Category Archives: Travel

Trip of a Lifetime – Australia and New Zealand: Part 5

Tuesday, April 5: Our group gathered in the hotel lobby for a visit to a predominately Maori school, Kaitao Middle School in Rotorua. Kaitao is a recipient of Grand Circle Travel donations. Roger again acted as our chief for purposes of introductions. A few selected students and staff welcomed each of us with the traditional Maori greeting. The Maoris greet a person by shaking right hands while placing the left hand on the person’s right shoulder and leaning forward touching foreheads to breathe in the person’s essence. The students sang a Maori song for us and we sang God Bless America for them. This school’s philosophy is to create a positive atmosphere for their students encouraging them to embrace their culture and to learn about others.

After a scenic drive to Auckland, we had a casual late lunch at Sal’s Authentic NY Pizza pizzeria. While there, a game on their TV attracted our attention. The NCAA Basketball Championship game between Villanova and North Carolina was in its final half. The game was so exciting that we didn’t want to leave. We ordered more pizza and cheered on whichever team we favored. The commotion we made prompted people walking past the small pizzeria to peek in. The teams were tied at 74 with less than a second to go. It looked like overtime would decide the winner. Suddenly the place inside and out erupted into loud cheers when Kris Jenkins’ three-pointer with four-tenths of a second remaining won the game for Villanova. Final score 77 to 74. What a great unexpected addition to our trip. We returned to the hotel and relaxed on our own for the rest of the day.

Wednesday, April 6: The first activity of the day for half the group was to sail on the Pride of the Sail in Auckland Harbour. The boat was operated by Brad at the helm and Brook as his assistant. What fun we each had taking our turn at the helm. Afterward, our half of the group exchanged places with the others and enjoyed a Harbour City Walk. An alternate option was a visit to the Maritime Museum.

The coach then took the entire group on a two-hour site seeing tour of Auckland. Our farewell dinner at the hotel was spectacular and delicious. A member of our group asked Roger to read aloud a prayer expressing her appreciation for the warm friendship of her fellow travelers and her wonderful experience on the trip. I couldn’t help but shed a few tears at her heartfelt words. Another member wrote a beautiful poem about our fun group and her great experience on the trip. We ended with hugs, kisses, and promises to try to keep in touch. This farewell dinner gave us a chance to say goodbye to those who were leaving this portion of the tour to return home while the rest of us continued for a few more days of travel.

Thursday, April 7: On our way to the Bay of Islands, we stopped at an impressive bird sanctuary run by a man and his wife. We learned about the kiwi, the national bird of New Zealand. Other birds also were housed there. In their one-room museum, we saw many pictures of birds, several stuffed birds, and pictures from visiting students illustrating what they learned at the sanctuary.

After our stop, we continued on the scenic ride to Copthorne Hotel and Resort in Paihia. Dinner at the hotel was followed by a relaxing evening where some of the remaining members of the tour group sat on the porch to socialize while overlooking the Bay of Islands.

Friday, April 8: At the wharf at Paihia, we boarded the Hole in the Rock Cruise boat. During the cruise, we saw about twenty playful bottlenose dolphins and other wildlife. The weather cooperated and we were able to cruise through the hole in the rock, a fascinating rock formation at the entrance to the Bay of Islands. On the return trip, Roger and some others climbed to the highest point on one of the islands from which they had a beautiful 360-degree panoramic view of the Bay of Islands. We stopped for lunch in the historical quaint town of Russell. We cruised back to the wharf, did a little site seeing, and later had an evening meal on our own.

Saturday, April 9: In the morning, our group took a guided tour of the Waitangi Treaty Grounds. That afternoon Roger and a friend played golf at the nearby course overlooking the Bay of Islands. Some people went to the waterfall, while the rest of us relaxed at the hotel.

Our dinner meal at the Only Seafood Restaurant on the stunning Paihia waterfront was delicious. Ronan and Roger ate green-lipped mussels in curry sauce. They were a sight to behold sucking the mussels from the shells and licking the dripping sauce from their fingers. The rest of us dined on less messy, but still tasty seafood.

Sunday, April 10: We loaded our packed bags on the coach for our return to Auckland. On the way, we stopped at the Glow Worms Cave for a tour. A few of us opted not to take that tour which included lots of descending stairs. We remained on the bus and socialized. Our next stop was the Jet Park Airport Hotel where we stayed in preparation for a 4:10 am departure the next morning. We had our dinner meal at the hotel and slept for a few hours.

Monday, April 11: Check-out time came much too early for this night owl. We took the shuttle bus to the airport. Ronan flew with us to Sydney, his hometown, and reminded us that we had to set our watches back two hours. Qantas served a satisfying hot breakfast on the flight to Sydney.

The crazy saga of our return home began when the Qantas flight was well over an hour late departing the Sydney Airport due to some mechanical problem. Not a very comforting announcement to hear. Roger said with that delay we might miss our Delta flight out of Los Angeles. After about 15 hours of flying, we arrived at the zoo, I mean, L. A. Airport, to retrieve our bags. We found numerous long lines at immigration. There were only two people handling the line we were in and one left for a break. Grrrr! Passengers in other lines who were behind us got through faster than we did.

Finally, another immigration agent arrived to process us. From immigration, we walked forever to the curbside Delta check-in. A couple of ladies in front of us gave the skycap a hard time about paying for their overweight luggage delaying us even more. Upon reaching the front of the check-in line, the skycap said that we were one minute too late to get checked in. The machine locked the skycap out. He hurried inside to find someone who could override the machine. This took another 10 minutes. Our plane was scheduled to depart at 9:20 am and it was already 8:45. His supervisor overrode the machine to check us in and gave us boarding passes.

Usually we go through the faster TSA line, however, our boarding passes didn’t indicate TSA pre-check. So we were directed to the regular, longer security line. Ugh. It was now 8:58. I did as the man at security suggested and politely asked to take cuts from people ahead of us who had later flights. They all said yes. This cut a couple of minutes off our time in the security line. Fortunately, my knee and hip replacements didn’t set off the machine. Yea!

It was about 9:09 when we finished. Roger grabbed his shoes and ran in sock feet to the gate a short distance from security. I can’t run, but I did a very fast walk to the gate with untied shoes. We arrived at the gate at 9:14. Luckily we were allowed to board only because they were still boarding a few other passengers. Apparently, that plane was also a little late. Thank goodness. I settled into my seat, exhausted, but grateful that we didn’t miss the Delta flight home.

The craziness of our flight out of Sydney and the delays at the LA Airport did not distract from our wonderful learning experience in Australia and New Zealand. I can’t thank my husband enough for adding this trip to my bucket list. We can’t wait for our next travel adventure.

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Overheard Conversations

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Livonia, MI

Have you ever just sat in a coffee shop and listened to conversations?

This can be done anywhere really: in a park, on a bus, at a college football game, a kids’ softball game, in a lunchroom, at your coworker next cubicle over.  Anywhere.  What does that say about them?

I’ve listened everywhere, partially because of boredom, partially out of curiosity.  Dad always enjoyed being in the Now, and that’s why I’ve always enjoyed people-watching and people-listening.

I’m sipping my Clover Reserve coffee, the West Java Preanger while it’s still available. What are people saying here, today?

What’s This Song?

A guy finishes humming and says, “Do you know what that’s from?” The woman with him is shaking her head.  “It’s from the movie the Officer and…the one with Richard Gere.”

ME:  It’s An Officer and a Gentleman, geez.  You don’t even know the title?  I didn’t hear that tune in it at all.  Maybe you should try harder.  Are you trying to impress this girl, like on a date, or is she a friend who tolerates you?  Does she know movies?  Does she care?  She just tapped some sugar into her coffee and walked away.  You, you’re dumping about…is that four or five packets of sugar…in your coffee?  You’re both staying here, and you have to-go cups?  Don’t you see my for-here mug beside you as I mix my Splenda and steamed 2% milk?  I’m saving a cardboard tree.  You’re drinking that coffee black.  Ugh.

A Guy and His Buddy

A guy walks in, shakes his buddy’s hand.  “Free car?” the guy says, a smile in his voice.  I don’t hear his buddy’s response, but the guy says to him, “You can get a car for a reasonable price of a truck.”

ME: Sounds like buddy’s in a world of trouble.  Is he poor?  Is he desperate?  Why does he want a truck, or is that something the guy wants?  I’m thinking pickup truck–I mean, what else is there?–but buddy’s got a jean jacket and a laptop.  He doesn’t look the truck type.  The other guy, he has that sauntering attitude around his beefy self.  I could see him wanting a truck but stuck driving daddy’s Caddy.  Or am I just thinking of my ex-boyfriend’s lawyer-to-be friend from those oh-so-many years ago?

About Bill

“I went to Bill’s class on Friday, and it wasn’t filled.”

ME:  Is he a college student?  Probably, since it’s around 1:30 pm.  That’s too early for high school to be out.  What does Bill teach, and why isn’t he filling up his classroom?  Does the girl he’s talking to know the class or Bill?  Is he not a popular teacher?  Could it be that the subject isn’t fun?  Does the class happen at an awkward time?  As a college student, I couldn’t handle morning classes.  The 9:00 am ones were tolerable, but the 8:00 am classes were too much, too early.  At least you’re there to support your friend.

What does this say about me and interpreting them?  Some of this stuff is so perfect that, as the cliché goes, I couldn’t write or make up this stuff.

I feel a little jealous.  I’m left out of the loop.  Something cool is going on, and I’m not a part of it.  Why am I not a part of it all?  Maybe that comes from being picked last for sports teams in grade school.

If I was curious before, I’m more curious now.  There’s the context behind the above comments, and I’d love to know more about them.

Listen.

Stories from the Grave

You drive by an intersection and take notice of a weathered and worn wooden cross poking up from the ground. Around it are faded silk flowers, some tattered stuffed animals, burnt candles, and remnants of hand-written notes that resisted being carried away by the wind. You know someone died in that spot and someone else has been grieving there.

During a vacation to Chile a couple years ago, I saw elaborate memorial structures placed alongside many of that beautiful country’s roads. The shoulders were sporadically adorned with what looked like tiny, dollhouse-sized churches. Some were wooden, but most were little concrete buildings built upon concrete foundations. Inside, there were framed photographs, crucifixes, printed prayers, figurines, and candles. Flowers flanked the outsides. One display was remarkably huge—about six-feet square, with a foot-high iron gate enclosing the entire display. That one was further from the road than others I’d viewed, and I’m guessing it was on private property. Each miniature building I drove past, however, seemed to be permanently affixed to the ground.

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In Chile, an animita is a place where people mourn the deceased, petition for help, and give thanks for answered prayers.

I remember that as a teenager I watched old western movies. Whenever one of the good cowboys was shot to death, his comrades did all they could to bury him. If they were on the run and in a hurry, they quickly covered him in rocks. If given a little more time, they dug a shallow grave, covered the body in dirt, and marked the site with a makeshift cross.

People have been memorializing the dead for centuries. Egyptian kings have their pyramids. In India, the Taj Mahal houses the body of an emperor’s beloved wife. Here in the United States, the wealthy erect mausoleums too, although they are admittedly much smaller. All of us will die, but only some of us will plan for our inevitable demise.

In the 1980s, a popular advertisement encouraged people to select the ingredients they wanted on their pizzas by answering: “What do you want on your Tombstone?” It made a normally serious topic light and fun . . . and, in particular, tasty. It was genius. The Tombstone Pizza Company name wasn’t easily forgotten, even all these years later. The ad worked in part because it made us face our own mortality for just a moment while we pondered how we wanted to be remembered. What would people say about us after our deaths?

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Built in 1846, William Eddings Baynard’s mausoleum is the oldest standing structure on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

Frankly, if we don’t convey careful instructions or plan ahead of time, we aren’t the ones who decide what goes on our pizza or what gets written on our own granite tombstones. Let’s hope that the immortalizing words associated with us end up being written by someone who abides by our wishes or at least likes us enough to say nice things.

You can learn a lot about a person by visiting his or her gravesite. For some reason, that fun isn’t high on the list of any of my friends and family. Rarely does anyone ever want to join me in a stroll through a graveyard. Yes, I’ve actually asked family and friends to do that, especially during travel to foreign countries. Most often, the closest I come to walking hallowed ground turns out to be nothing more than a chance drive-by encounter on the way to some other point of interest.

The one time my husband, his sister and her husband humored me, we delicately tip-toed around the fresh, loose soil of above-ground graves in a church cemetery on the Leeward Island of St. Kitts. We visited long enough for me to take several photos.

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An eternal resting place on St. Kitts overlooks the Atlantic Ocean.

When I noticed that my companions weren’t walking alongside or trailing behind me, I realized that they didn’t share my curiosity over the differences in Kittitian burial customs from those in the United States. I saw that my family was lingering near our rental car and I figured it was time to go. We hopped back into the new Honda CRV. Then we accidentally drove over a metal industrial anchor of some sort. After incurring over two thousand dollars in repair costs to the rental car, certain relatives don’t want to stop at cemeteries with me anymore.

That’s one explanation for why I, more cautiously, poked around the internet this month and found a variety of interesting memorials to share with you.

Elijah Jefferson Bond, the patentee of the Ouija board, was buried in an unmarked grave at Maryland’s Green Mount Cemetery in 1921. Eighty-seven years later, a Ouija board collector, enthusiast, and expert, Robert Murch, successfully located Bond’s grave.

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Games can’t be played forever, or can they? (Photo, courtesy of Ryan Schweitzer, via findagrave.com)

Murch obtained all the necessary permissions and funds needed to erect a memorial headstone. He commissioned a clever and befitting design to honor the deceased Mr. Bond. Bond’s once unmarked gravesite could have been permanently forgotten, but that’s unlikely to happen now that he has an intriguing monument.

Yet, I wonder: would Bond have chosen to rest beneath a granite version of a game that encourages conversations with dead people?

Someone is bound to ask him, via a Ouija board, although it won’t be me. I don’t want to open that creepy door to the spirit world.

Princess Diana is buried on a private island on her Spencer family’s property. A temple inscribed with her name faces the island. Her brother’s words memorialize her this way:

We give thanks for the life of a woman I am so proud to be able to call my sister. The unique, the complex, the extraordinary & irreplaceable Diana whose beauty both internal and external will never be extinguished from our minds.

I think all those complimentary words would be well-received by Diana. The temple, in my opinion, is a bit much, but she was a princess. Most people wouldn’t expect anything less than extravagance like that for a woman loved throughout the world.

Another ideal tribute honors author Walter Lord. His gravesite is identified by a stone bench, inscribed with the names of his best-selling books, one of which was A Night to Remember, about the sinking of the Titanic. The welcoming setting invites visitors to rest for a little while, maybe even with one of Lord’s popular books in hand.

President Richard Nixon began his presidency with words that were later placed on his tombstone. It’s intriguing that his grave is absent a lofty title or noteworthy achievement. Instead, there’s simply a humble quote: “The greatest honor history can bestow is the title of peacemaker.”

That’s a nice thought for us mere mortals to aspire to.

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The land beneath the dome in Jerusalem is revered by Christians, Jews and Muslims, although for different religious reasons.

Covering a rock where Muslims believe Muhammad ascended to heaven is a shrine known as The Dome of the Rock. In Jerusalem, it stands out from all other buildings. There’s no mistaking the ornate memorial, topped in gold. During a trip I took to Israel in 2014 with my church-family, Christians were not welcome within the shrine’s doors, so we appreciated the splendor from afar.

That was okay with me. I had another, personally more meaningful, tomb to visit. This other one, known as the Garden Tomb, was literally fit for a king. Not because it was extravagant or ornate or covered in gold. It was none of those things. There was nothing fancy about this other tomb. It was simply a cold, barren cave with a hard, stone floor. It was a tomb that long ago may have been customized to accommodate Jesus’s body. Some people believe that the King of Kings was too tall for His borrowed burial space and it had to be chiselled and lengthened to accommodate His height. Others more simply acknowledge that the Garden Tomb’s characteristics match historical records of Jesus’s burial.

Either way, this place in Jerusalem is where people come to pay homage to Jesus and to pray. I entered the solemn tomb and stood with my pastor and his wife. My pastor was weeping. In that moment, I recalled the torture Jesus endured before His death. I cried too. If anyone deserved a shrine or a temple, it was God incarnate Who sacrificed His life for the redemption of my sin.

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The Garden Tomb. (Photo, courtesy of Chris Bixby)

The grounds surrounding Jesus’s burial tomb are full of flowers and plants, and there are many sitting areas that inspire personal reflection and prayer. Nature’s beauty helps comfort us in our grief. But the stark reality is that we mere mortals die. Those left behind visit gravesites, leave flowers, tenderly care for the little plots of earth where our loved ones rest. We continue in conversation with those departed. Our greatest comfort, however, comes from knowing we’ll see them again.

Before His own death, Jesus predicted, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled. He will be handed over to the Gentiles. They will mock him, insult him, spit on him, flog him and kill him. On the third day he will rise again.” (Luke 18:31)

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“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” (Luke 24:5-6)

Jesus has no tombstone that screams accolades. The most obvious hint of His importance, royalty, and divinity was added years after His burial place was discovered. Where a stone once blocked His tomb’s entrance is now a wooden door with an inscription: “He is Risen.”

Indeed. Conquering death is worth celebrating. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (Jesus’s words from John 20:29.)

Happy Easter!

From One Extreme to Another

“Kalamazoo to Timbuktu.” That song, recorded in the ‘50s by Mitch Miller, linked two locations together because of their individually unique names. Michiganders, like me, recognize the name of one city and wonder about the other. Where in the world is Timbuktu? Does it really exist? Or is it just part of an expression that we say when we’re exaggerating about a far-away place?

Those of us who think about Timbuktu envision a made-up land where no one lives; there are no roads, no public services, no bathrooms, no grocery stores or cushy conveniences for miles around. A place so remote, we relish the peace and quiet that we think we’ll find. We mention to friends of our upcoming travel plans by saying, “We’re goin’ to Timbuktu, in the middle of nowhere.”

But Timbuktu isn’t a popular destination for tourists. The city rests at the southern edge of the Sahara Desert in the country of Mali, and it has always been very hard to get to. Instead of planes, trains, and automobiles, think: boats, camels, and twenty hours in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Without the benefit of that last luxury, early seventeenth century explorers were lured to their deaths by the legendary “city of gold.” Most of those adventurers were massacred and others died as a result of the harsh desert environment—particularly, scorching sun and no access to fresh drinking water. Timbuktu was, and is, nothing less than a tumultuous place in West Africa.

Gold is still associated with Timbuktu. Along with cotton, it accounts for 80% of Mali’s earnings from exported goods. But possessing an abundance of one of the earth’s most valuable commodities has not protected the country from poverty. Mali is among the world’s twenty-five poorest countries.

Part of the poverty problem began seven hundred years ago when Timbuktu’s resident king, Mansa Musa, gave away tons—literally, tons—of painstakingly-mined gold during his journey to Mecca. He gave so much to the poor as he encountered them along his route that the precious metal quickly lost value and the costs of other goods escalated. Today’s descendant residents of Timbuktu are so mad over the king’s actions that they won’t even speak his name. They blame him for having carelessly ruined their economy.

Control of Timbuktu repeatedly toggles amongst various militant groups and the Malain government. In 2012, Peter Gwin reported for National Geographic News that “Islamists have enforced a Taliban-style interpretation of sharia.” The extremists destroyed tombs and stole ancient manuscripts. They also “broke down the sealed holy inner door of the 15th-century Sidi Yahya Mosque” which as Gwin further noted: “according to tradition, its opening would bring the end of the world.”

During the terrorists’ occupation, girls in Timbuktu couldn’t go to school and women had to wear burkas. According to Gwin, one father lost his twelve-year old son to the Islamist army. The young boy was tricked. He thought he would earn a bag of rice for his family by performing “manual labor at the Islamist base in the center of the city.” When the father found out that his child had inadvertently signed up for holy war, he tried to reason with the commander that his son was needed at home. In response the father was told, “You may have his body when he has fulfilled his duty to Allah.”

Tumultuous.

The U.S. Department of State names a number of the threatening operatives that are active in Mali. They include “al-Qaida in the Lands of Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), Ansar al-Dine, the Movement for Oneness and Jihad (MUJAO), and extremists tied to Al-Murabitun.”

Now there’s another group: Emirate of the Sahara. On January 16, 2016, they kidnapped a Christian surgeon and his wife from Burkina Faso—another of the world’s poorest countries. Dr. Ken Elliot and his wife, Jocelyn, moved there forty years ago to provide medical care to those in dire need. The kidnappers were suspected to be transferring the elderly couple, who are in their eighties, across the border and into Mali. Negotiations resulted in the release of Jocelyn on February 6, but little is publicly known about Dr Elliot’s current condition. Needless to say, he remains in great peril.

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This month, we Americans look at our history. February–Black History Month–is a time when we think about where we came from and where we are headed. Black or White, Christian, Muslim, or other, how blessed are we to be able to openly pray for an end to evil, violence, oppression, and hatred?

Cruising in Europe

Claire1Last September we took a cruise on the Danube and the Rhine Rivers. We started off in Budapest, Hungary and finished in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. The trip lasted two weeks and was lovely.

Living, eating, drinking and floating along was very relaxing. The boat stopped every day in a different city. Most of us got off and went with local guides to see the sights.

The excursions were very interesting. In the larger cities, the guides would first take us on a bus for an overview of the entire area. Then we would get off in the older parts of town and walk around. In the smaller towns, we were able to skip the bus part and walk right into town.

The guides were very well educated, spoke several languages and knew a lot of local history. They could easily talk about what life was like four or five hundred years for the people living there. They always shared lots of interesting details and usually a few jokes.

I started to wonder, as I had more and more of these experiences, why would such educated people be so happy and willing to work as guides? I don’t think they were paid very much. They were always very happy with the tips we gave them in Euros.

I kept turning this question over in my mind trying to think of a polite way to ask. Finally I found a solution. In the next town, as we were walking around, and I was looking down at the cobblestones so I wouldn’t trip, I started working my way up toward the front of the group.

Claire 2I had to wait for the guide to stop talking. She knew so much and was so concerned that we learn every detail that she very rarely paused, even for a breath. She didn’t ever seem to be silent, even when we were making a difficult climb up a steep road to the castle at the top.

But, finally she did stop talking for a second. I sensed this was my big chance. So, before she could start in again, I started talking. I told her I enjoyed the tour, was learning so much, and was so impressed with how comfortable she was in English. Then I asked my question: Of all the jobs available, what was it about being a guide that made her choose this?

“Oh,” she confided, “there are no jobs…” Apparently most of these towns had no business or industry, other than that related to tourism. If they wanted to live there, they had to find work. Being a guide or working in the tourism industry were the only opportunities available.

In a few other towns, I asked the guides there the same question. They all said the same thing. Yes, the towns were beautiful, historic and they liked living there. But no, there were no other opportunities to use their language skills and university training.

Do you find this surprising?