Death Valley is a taboo subject at our house, but some have asked what happened to that trip, so here goes.

As you may recall, Dale had been wanting to go in the dead of summer, while I wanted to go in the winter, when normal people visit. I finally caved and said, fine, we’ll go in the summer. We were scheduled to go smack dab in the middle of July. Plenty hot, one would assume.

But I had second thoughts. I mean, we’re not as heat resistant as we used to be. I had a million other reasons for not going, but Dale was excited. I’m not sure he ever understood death was not just a name but an option.

To help me plead my case, I found a video of a couple touring Death Valley in the summer with their two children. It was about 20 minutes long, and not the finest cinema out there, but it told a story.

Basically, they drove from one site to the next, got out of the car and then got back in before they died from exposure, never actually seeing the sites as they were meant to be experienced.
I made Dale watch the video, and he said it was 20 minutes of his life he’ll never get back. However, he also said it didn’t sound like fun to drive around all day after driving eight hours just to get there, especially when it was more of a whim than anything else.

A whim was it? We agreed to cancel.

On the day we would have arrived in Death Valley, the temperature was 129 degrees Fahrenheit. I let out a big sigh of relief and said something to the effect of thank the Great Planner we didn’t go. I figured Dale would nod in agreement. Instead, he looked at me with disgust and said, “We could have been there.”

And that is why we don’t speak of Death Valley anymore. There will come a day when we will try again, but it is not this day.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

The pandemic of 2020 put a halt to our frequent family visits to India until 2023 when my husband and I ventured out to his family’s home in Kolkata. Emirates Airlines made it happen on the very same day that Southwest couldn’t. Masked and seated in an unusually roomy row, we felt good about things. It is a long journey and I can’t help but think about the not so distant future when a flight of this proportion may be just too much for an aging body. But not this flight. We arrived very late in the evening in Kolkata, met with perhaps the same chaos that Southwest passengers faced—only we were told there were no taxis! The driver we hired in advance informed us that his car broke down and he was busy fixing it. So we waited and fix it he did!

A very happy reunion ensued as my husband, myself and his 92 year old mother exchanged huge smiles and hugs all around. She has always been such an accepting and appreciative mother-in-law, even if I disappointed her by living on the other side of her world as a non-Indian, unfamiliar with the duties of a daughter-in-law — even more demanding than those of a daughter! Though she never shows it, I feel I may have let her down.

No sooner than when we got there, we were off to Chennai for my husband’s Sapphire Jubilee as a member of the batch of 1976 at IIT Madrass. An impressive turnout, as husbands and their wives committed to the three-day reunion, ready to party and sing! We enjoyed the adequate, even quaint, accommodations of the Taramani Guest House on campus where, for the next two days, we gathered over breakfast, lunch and dinner, birdwalks, lectures, and a tour of the impressive research center generously funded by the alumni. We were entertained by local musicians playing Hindi and Tamil soundtracks of the ‘70s on the roof top, accompanied by a glorious sunset, over dinner sharing a hearty display of single malt scotches that lined the bar.

The energetic party moved next day by non-airconditioned buses (this is southern India) to the exotic and lovely Raddison resort nestled in the sands of the Bay of Bengal, in Mahabalipuram. We continued our lively celebration of friendship through games, dinner, more drinks, and karaoke, with the beach as our backdrop as they sang along to the searing heart wrenching Bollywood love songs of their childhood!

Julie Gillern loves to travel now that she is retired from shaping the minds of her students.

BiPolar. That’s what they call people who have traveled to both the north and sound ends of the Earth. No surprise – you must be a bit manic to even think of going there.

It was the experience of a lifetime.

Antarctica spread before us, incredibly beautiful – a world of ice, penguins, and life. Our winter is their summer, so my husband and I left the snow at home and traveled to the snow at the bottom of the planet. We boarded the Lindblad/National Geographic expedition ship, Explorer.

No one lives in Antarctica. Instead of visiting towns, we hung out with the penguins, and watched whales and 1300-pound seals frolicking among the ice floes.

It was breathtaking.

I was never sure who was watching who!

We were smitten

A few years later we had to head north to the Arctic.

Once again, we traveled on the ice-breaking expedition ship, Explorer. We started in Iceland and followed the Viking route to Greenland. It was nothing like I expected.

Ironically, the names are mixed up. Iceland, which has more people, trees, and wild geological formations, is far greener than Greenland. Greenland is an autonomous country, covered by the second largest ice sheet in the world (the largest is in Antarctica). It’s about 80% ice, although that is quickly shrinking with climate change.

Greenland is Earth’s largest island with mostly barren, inhospitable land. Most people live outside the ice sheet, along the fjord-lined coast. Today about 56,000 people live in Greenland; Nuuk, the country’s capital, is the smallest in the world with 13,552 people.

Greenland is a mix of the old, the traditional, and the modern. There’s internet and television; motorcycles, cars, and trucks; and Viking ruins, small museums filled with very old artifacts, and reconstructions of the past.

The island is a magical place. Greenlanders are incredibly friendly. In ancient times they believed in spirits like Qivittoq who was exiled into nature. One of the most beloved spirits is the Mother of the Sea who watches over the animals. Today she’s a symbol of climate change and keeping the oceans clean.

We returned home, proud BiPolars, with a deeper understanding of our planet.

Then Covid grounded us.

We’re still determined to see all seven continents. We’re also committed to preserving the beauty of our fragile Earth. Climate change is real, the ice is melting, and seas are rising. It’s up to all of us to help Earth survive. Whether red or blue, support those working to protect the planet, stop climate change, and make sure that there will be more BiPolars like us.

Dr. Jeri Fink lives in Bellmore, NY

On our reentry into the post-pandemic world—few words come close to carrying the burden of pain and loss due to Covid 19—we chose an obvious destination, Vermont.  With a 70% rate of its people vaccinated—now 80–and some of the lowest numbers of cases and deaths reported from the Johns Hopkins map, we were drawn to this state throughout 2020. That map served up painful reminders with our morning coffee as we watched a nation suffer. But off to Vermont with iconic red barn sides embedded into lush green hills—at every turn an Instagram opp, and so much more. This was the time when double-vaxxed boomers (I wanted the bumper sticker) could re-claim safe travel: two weeks into the exotic landscapes and industrious lives of the people of Vermont—both rejuvenated.

Mapping the route included a stop to visit my sister and husband to a tiny town outside of Albany for a sweet reunion after 15 months of zoom, facetime, group chats, and phone calls. The weather forced us to pull out our down jackets first night, a great start. My New Yorker brother-in-law thoughtfully routed us upstate to the ferry that would carry us across the majestic Lake Chaplain from the quaint (so it begins) town of Essex. The day carried clear and crisp skies, lake, hills and us to parts almost uninhabited as we forgot DC and its emerging beltway.  Like the cicadas we left behind, we emerged.

The town of Vergennes reflected glossy calendars, allowing us to step onto Main Street, cross the powerful waters of the Vergennes Falls, and walk along its old mill path. We found a favorite eatery in 3 Squares Café, serving up some of Vermont’s iconic plates:  seasonal fruit, hearty homemade breads, clever soups, grains and greens, fresh eggs, local cheeses, smoothies, quantity and quality, all with a smile! Whoops, I forgot my mask, of which I was reminded more than once, despite the governor’s lifting of the mask mandate. So THIS is how they did it!

In Burlington I hoped for a Bernie sighting, who was, no doubt, tirelessly working for us all back home. I suggested to the curators at the Montpelier’s Vermont History Museum that they should already have a Bernie floor.  We learned about the industriousness of the Vermont people including the kingdom folk, and their wood piles demonstrated it. Prepared was two-winter’s worth at the ready. We found our shining example in the small town of Moretown when we drove across the bridge to Mary’s house, feeling the Mad River gorging below. A string of prayer flags straddled the river, an image that connected us to family in India, still so very far away. Mary thrived alone in her private dell protected by  multi-story high rock walls creating a sanctuary shrouded in shade with a screened-in bug box large enough to house her double bed. Mary raised three children just yards from the raging gorge, pointing out her motherly fears then. Mary’s home revealed resourcefulness with aplomb that rivaled the hamlets in the hills of India’s Himalayas, including an intimate yoga studio giving us access to our bed, bath and balcony!  Our stay enhanced our appreciation for Vermont with great respect for the people who get things done. She embodied this by tending her garden, searching for her cat, stacking more wood, planting flowers in the shade, schooling us on composting, and coffee with a friend—all before heading off to Burlington’s hospital to care for the sick, as she has done throughout the pandemic and for the previous 42 years! In Mary and so many like her, we found the resilience, intelligence and persistence to ward off the deathly virus better than most throughout the country; after all, winter was coming!

Julia Gillern loves to travel now that she is retired from shaping the minds of her students.

 

 

 

Before knowledge of the deadly pandemic, I gave notice to retire as high school English teacher after 24 years in the classroom. Since the pandemic’s abrupt decision to end that role, I had three months of remote learning experience which helped to seal the deal. June came as I faced quarantine, retirement, limited summer vacation, and sidelined from the revolution I so wanted to join. I honored the quarantine, thankful that I could, knowing that I was entering a nofly summer. I acknowledged my retirement as the new school year approached, wrapped in its remoteness, without me, and ventured out on one last “summer vacation.”

In planning my trip, I noticed this one did not face a deadline, a return to work order, or an itinerary that demanded movement and money. This vacation and I, metamorphosized into an altogether unfamiliar vacationer and her beloved vacation. I did this in the exotic region of Assateague Island on Maryland’s eastern shores and a small enclave beautifully situated on Ayers Creek where things stopped.

The Airbnb upstairs quarters were adorned in expansive curtain free windows, skylights, and floor to ceiling glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking a sprawling lawn reaching out to Ayers Creek. Every morning greeted me with the rising sun. The place was purposeful, minimally dressed, nothing more needed than light. (On the sixth night, a full moon appeared in a ceiling port hole, drenching me in its beam). I was present to receive it. I awoke without an agenda, no itinerary, tour guide, or train to catch. No time to consider. I sat with the binoculars on the balcony, to watch two laughing gulls do just that! Coffee in hand, I was still.

The summer heat engulfed me, the rising sun a threat, the blanket of humidity oppressive. So I waited it out. By late afternoon, I joined a salt marsh paddle, slow and steady, a breeze brewed and carried us to the homes of many birds. In our slowness, we encountered eagles (perched on a branch above my head, sharing in my stillness). The “great blues” appeared at every turn, barely noticing us, others hesitantly, somewhat annoyed. The cormorant classically hanging its wings out to dry, so cool, stopped in all its glory, as natural as its flight. Our guide spotted every little tern, turtle, crab, and reed. Her specialty was finding eagles and their nests, from her winter watch for the Maryland Conservancy eagle count. I had nowhere to go.

Except to Assateague, which is a magical place at any time, but when sitting at its shore, with just two other families more than socially distanced, it is another world. I did not get on a plane to come here and entered with a lifetime senior pass.

A trio of Assateague ponies came prancing down the beach in a frenzy, whinnying and flirting with a welcoming pony from the opposite direction; they greeted in a circle dance, in front of my blanket under the moon. Their show was for me, I was sure of it. The full moon hung over us, as the sun parted. We followed it to the bay side finishing the night with the glorious display of a star just doing its job and loving it!! Taking the time to call it a day.

My time there was not squandered. Many vacations bring the pressure of itinerary and must sees in 36 hours. This one, with COVID as its parent, reminded me to walk slowly, step out of the way, and behind a mask, let my eyes do the work. I am the student now.

Julia Gillern is/was a high school English teacher who resides in College Park, MD.

 

In a sargassan depth, the selective memories of travel’s discomforts cease to bubble and quietly sink to the mud opening the mind to the pleasures of the new, the discoveries, the escape. Planning the excitements for a body in motion (the savannas of Florida once left safely behind) and seeing hills become mountains, regales with small thrills.

Trip plans will accommodate the serendipitous, leaving room for discovery (and the search for a good carrot cake.) What hints does the map produce? What confirmations does the super brain, Google, provide? Planning travel reveals a world of possibilities and delivers that carefree feeling of anticipation of things wonderful, like having a lottery ticket before the drawing.
Every state a kingdom with its own customs and I, Marco Polo, will attempt to bring back rare chilies from the west, traveling from grits to salsa to grits.

It all sounds like great fun but I’m afraid we must recover the selective memories of the discomforts of travel from the bottom of the Sargasso Sea.

Our skins will contract and shiver when confronted with non-Florida weather and demand a proper covering. We’ll pass through heavy rains where there was drought and fires where there were heavy rains searching longingly for the habitable provinces. Einstein would marvel at the warping of time while trying to cross Texas and the rearranging of molecules in the body trying to get accustomed to such a different diet.

Reconciling the pleasures with the discomforts, knowing that smiling for hoteliers and patiently watching them fumble with registration and not having the room key work at first and getting moved in and ready for lunch at 3PM and finding the restaurant closes at 2PM and, as in all hotels, finding Flamenco dancers practicing in the room above yours is just the sub motif of a wonderful vacation. Freeze that smile, it helps. Memorize the discomforts beforehand to eliminate the element of surprise and rob them of their weight. Admit the discomforts but keep the pleasures hypothetical. They will seem more profound when they appear. If you know your pleasures beforehand they will be diminished. Try foods you’ve never had before; take side trips (the road less traveled) from the main route. Often, memories are created once you get lost. You’ll be interacting with your journey!

Frank DiGangi is from Hawthorne, FL