia in particular, because it is both an island and continent. So maybe she wouldn’t be able to hate Australia. And, if she did, Australia could hate her right back, but everyone would be so polite about it she would never even notice.
You see, Australians are seriously polite people. I spent a month traveling around with my family, and in all of my conversations with Aussies, I was never able to get anyone to assert that they hated anything. Really. Not even Americans.
My perception was that Australians were a loud and boastful people who couldn’t wait to voice their opinion about any topic. In fact, I was a little afraid that I would spend much of the month defending Americans and discussing our country’s foreign policy. I envisioned café conversations where I would have to explain that, not being a close personal friend of our president, I don’t have much in the way of influence over him, other than to cast my vote every 4 years, which they seem to ignore anyway.
But I found the Aussies to be quite the opposite of that crass, rough stereo-type. They were witty and refined. In fact, I never heard a naughty word – not even in a bar! Granted their naughty words are different from ours, but I even found that to be rather charming. Bugger? Bloody? Please. I’ll take those any day over most pop music lyrics in the US. Don’t get me wrong, they were not particularly demure, but they gave their opinions in an amiable, if somewhat confusing way.
“Yanks? Quite lovely aren’t they?”
“Yes, rather a bright bunch really ”
“Indeed! Friendly, charming.”
“They’ll be the end of us all then – won’t they?”
What? This was BRILLIANT! They took you off-guard with the complimentary dialogue, got you nodding along in pleasant agreement, and then WHAM! That last line – what they really thought – and you smiling, nodding like a complete dolt. I loved it!
Then I got to thinking. What if they were just doing this for me? What if this was some careful way they had of handling Americans – or any foreigners for that matter. So, I began to listen more closely. I overheard lunch conversations at nearby tables.
“Well wasn’t that a gorgeous steak?”
“Yes, just brilliant”
“Really very well done and nicely trimmed”
“Yes enjoyably prepared wasn’t it?”
“Bit rancid really.”
I eavesdropped on dinner conversations.
“Did you notice the waitress?
“Yes just lovely wasn’t she?”
“Indeed! So thoughtful and attentive...”
“Quite brilliant, a spot-on charmer...”
“Dressed a bit of a tramp”
And I listened in on friendly neighborhood chats.
“The new neighborhood is quite charming isn’t it?”
“Too right – it’s a beaut.”
“Splendidly close to the harbor.”
“Yes, quite convenient.”
“Bit chockers with thugs and rapists really”
And WHAM! Just like that. I fell in love. I fell in love with Australians and their country, their charming phrases and koalas and platypus’. I fell in love with this island continent and I was determined that miss “I hate islands” sister-in-law would love it as well.
Truly though, I’m being too hard on her. She is a very bright woman…well accomplished… speaks 3 languages…lives quite an exciting life in Switzerland.
Bit of a loon really.
December 6, 2006
Skimming My Way Through The Black Hole Drop
jules@julesnolan.com
“Just sit back, put your feet in front of you and all of your weight on your backside”. Those were my instructions. Now, this not a position with which I am unfamiliar. Rico, our well-muscled, handsome guide was essentially telling me to sit down, kick back and relax. Funny how this time those words made every nerve in my body scream “No! Stop! Fake a stroke!”
I was deep in the mainland jungles of Belize, trussed up in a jumble of rappelling equipment. The harness, a series of 4 inch wide straps, was pulled tightly across my stomach, the tops of my legs and mid thigh. This is not a flattering look for a 40ish woman, ample of rump and portly of thigh. I looked like a pink, sweaty pork roast.
Precariously hovering on the edge of a cliff, I began to weigh my options: Temporary, fear induced paralysis? Sudden onset coma? How might I get out of having to do this? I began to tremble impressively and my once-steady breathing deteriorated into short staccato gasps. “Just relax.” Rico was saying. “You’ll be fine.” And then I did it. I took the first few shuffles backwards off a cliff into a 300ft. deep sinkhole called The Black Hole Drop.
“Why?” You might ask. Do I do this for the adrenaline? Do I do this for the adventure? No. Mostly, I do this because when it comes to reading brochures, information packets and instructions, I’m a shameless skimmer.
“It’s called the Black Something Cave I think.” My husband offered absently. “It’s a hike through the jungle and then a rappel down some rock or something – sounds fun. Here’s the brochure.” And the photos were lovely. Fresh-looking, twenty something hikers marveled as they gazed up hundreds of feet at the jungle flora. They looked as if they were thinking “I can’t believe my good fortune at being in this magical place with such outrageously attractive, freshly showered companions!”
And true to the photos, we did gaze up and marvel at the wonders of the Belizean jungle – for about the first 15 minutes. The remaining hour of the “hike” was more like something out of Survivor. You see, in order to rappel down 300 feet, you must first climb up 300 feet.
I also was not aware that I would be sporting a backpack which held 8 lbs of rappelling equipment and 3 liters of water. The temperature in the jungle was somewhere near “caution – steam room – avoid if prone to fainting” and this hike quickly turned into a climb on hands and knees, over slippery boulders. This was patently outside of my physical endurance ability, and I began to whine. “How much longer? Are we almost there? What stinks? Oh….never mind…it’s me.”
Occasionally, when I was unable to reach the next foot hold, our guide would helpfully boost me. “Here, let me help” he’d offer, and then hoist my bottom end with his shoulder – causing him to emit a low pained-sounding “Oooofff”. This was not pictured in the brochure! My pride was completely gone.
We stopped to rest every once in awhile and Rico would tell us about the jungle. Mostly, he told about all of the things that could kill, maim, or otherwise make you rather cranky. There are 6 varieties of wild cats, including the jaguar, ocelot and puma that would, I imagine, be happy to eat your face. There are 2 types of deadly snakes, the coral snake and the fer-de-lance. While an encounter with either would ruin your day, the fer-de-lance is the deadliest reptile in Central and South America, and is responsible for more deaths than any other reptile in all of the Americas.
There are scorpions, tarantulas, fire ants, and bees that could inadvertently be stepped on or grasped while searching for a hand hold, and there is a type of bamboo thorn so sharp that it can shred right through the sole of your hiking boot into the tender flesh of your instep. Think it’s hard to hike through the jungle? Try crawling on your knees as gangrene sets in on your thorn-speared foot. Again, not pictured in the brochure.
But that’s not all! There are at least 9 types of plants that can equally interfere with your happiness. Oleander, Poisonwood, Give and Take, Basket Tie Tie, and Dumbcane trees can cause symptoms including dizziness, swelling, convulsions, vomiting, suffocation, and death. Really. “So you’re telling me that even if I could deftly escape the advances of a venomous fer-de-lance snake by quickly climbing a tree, I could be done in by the tree’s sap? That first my hands, lips, and forearms would inflate to Popeye-like dimensions and then I would suffer fits of dizziness, vomiting, convulsions and eventually suffocate? Really – from tree sap?” Rico nodded. Well then.
Part of me suspected that Rico shared these details to keep us motivated to push forward despite being exhausted. Nobody wanted to linger seated on a tree stump with that kind of information swirling around in their head. And, I suspect he was trying to prepare us for the most terrifying moment of all – blindly walking backwards off of a 300 foot cliff.
We had finally reached our destination. The vistas were stunning. As far as I could see was lush, untouched rainforest with mist rising from the ground. I looked down at the canopy of the trees and the imagined the jungle floor 300 feet below. Then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to rappel down this cliff. Sure, I could get out of the jungle the way I came in…on foot.
Just then I felt a slight brushing along my right side and heard a plop by my feet. I looked down as a huge, black scorpion scurried away under some leaves. Giant scorpions falling from the sky? I think I’ll go first.
And as I took those first terrifying steps backward off the cliff I looked, wide eyed, at my husband of 20 years. “Honey” I asked. “Did you read the brochure?”
For more about this or any of my adventures, please see my website at www.julesnolan.com
“Just sit back, put your feet in front of you and all of your weight on your backside”. Those were my instructions. Now, this not a position with which I am unfamiliar. Rico, our well-muscled, handsome guide was essentially telling me to sit down, kick back and relax. Funny how this time those words made every nerve in my body scream “No! Stop! Fake a stroke!”
I was deep in the mainland jungles of Belize, trussed up in a jumble of rappelling equipment. The harness, a series of 4 inch wide straps, was pulled tightly across my stomach, the tops of my legs and mid thigh. This is not a flattering look for a 40ish woman, ample of rump and portly of thigh. I looked like a pink, sweaty pork roast.
Precariously hovering on the edge of a cliff, I began to weigh my options: Temporary, fear induced paralysis? Sudden onset coma? How might I get out of having to do this? I began to tremble impressively and my once-steady breathing deteriorated into short staccato gasps. “Just relax.” Rico was saying. “You’ll be fine.” And then I did it. I took the first few shuffles backwards off a cliff into a 300ft. deep sinkhole called The Black Hole Drop.
“Why?” You might ask. Do I do this for the adrenaline? Do I do this for the adventure? No. Mostly, I do this because when it comes to reading brochures, information packets and instructions, I’m a shameless skimmer.
“It’s called the Black Something Cave I think.” My husband offered absently. “It’s a hike through the jungle and then a rappel down some rock or something – sounds fun. Here’s the brochure.” And the photos were lovely. Fresh-looking, twenty something hikers marveled as they gazed up hundreds of feet at the jungle flora. They looked as if they were thinking “I can’t believe my good fortune at being in this magical place with such outrageously attractive, freshly showered companions!”
And true to the photos, we did gaze up and marvel at the wonders of the Belizean jungle – for about the first 15 minutes. The remaining hour of the “hike” was more like something out of Survivor. You see, in order to rappel down 300 feet, you must first climb up 300 feet.
I also was not aware that I would be sporting a backpack which held 8 lbs of rappelling equipment and 3 liters of water. The temperature in the jungle was somewhere near “caution – steam room – avoid if prone to fainting” and this hike quickly turned into a climb on hands and knees, over slippery boulders. This was patently outside of my physical endurance ability, and I began to whine. “How much longer? Are we almost there? What stinks? Oh….never mind…it’s me.”
Occasionally, when I was unable to reach the next foot hold, our guide would helpfully boost me. “Here, let me help” he’d offer, and then hoist my bottom end with his shoulder – causing him to emit a low pained-sounding “Oooofff”. This was not pictured in the brochure! My pride was completely gone.
We stopped to rest every once in awhile and Rico would tell us about the jungle. Mostly, he told about all of the things that could kill, maim, or otherwise make you rather cranky. There are 6 varieties of wild cats, including the jaguar, ocelot and puma that would, I imagine, be happy to eat your face. There are 2 types of deadly snakes, the coral snake and the fer-de-lance. While an encounter with either would ruin your day, the fer-de-lance is the deadliest reptile in Central and South America, and is responsible for more deaths than any other reptile in all of the Americas.
There are scorpions, tarantulas, fire ants, and bees that could inadvertently be stepped on or grasped while searching for a hand hold, and there is a type of bamboo thorn so sharp that it can shred right through the sole of your hiking boot into the tender flesh of your instep. Think it’s hard to hike through the jungle? Try crawling on your knees as gangrene sets in on your thorn-speared foot. Again, not pictured in the brochure.
But that’s not all! There are at least 9 types of plants that can equally interfere with your happiness. Oleander, Poisonwood, Give and Take, Basket Tie Tie, and Dumbcane trees can cause symptoms including dizziness, swelling, convulsions, vomiting, suffocation, and death. Really. “So you’re telling me that even if I could deftly escape the advances of a venomous fer-de-lance snake by quickly climbing a tree, I could be done in by the tree’s sap? That first my hands, lips, and forearms would inflate to Popeye-like dimensions and then I would suffer fits of dizziness, vomiting, convulsions and eventually suffocate? Really – from tree sap?” Rico nodded. Well then.
Part of me suspected that Rico shared these details to keep us motivated to push forward despite being exhausted. Nobody wanted to linger seated on a tree stump with that kind of information swirling around in their head. And, I suspect he was trying to prepare us for the most terrifying moment of all – blindly walking backwards off of a 300 foot cliff.
We had finally reached our destination. The vistas were stunning. As far as I could see was lush, untouched rainforest with mist rising from the ground. I looked down at the canopy of the trees and the imagined the jungle floor 300 feet below. Then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to rappel down this cliff. Sure, I could get out of the jungle the way I came in…on foot.
Just then I felt a slight brushing along my right side and heard a plop by my feet. I looked down as a huge, black scorpion scurried away under some leaves. Giant scorpions falling from the sky? I think I’ll go first.
And as I took those first terrifying steps backward off the cliff I looked, wide eyed, at my husband of 20 years. “Honey” I asked. “Did you read the brochure?”
For more about this or any of my adventures, please see my website at www.julesnolan.com
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