I Am Arrived in Bath - Day Two

Almost there!

I arrived in Bath, bleary-eyed after the long flight from Vancouver and additional three hour bus ride from Heathrow.  I slept most of the bus ride dozing but each time I woke, I almost had to pinch myself to believe I was actually in England.  The bus made its way southwest from Heathrow through Reading, stopping in Cirencester and Chippingham but always returning to rolling hills, low hedgerows and the occasional country village and, finally, swooping down Bathwick Hill into Bath.

There is something about Bath.  Something beautiful and refined.  I gloried in it as I strolled down Pierrepont Street and across the Pulteney Bridge.  Despite the cars, buses and lorries careening down the narrow streets, there is a feeling of Georgian elegance that permeates everything.  It is a beautiful city, with a warren of streets of warm, golden-stoned buildings.  My hotel, the Kennard, was located in the middle of such a street off Laura Place (where Lady Dalrymple and the Honorable Miss Carteret of Persuasion stayed).

The first night in a trip like this is always best spent acclimatizing yourself to the time.  I like to take a stroll, find some food and generally just keep moving before I crash into a jet-lagged coma.  It's also a great way to get the general feel for an area as well.  As the city quieted down, I meandered side streets and squares and ended my early evening with that most English of customs, tea.  My first tea was a light Darjeeling with a Sally Lunn bun and homemade ginger butter.  The bun was toasted and similar in taste to brioche or shokupan; it was the ginger butter that made it fabulous.  Ginger butter is now on my list of things I want to keep in my life.


On my way back to the hotel, I passed a little staircase leading under a building.  Though still early in the evening, the sun had completely set and it was dark.  Still, I wanted to explore and I was determined on this trip to explore everything that interested and intrigued me.  So, despite the creepiness or maybe because of it, down the staircase I went and discovered a riverside walk that gave me a unique view of the Pulteney Bridge.

Guildhall and Pulteney Bridge from across the Avon.

Hidden byways can lead to magic places.

Once back at my hotel, I enjoyed another English custom via the telly...

Eastenders.

In Transit - Day One

Library Square, Vancouver, BC

Portland to England by way of Vancouver, BC.  I don't make it easy on myself but that was the cheapest flight option when I booked my flights back in February.  I didn't mind; I like Vancouver.  I even chose the longer layover so I could leave the airport and roam a bit.  I thought to go to the Capilano Suspension Bridge for the day.  And, as an added benefit, spending the day roaming Vancouver meant that I might just be able to sleep on the plane.  I love flying but I have to be dead tired to sleep on a plane.

I did actually sleep on the plane a bit; I had stayed up rather late... ok, I'll admit it, I never went to bed that night.  I was trying to finish items that I wanted to take with me, namely a winter coat (it's still draped on my dress form, lining-less) and my Londinium sweater.  I was done knitting Londinium, it just needed to be blocked and buttons sewn on.

Actually, I tried blocking it Saturday night but it was still damp over 24 hours later.  It was taking forever.  I finally unpinned it and tossed it in the dryer (I know, I know, I can hear your gasps from here) on air only, no heat; I had briefly entertained thoughts of putting it in the oven but after the Yarn Harlot's trials with that method (part of her sweater got singed), I was not about to risk it.  Well, the sweater felted a bit in the dryer and shrunk a little but I rescued it before it got too bad.  Unfortunately, it was still damp so I took the unfinished coat off of the dress form and draped the sweater on the dress form and ran for my hair dryer.

I then got a case of the giggles as I stood there, bleary-eyed, "hair-drying" my sweater.  It was was just before my giggles graduated from giggles to full-on maniacal, sleep-deprived laughter, that my cab arrived.  I grabbed my suitcase, my carry-on, the drier but still damp sweater and my "Burberry" raincoat and ran out the door. (Aside: my "Burberry" raincoat is a coat of my design using Burberry material obtained at my last job at the fabric store.  I also have an "Armani" skirt and my new winter coat is a "DKNY" coat.)

The flight from Portland to Vancouver is brief.  You barely have time to get settled in and the "fasten seat-belt" sign is on again.  If you sleep on the plane, the time goes even faster.  I watched the lights of Vancouver, WA as we took off, looked away for a second (fell asleep), and there we were descending into Vancouver, BC.

Because I was leaving the airport, I had to go through immigration in Vancouver.  The immigration official peppered me with questions.  How long would I be in Canada? (One day.) What was I doing in Canada? (In transit, on vacation.)  Where was I flying from? (Portland, OR.)  Where was my final destination? (London.) Why was I flying through Canada? (Air Canada had the cheapest flights).  What did I do in Portland? (I worked for a financial company.) Doing what?

At this point, I was getting a little fed up.  I've traveled many times, to many places and I've never gotten the grilling he was giving me, even in Manila which had the strictest security I had ever seen.  He finally let me through but I couldn't figure out why I had gotten to play 20 Questions with Immigration.  It was only after talking it over with my brother later that I realized, my itinerary, which had seemed the epitome of common sense to me, was actually a red flag to immigration officials leery of possible drug smuggling.  What I saw as a great chance to spend a day exploring a lovely city, he saw as a chance to drop off illicit substances while "in transit."

All I had to do was go from the "i" to the 3.

Guess I'm not as innocent looking as I thought.  And my run in with immigration was just the beginning.

You see, my day in Vancouver didn't go as planned.  It took me a while to get my train ticket and batteries for my camera (I think I walked the length of the concourse at least five times) and ride the train downtown.  Once downtown, I set off in search of Canada Place (# 3 on the map to the right) so I could ride the shuttle to Capilano.  Silly me, though, I did not consult the map when I got off the train and I walked in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go.  Even my many stops at Starbucks (there was, literally, one on every block) to use the free WiFi could not put me straight.  Nor could I figure out Vancouver's bus system.   I walked by Library Square (#7) a lot (see photo above).  After wandering the downtown core for an hour or so, I admitted defeat, gave up my title of Queen of Public Transit, declared it an almost tapioca day and went to lunch.

Chicken with sauteed gnocchi and pancetta with lemon sage sauce.

I then had a very stern talk with myself, determined that I would find the good in the day.  Nothing terrible happened, just some minor inconveniences.  I was on my way to London.  I didn't go to Capilano but I got to know downtown Vancouver better.  Got to go to a nice bookstore (and missed most of the quick torrential rain while in said bookstore), had an excellent lunch.  The prosecco cocktail helped improve my mood as well.  Also the following entry from my journal:

"Trippy moment, sitting in an Italian cafe in Vancouver and hearing Kiyoshi kono yoru (Silent Night in Japanese).  I love traveling."

And, it's true.  I love traveling, even when things don't go just right, I love traveling. But I did learn my lesson.  If you want to wander, by all means wander.  If you want to go somewhere specific, check the map before you get lost.  It will go a lot easier on you.

A Musician in December...

... has limited time.  A musician in December who also knits has even less time.  And if the musician's family is coming to visit over Christmas, well, time is just nonexistent.

In other words, I have been unable post anything since my wonderful trip to London, which I am dying to tell you all about, but, as stated above, I have no time.  Please be patient just a little while longer.

Talk to you soon.

My Year of YES! Part Two or How I Decided to Be a Solo Traveler

I've always loved to travel.  Every bit of it, even sitting in an airport, fills me with delight.  I love going new places, experiencing new cultures.  I love the romance of it all.  But, I've always traveled in the company of others.

I grew up traveling with my family.  We flew back and forth across the Pacific.  When in the States, we would embark on long cross-country road-trips to visit family and "see" our passport country, stopping at museums, national parks and presidential libraries all along the way.  I sometimes think I've visited more of the U.S. than most people my age.

I didn't do much traveling during college other than going home to Japan.  One of my few regrets from college is not taking advantage of the overseas trips my college offered.  I could have studied in Paris or London.  I could have visited Australia or China.  Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Of course, with a travel companion, photos like this happen.

Several years ago, I decided I wanted to go to Italy.  It seemed like a wonderful introduction to Europe and a great place to start my travels.  A friend agreed to go with me and really helped propel me from wishing I could to actually buying airplane tickets.  We had the best time, tossing coins in the Trevi in Rome, climbing the Duomo in Florence, wandering the alleys of Venice.  I came back with a greater appreciation for food and art and all things Italian.  I loved every minute of it.

It's easeier to travel with someone.  Generally, it's cheaper as well since you can often split room and board.  A good travel companion is a blessing, someone to share experiences with, split some costs and, I think most importantly, someone to reminince with.  "Remember when we went to the opera in Rome?"  "Remember the glass-blower on Murano chastising us about buying Chinese glass?"  "Remember asking the Japanese tourists, in Japanese, to take our photo in front of the Rialto Bridge?"  (By the way, the looks on their faces were priceless!)  "Remember watching Italy's first game in the World Cup at the Walk-a-bout Pub?"  "Remember when..."

My family has a bunch of those "remember whens" as well.  Interupting the morning poker game at a diner in Arthur, NE.  Eating cheetos with chopsticks in front of Eisenhower's presidential library.  Flying olives, swearing chefs, battered fish, a choral director dressed like a bat... all of these are enough to send my family into hysterics, remembering. 

I've had so much fun traveling with someone.  Also, as a single female, I was hesitant to travel alone.  Safety in numbers after all.  But, as I've gotten older, my friends have gotten married, settled down, had kids.  It's harder for them to save money for a grand adventure across the pond.  It's harder to find the time.  I kept thinking, I'll go somewhere soon, when I find someone to travel with.

Last fall, I finally realized, if I keep waiting for a travel companion, I'd be waiting a long while.  I want my life to be full of travel and experiences.  If I want to keep traveling, I have to go alone.  So, last fall, as I started mentally preparing for my 30th birthday, I decided.  Yes, I was going to continue traveling.  Yes, I was going to go somewhere special for my birthday.

 Yes, I will be a solo traveler.

I leave for London on Monday.

A Decision is Made

For several weeks now, I've been weighed down by a dilemma.  Something that I started with such joy several years ago is now a burden. Something that I used to look forward to each week with excitement I've now started to view with dread.  I wasn't sure what to do.  Do I quit?  Do I stay?  Do I muddle through, getting progressively more depressed and anxious about it or do I cut my losses, say "It's been fun," and leave?

Don't worry, it's not my job.  I'm still very happy there.

I thought, maybe I'm just going through a dull patch and things will get better.  I thought, I just need to gaman and it will be fine.  I thought, if I can just get through these next few weeks, I'll start enjoying it once again and I'll start looking forward to the next week.  Unfortunately, this has not been the case and as of last week, I made a tentative decision to quit the activity.  Still, that decision weighed on me. 

Was it the right decision?  I worried that I could lose friends over this decision.  Was it the wrong decision?  I worried that I would lose a part of me if I stayed.  I waffled back and forth.  Were my friends worth my peace of mind?  I was tying myself in knots.  My shoulders were so tight, I felt like I was stuck in a permanent slump.

Then, earlier this week, I recieved what I am taking to be a sign.  An email that, in its very tone and subject, highlighted, with a flourescent marker, a good portion of what I felt to be amiss with the activity and some of those involved.  I felt it showed a lack of trust and respect towards me.  The email seemed condescending.  It angered me. 

I wanted to respond in kind and let the sender know exactly what I felt.  A part of me wanted to quit right then and there.

I wanted to ignore it and pretend it hadn't been sent.  A part of me thought, surely the sender didn't realize how the email sounded.

The stress I'd been feeling manifested itself as a tension headache like I've never had before, lasting a day and a half.  The slightest thing made me want to cry.  I couldn't focus on work.

All this for something that used to be fun.  

When your body starts to react physically to stress, something has to give.  When the rest of your life is being affected by stress, it is time to eliminate the stressor.  So, I'll finish out my obligation, I don't want to burn any bridges.

But, I've made up my mind.  It's not worth it, not any more.  I am at peace with that.

And, the headache is gone.

The Stephanie Socks

I'm a fairly accomplished knitter.  Some might say I'm an expert knitter.  I've yet to find a pattern that completely defeats me.  I do not often have knitting attacks, where things go hopelessly wrong through no fault of my own (it's the yarn's fault, you know it is).  So, it came as something of a surprise to find that the sock I was knitting was not knitting as a sock should.

Sock #1 looks beautiful, no?

I was knitting the Route 66 design by Stephanie van der Linden, a very nice geometric design, inspired by American quilt blocks.  The first sock went swimmingly.  The colors were working, the pattern was knitting up quickly.  I even learned how to knit Continental so that I could have one color in each hand.

So, first sock down.  The hardest part is starting the second, right?  Second Sock Syndrome can be a very serious thing.  Nope, no problem there.  Started the second right away, it was going swimmingly, too.  Except I kept knitting the colors in the wrong order which made for quite a bit of tinking.  And, then I got to the heel flap.

I read the directions, I shifted stitches from needle to needle and started knitting the flap.  About ten rows in (about half the flap), I realized the pattern wasn't quite lining up.  I knit a couple more rows thinking, "I can live with that."

No, I couldn't live with that.  The flap got frogged, the directions got reread, I shifted a few more stitches from needle to needle and started knitting again.  I got all the way to the end of the flap that time and started turning the heel only to discover there weren't enough stitches in the heel flap.  I was supposed to have 36 stitches and instead I had 32.  I counted and recounted feverishly.  I scanned the heel flap for dropped stitches even though 4 seemed like an unlikely amount of dropped stitches (if I had dropped those stitches, I would have thought that I would have noticed them earlier; that's almost half an inch of stitches).  No such luck.  The flap got frogged... again.

Reread the directions, decided they weren't helping me this time and shifted some more stitches so that I was at least starting with the right number of stitches.  I felt like I was back in control.  The pattern was lining up, the heel was turned, I started liking the socks again.  As a reward for good behavior, I took the socks with me to Powells to meet the Yarn Harlot, who was in Portland promoting her latest book.

Can I just say, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee aka the Yarn Harlot is hilarious? And awesome?  If you're a knitter, you probably already knew that but it bears repeating.  She is awesome.  Portland was her last stop on her 10-day book tour and I know she was exhausted.  You could hear it in her voice.  Even so, she was wonderfully witty and gracious with everyone who stood in line to get their books signed.  She even willing posed for a picture with me and my socks.  These socks so owe me for that.

And, the socks finally got a name out of it.  Because they were designed by a Stephanie and photographed with a Stephanie, I'm calling them my Stephanie Socks.

So all was right in my knitting world, I met the Yarn Harlot, the socks were swimming again.  What could possibly go wrong?



So close and yet so far...



I ran out of yarn.  (whimper)

And my LYS is out of it and not expecting anymore until December.  (sniff)

After my trip to London, for which I was knitting these socks.  (grumble)

Did I just see a error in the cuff?  (sigh)

(bigger sigh)


Put the sock down and step away from the knitting. 

In Which Our Heroine Completes the Portland Marathon

Two weeks ago today, I set out to do the craziest thing I've ever done.  I ran a marathon.  Me! the kid who hated running with a passion.

My first memory of running in anything was an event at my sister's school field day when I was about 3 or 4.  As a "fun" event, the organizers had younger brothers and sisters who weren't yet school age run in a race.  I vaguely remember being lined up at the starting line.  I can't remember if I went willingly or not but I do remember, when the "ready... set... go" order was given, I ran.  I ran straight to my dad, who was no where near the finish line.  In fact, I think he was in the opposite direction.

Two weeks ago, when that air horn blew, I ran.  This time, I was focused on that finish line.

I took the bus downtown, along with several other runners and walkers.  Got to my corral, waited in line for the port-a-potty and then in an even longer line for the clothes check.  The one thing I had forgotten to prep the day before was my bell music for rehearsal later in the day so, it came to the marathon with me and got checked with my jacket.

No sooner had I checked my folder and jacket, then it was time for my corral to move to the start.  A few minutes wait at the start and then the air horn blast that signaled our start.  A slow jog across the start and we were off.

Down 4th Ave we ran, across Burnside and under the gate to Chinatown.  A right onto Davis and past Portland Taiko, one of the many music groups along the way.  I was excited to see and hear them and they brought a smile to my face.  I could have listened to them all the way to the finish.  Hmmm, maybe I need to add some taiko to my running mix.

Followed Naito Parkway south and then jogged through Portland State to continue on Barbur.  This part of the course follows the same course that the Shamrock Run follows.  Amazing what seven months of training can do for you.  Last March, I walked a lot of the Shamrock, a run of about 4.5 miles.  Two weeks ago, I was feeling strong, like I could run all day.

Spectators were everywhere.  A group of women ran in place in slow-motion, getting a wheezy laugh from most of the marathoners.  Signs cheered us all on.  "Dear perfect stranger, we are proud of you."  "99% can't do this.  You are the 1%."  Some would cheer us on by name, reading our names off our bibs.  It was wonderful, knowing so many were pulling for us, cheering, encouraging.  There was the guy with thundersticks who kept moving around multiple places.  The family cheering on Mindy (I was a little jealous of Mindy; I saw her cheering squad at least 5 different places).

I was able to keep a steady pace for the first two hours.  My plan of attack was to run at a fairly easy pace and walk through the water stations.  For those first two hours, I stayed at an easy 12 minute mile pace, right on target.  After the 10th mile, the course started wending its way up through Northwest Portland towards Hwy 30 and the St. Johns Bridge.  My stomach started to growl in hunger.  I started to slow a little but tried to keep my pace, leap frogging several people as they stopped to walk and then started running again.  Then came the hill going up to St. Johns Bridge.

Now, I'd been warned by several people that this was a hard hill.  It comes between mile 16 and 17; it's not particularly steep but it is long, especially after over three hours of running.  As I started my ascent, I thought I'd go as long as I could and then stop and walk.  However, as I started passing some people, ok, a lot of people, who were walking, I started thinking of the hill training I did for Hood to Coast.  I thought about running the Twin Peaks leg, watching the stars.  I thought about my Hood to Coast teammates who called me a beast.  I thought of how, when I got back in the van after completing that leg of Hood to Coast, I said, "I eat mountains like that for a late-night snack."  There was no way I was going to let myself stop after all that I had already accomplished so I kept running.

Right near the top, I nearly started to fade but I began to hear marimba music coming from the top of the hill.  It was enough to keep me going and then I was on the bridge.  I looked over my right shoulder towards downtown, just visible through the clearing mist, and I got chills.  I wish I could have taken a picture. 

Down, off the bridge, down a rather steep little hill and then up another street.  This hill, though shorter than the approach to St. Johns Bridge, felt a lot harder.  When I had crossed the bridge, I thought it was all downhill from there.  Boy, was I wrong.  Still, I refused to quit.

Past the University of Portland, past people sitting in their front yards watching the runners go by.  I saw a woman in front of her house with a giant bottle of ibuprofen, handing them to any one who wanted them.  By this time, my knees were definitely feeling the pain, but since I had not trained with ibuprofen during my runs, I was wary of taking any until I was finished.

Right before descending Greeley, I saw one of my co-workers who's wife was running the marathon.  I think she's probably a much faster runner than I am so I was touched that my co-worker would stay longer, just to cheer me on.  And I needed that encouragement because I was about to hit the wall.

You would think that running downhill would be easier.  Gravity is working with you and all that.  Ha!  The hardest part was running down Greeley.  At this point, my knees were screaming and my pace slowed to an over-17 minute mile.  By the time I got to the next flat stretch, it felt like I had no knee caps.   It was almost a relief to reach the flat of Interstate and the slight uphill approach to Broadway Bridge.

Coming off of the Broadway Bridge, I saw a friend that I hadn't seen in several months, walking with a friend.  After saying hi, he asked how I was feeling.  My response was "I'm not stopping, I'm not!"  Although I did walk through one more water station, when I got to the final water station, which was about a half mile from the finish, I refused to stop.  If I had stopped there, I'm not sure I would have started again.

When I turned onto Taylor, I started lengthening my stride and pushing my pace.  I was determined to finish well.  As a rower, I was trained to leave it all at the end, expend every last bit of energy in the final sprint.  Turning left onto 3rd, the finish was only about fifty feet away.  I dug deep and pushed hard and sprinted, passing a couple of people in the final seconds.  I heard them call my name, I crossed the finish line and I was done.

I was given my finisher's medal, a space blanket and I continued on to the food.  GU is no substitute for real food; it had staved off my hunger, kept me going but I was ready for food.  I took one of everything.  Cheese, yes.  Bagel, yes.  Chocolate, yes. Juice, yes.  And it tasted good.

I texted my sister and brother and a friend, "Finished!" and walked, slowly, to the gym to get ready for the rest of my day.

And, just like I caught the Hood to Coast bug, I'm now hooked on marathons.  I don't plan on running a marathon every year but maybe every other year.  I think after doing the Portland Marathon again, I'd like to run the Tokyo Marathon.  Who knows where I'll run next?