When the Giants Come to Town...

 One of my reasons for travelling to the Dominican Republic was to visit the San Francisco Giants Felipe Alou Academia de Beisbol in Boca Chica. I had no real idea what to expect, or even if I could get past the front gate. Before leaving California, I had tried to contact the Giants’ office in SF and searched for an email address for the academy to see if I could set up something beforehand. That got me nowhere so I knew it would be a storm-the-gates affair.

Every Major League Baseball team has a training facility in the Dominican Republic, most of which are in the area of Boca Chica. From all over Latin America, teenagers, as young as 16 ½ sign with major league teams in the hopes that they will turn out to be the next big superstar. The youngsters live full-time at the academies where they are provided with everything needed to assure their talents are realized: housing, food, training, medical, and English classes.

And of all the academies to try and visit, tops on my list were the hometown favorites. Although I had a ride out to the Giants Academy, it would be up to me to sell myself at the front gate. It turned out that it wasn’t hard at all. Maybe it’s because I look harmless enough, or maybe it’s because I start talking and smiling and don’t give the guard a chance to get a word in edgewise: I’m an American from San Francisco and also a teacher and would like to know if it’s possible to visit the grounds and then possibly talk to someone in your education office about the possibility of working for you. Then again, who really knows what that sounded like in my Espanol?

Luckily for me, the guard got on his walkie-talkie and soon a guy dressed in Giants gear drove over in his golf cart. I then went on to repeat my sales pitch name dropping the Alou brothers and Juan Marichal and how they had been childhood heroes.

One of the fields/Complex in background

That guy turned out to be their equipment manager, Victor Henríquez. I don’t know if it just happened to be him in vicinity when the call went out about the gringa loca at the gate, (my words), but the stars had aligned in my favor. Victor, who has been with the Giants for something like 17 years, was the nicest man you could ever want to meet. He told me to hop in the golf cart and we were off.

I had known that the Giants had opened their new facility this past August, but that was about all I knew.  I was beyond impressed; the place is gorgeous! I’m ready to rent a room there.

Los Hermanos Alou

Victor started the tour by taking me into a main office and introducing me to some man, (whose position I was not quite clear on).I once more dove into my talk about teaching English and asked about any openings. The office guy said I could talk to the education lady a little later on. Meanwhile, I had an academy to see.

While we walked around the facility, I told Victor how I had grown up watching all the greats of Giants baseball. Just in case I had forgotten anything, around every corner there were reminders of my childhood; posters of the Alou’s, Juan Marichal, Orlando Cepeda, Tito Fuentes. I know their names better than many of the US presidents. The new players also had places on the wall; Buster, and Mad Bum, Cueto, and Casilla, lined the dining hall. (that had orange and black chairs….heck, even some of the socket covers were orange.)

Victor next took me into the massive room where the players can relax at the end of a long day. Two giant TV’s took up one wall, comfortable couches and chairs lined up in front of them. On one side were a few Foosball machines and probably a few other items that didn’t register; I was in the slightest bit of shock over the grandeur and beauty of the place. All of this was in a room where the windows, which took up nearly the entire wall, looked out onto the three ball fields.

View from TV room

Continuing the tour, I was shown two large, open and airy classrooms. I briefly imagined myself teaching English in one of them. Their education program includes English and tech and I think there was something like math and science thrown in. (Maybe I should have taken notes.)  

I’ll stop here to say that whoever the architect was, he got it spot on. The entire complex is spectacular. Tons of windows and natural lighting in every square inch of the facility. Cool concrete and light-toned stone floors, high ceilings with visible pipes – part industrial design but retaining an air and flow of that is not at all the cold atmosphere that is sometimes associated with this style of design.

The players sleep in dorm rooms, but these are nothing like the ones known to many a college student. Large, light, airy, with bunk beds. And those beds are double beds. It’s something I would never have thought of; big ball players needing a slightly larger bed than the smaller of us. Possibly, with all those young ones in the room, it might have felt a little tighter, but not by much. They also had desks and chairs.

Chow Hall

The weight and exercise room, with its high ceilings and state of the art equipment, sits on the ground level just steps from the playing fields.  Attached to that are therapy rooms. Just down the way are the offices with floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the playing fields on one side, and into the hallway/reception area on the other. Fish-tankish design that felt comfortable rather than freakish.

The locker room was next. Victor opened the door and invited me in. I hesitated. This, after all, is where the guys change. He assured me that they were all playing so I went in, pulled out my camera, walked to the second row of lockers – and that’s where I saw a guy changing. Luckily for him, he had on shorts, but I high-tailed it out of there.

Victor Henriquez, Equipment Manager

Throughout my tour, Victor told me about his time with the Giants arriving when he was only 19. It was easy to see how he had worked his way up to equipment manager. We went into his office, the equipment room. There, lining the walls, were real live Giants uniforms. I touched them. I have always wondered what the fabric content was. It might be polyester, but it felt darn decent. I am aware that a whole lot of money goes into the research of professional sportswear, but since I had never felt a polyester that I would ever let touch my skin, it was always hard to imagine how anyone could play in the stuff. I guess if you are a professional athlete, they use superior polyesters.

Maybe I stopped jumping up and down and whooping it up towards the end of our tour. Maybe not. The closest I have ever been to anything Giants were a couple of games out at Candlestick. I’ve never even been to AT&T. But I have listened to games on the radio and watched them on TV since I was itty-bitty. To actually walk through and touch part of the hallowed grounds that are team Giants, made my day – if not my entire trip down here.

All the while I kept thinking about my dad. He gave me my love of baseball. I clearly remember him talking about the Latin players and how good they were, and the truly exceptional fact that three brothers had played on the same team, and that team was our Giants.

I also remembered that I was the little girl who desperately wanted to play baseball. Girls had no chance to do so back then. I still have one of the most valued gifts that my dad ever gave me – my own mitt. I found it not too long ago and felt a little sad when I noticed that it had never really seen much action. But then I remembered how my dad knew how much I had wanted one. And when he came home one day and handed it to me, I was over the moon. (I also still have my Willie Mays Louisville Slugger that I got at bat day out at The Stick.)

                                                              —–   

I would be remiss here if I did not talk about the Yankee’s Academy and how I might just have turned into a little bit of a fan. Before anyone out there considers this sacrilege for a Bay Area girl, listen to the tale.

It seems there are baseball players around every corner here, especially in Boca Chica. It’s hard to know if they are yet affiliated with one of the MLB teams, are at a pre-MLB academy, or just play locally. 

Future Stars

The other day I was in line at the supermarket and two players came up behind me with only a large bottle of water. I told them they could go ahead of me. One thing led to another and I found out that they were both from Venezuela and were at the Yankee’s academy. I told them how I wanted to teach English with one of the teams here.  And then we talked about Venezuelan players like Pablo Sandoval, one of my all time favorite players to watch. I asked if they thought it would be possible to visit their camp and they assured me that I would be welcomed.

This had been two days before I went to see the Giants, but the same tactics worked here. This time, it was a little earlier in the morning, so I waited at the front gate for the receptionist to arrive. She took me around a few places and then handed me off to the English department head, Melissa.

I couldn’t have been more warmly welcomed. Melissa was thrilled that a credentialed, experienced teacher was looking for work, and that I seemed to have arrived at the perfect time. She showed me around the wing of the building with its four classrooms, computer room, and materials library. She showed me the curriculum that had been newly developed and I was quite impressed.

Yankees Central, Boca Chica

Prior to arriving in Boca Chica, I had no idea if any of the teams actually had a proper education program in place, and if they did, had no idea what it might be. I soon found out that most, if not all the teams have something in place and that they are all working to improve their programs. When kids leave school at 16 to hunt the dream of a pro career, all else can easily be cast to the wayside. It has only been more recently that the MLB has realized that these kids need, and deserve, a bit more to fall back on should they not be in that tiny percentage that makes it into the big leagues.

Baseball and proper education; what could be better?

 

 

 

Paradise Found

Boca Chica (did not look so lovely in person)

I was in Santo Domingo for 12 days, which was probably five or six days too many. I liked the capitol and all the historical sites, but nearly two weeks of that wasn’t necessary. Also, I really didn’t need all the noise pollution that I experienced in my hotel rooms. The room I had at the first hotel was on the ground floor and it sounded like everyone passing by on the sidewalk was actually in my room. My second place was great, and way up on the 4^th floor, but that meant that I was constantly bombarded with the noise from the air-conditioning units on the roofs of all the surrounding buildings. It was never quiet. No wonder I got caught up in the city; I couldn’t think straight.

So it was time to head down to the beach at Boca Chica, a forty minute taxi ride from Santo Domingo. I’ll admit that I was a bit hesitant about going there. One can never entirely tell by what’s on the travel sites and in the guidebooks, but it did appear that Boca Chica might just be a little more popping than I wanted.

Then I remembered being in Vietnam and taking the bus down to Mui Ne. I knew that particular locale had a reputation for a jumping nightlife, lots of bars with lots of Russian tourists, and all that goes with that – not at all what I wanted. However, I figured it was the beach and surely there had to be somewhere nice. And there was. I stayed in the place I found for two months and it was one of the better two months of my life. Up at 5:30, a walk on the beach, eat something, work on my latest book, jump in the pool, take a short nap, and return to writing. Later there’d be another stroll or two on the sand, a talk with the fishermen and copious amounts of shell collecting. How could it be that hard to find something similar in Boca Chica?

Balcony at Rig Hell

I diligently read through everything I could find out about budget accommodation in Boca Chica, and finally settled on the Rig Hotel. That way, I would have a place to stay at least for the first night. This trip is the first time in my life I have actually booked a hotel in advance anywhere in the world. Unlike in days gone by, you can now read reviews, supposedly get deals – even on budget hotels, and apparently feel fairly confident that you won’t be unpleasantly surprised. Add to that, that I am past the age of walking around town until I find decent, affordable lodging.

The ride down the Caribbean coast was spectacular. The highway goes right along the coastline and it was the first time I had a really clear view of the Caribbean.  Yeah! I was on my way to the beach. But as we started to enter an urban area, I began to worry. Is this Boca Chica? I asked my driver. It was.

Possibly it was because the clouds now covered the sun, casting a dismal grey onto the small streets teaming with people and cars and noise and dirt and confusion. The closer we got to my hotel, the more concerned I got. Boca Chica simply couldn’t be this grungy. Surely we were still on the outskirts. Regrettably, we were one block from my hotel.

According to reviews on booking.com, and the photos, I thought I had gotten a good deal for only being a block from the beach. Booking.com flashed a Deep discount/special offer all because I was signed in.

Rig Bathroom Window

I almost told the driver to take me straight to the airport when we got to the street – more of a filthy alley, that housed Rig hotel. Dumpsters overflowing with garbage, surrounded by piles of litter, covered the length of the small block. To the right were three towering construction projects, one of which looked like its funds had run out. Rig hotel didn’t even look like a hotel and it seemed to be encased in barbed wire.

I paid my $32 and was led up to my room – the one I had paid more for because it had a mini kitchen and a balcony. Traipsing up the narrow, filthy stairwell, my heart sank even lower. When the owner opened the door and I went in, I couldn’t even talk. After he left, I walked around the room in a state of shock.

Hellhole comes to mind. I have always been a budget traveler and prefer simple accommodation, but this was beyond the pale. The balcony consisted of an eight inch ledge and a lot of barbed wire. There was no fridge in the room, and the kitchen was simply a non-working sink and a non-working burner. The bathroom had a clear window that looked directly onto the construction site across the street. And every square inch seemed to be falling apart and filthy, save the floor in the main room. I could not believe I had been this badly suckered. This is my breakup with Booking.com.

I sat down for a moment, thought about what to do, and then figured I would have to stay there one night. But I was going to find something else right away. I hated leaving all my valuables in a room that could be opened with a hair clip, or possibly a hard shove, but had no choice.

Paradise Found

First, I tracked down a place someone had recommended. It was neat and clean and brand new, but too costly. It sort of looked like a high-end Motel 6. And it was still in the middle of what I took to be the insanity of Boca Chica.  Walking further, I recognized the name of a hotel I had remembered seeing on some travel site. It was further up a street and off the first few blocks up from the beach. I had already realized right on the beach was no place to be.

The very nice manger told me the prices and they were way over my budget. He then started telling me of other places, and eventually had an employee walk me about four blocks further away from the beach.

Soon we were walking down lovely streets – you’d never know it was a tourist town. I could feel my spirits lift. It looked like I might not have to take that next flight out of the DR. Even before I walked in through the gate, I knew I was in heaven.

The beautifully landscaped garden surrounded a sparkling clean pool. A covered restaurant area and a small bar stood beyond and to the right. Everything looked shiny and new and well tended to. If the manager from the last hotel hadn’t said that this was the place I wanted, I would not have believed it to be affordable.  

I was shown an immaculate room that was more than spacious enough. The bathroom looks like one of those TV show makeovers and not like anything I had seen in my previous three hotels. There is no A/C, but there is a floor fan. No TV, but I am rather tired of all the political stuff anyway. The only real drawback is that there is no mini fridge, something I have come to rely on in my traveling. But at about $20 a night, I’ll make do.

It did not take me long, sitting out in the peaceful garden, to make the decision to go back to the Rig Hotel from Hell, check out, loose $32, and come right back to my new lodgings. 

This morning, I set out to take a walk on the beach, since that is what the beach is for. As soon as I stepped on the sand, I knew this would be my one and only visit to the beach of Boca Chica. At eight in the morning there were few people out, but there was also not a lot of open space. Every square inch of the sand, from where I stood all the way up the hotel area, had lounge chairs from the side-by-side restaurants that covered the beach.

Looking out at the still, glassy water, I asked a waiter about the lack of waves. He assured me that there are indeed waves. I can’t imagine that they are ever really large. I continued my walk up the beach, greeting the guys cleaning the sand of all the trash from the day before and setting out chairs. From the look of what was sitting at the water’s edge, I don’t think I would really ever want to swim there. And there wasn’t a whole lot of beach left between the chairs and the water. It didn’t appear that there were any shells.

Boca Chica beach: been there/done that. Now back to my little piece of paradise and talking to folks along the way. It was sometime yesterday that I noticed the sounds of birds against the stillness of the air. I try to spot them and get an idea of what they are. Yesterday, I swear I saw a woodpecker, but do they even have them here? They do indeed, and a whole flock was working on the tree just down the street. I was told this by a gardener, who told me the name in Spanish, (no, I don’t remember) and I told him in their name in English. 

Lovely street away from maddening crowd

My room in my little bit of paradise is quite stuffy and hot at night, and I do wish I had a fridge. But I also can sit in here with the door open, fan blowing, and feel completely comfortable with anyone walking by. Last night at about 3am I had to open the room door and it didn’t worry me at all. It is quite refreshing outside in the in the middle on the night in November and I wish I had a little more cross circulation.

I feel like I can finally relax, maybe for the first time since arriving in the Dominican Republic. Maybe I will be able to figure out what I am doing and where I am going.

Kate

Figuring Out the Skeeter Situation

Before I booked a hotel in Santo Domingo, I spent hours on the internet going through reviews of hotels on Tripadvisor and other sites. Aside from price and location, I paid close attention to room pictures. I found it odd that not one hotel seemed to have mosquito nets over their beds. I was concerned that the hospitality industry here had headed in the same direction as they had in Vietnam.

On my last trip to Vietnam, I had noticed that quite a few hotels at the beach had dispensed with fans and mosquito nets, and had instead installed air conditioning. I was told that one no longer needed to leave the windows opened so there was no need for a fan or netting. Not my idea of a beach vacation. Not my idea of living anywhere, where you couldn’t leave the windows open all night.

On my first night in Santo Domingo, I kept looking around for mosquitoes, but didn’t see a one. I really didn’t believe that The Dominican Republic was mosquito free, but that seemed to be the case. After four days I still hadn’t caught any lurking about. And then they all must have hatched. They are tiny here and, thankfully, don’t make any noise. But it is rather disconcerting to see pockets of about one hundred of the critters hanging out at the head of your bed.

For most of my life, I was never really bothered by mosquitoes. Generally, they don’t like the way I taste, and I don’t get much of a reaction if they do bite me. And I have never really used bug repellant. The idea of spraying on some DDT type chemical, that stinks to high heaven, is rather off-putting. I only started to get slightly concerned about bug bites when I went to live in Malaysia.

Dengue. I heard the tales of horror, of the months of recovery, of the permanent damage to the body, and even death. For my first three months in Kuala Lumpur, I was freaked out by the thought of that nasty disease. But what can one do? I had a mosquito net over my bed and made sure there was no standing water on my small porch. And then I just forgot about it all.

It wasn’t until I was planning my trip to the DR that I again began to think about Dengue. I still had some leftover bug repellant that I had picked up at the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens. It did not stink – actually it had a rather pleasant scent.  But I also figured it was well past its shelf life and it can only be purchased in Mexico. (….darn…why hadn’t I checked for it while I was in the Mexico City airport?) Even so, I brought it along. And when the skeeters started munching me, I started slathering it on.

Unfortunately, either Dominican mosquitoes are immune to Mexican repellant, or it really is past its shelf life.  This morning I had about thirty little red bite marks. (mostly faded by the evening.) Before I did anything else today, I dropped by the bug aisle at the supermarket. There I found a product called Repelengue, 100% natural, no toxins. They had small travel bottles, and after testing that the spray did not have a vile smell, I bought one.

 

Once home, I went about spraying myself. For a moment I thought I had made a mistake as it had a powerful scent. I pinched my nose, stood directly under the ceiling fan, and a few minutes later the odor had dissipated. I now smell like I’m wearing Eau de Citronella, which is not bad at all. Now, let’s see if it works.

It was yesterday that I realized I should not have left my fish oil pills at home. When I was trying to decide which vitamin supplements I really needed to bring, I reasoned that fish oil was not one of them. I’d just eat fish here. I had completely forgotten that taking fish oil is known to leave an odor on your skin that the skeeters hate.

But back to skeeter nets; why don’t they seem to have them here? I plan to head down to the beach town of Boca Chica soon and am again checking out hotels. Not one hotel seems to have mosquito nets over the beds. I just don’t understand this. I feel totally naked sleeping in the tropics without a fairy net billowing over me. As hot as I was last night, I tried to keep myself incased in a sheet. I can’t do that again.

Update: The new spray seemed to work. Then again, there was a huge storm so maybe that was the reason the critters were scarce.

Also, the pictures posted here are obviously not those of mosquitos. They are of the oldest cathedral in the Americas. More on that later.

Kate

La Zona Colonial

Fortaleza Ozama

La Zona Colonial, the Colonial Zone, in Santo Domingo, has to be one of the most beautifully restored and maintained historical sites I have ever been to. I enjoy ruins as much as the next person, but when old structures are renovated to give one a true feel of what they once were, without completely discarding the decaying old portions, it is quite special.

Santo Domingo de Guzman, was founded in 1496 by Columbus, making it the oldest European-established city in the New World. Many of the forts and churches and houses continue to this day, despite hurricanes, aging, and constant usage. They really did know how to build back then.

Fortaleza Ozama is the fort built on the Ozama River which flows into the Caribbean not far down the way. The main building sits on a hill overlooking the river, with views down to the sea. As I traipsed up the brick stairs, I had a close look at the walls and could easily tell the old from the renovation. I would never have guessed that the Spanish used what seems to be most of the coral in the Caribbean as building blocks for their edifices. Over time, the material that once covered them has worn off. But rather than re-plastering the entire walls, the restoration workers filled in areas needed to maintain the structure and give it the look of one solid wall.

River entrance to Fort

When I entered into the fort, I was amazed at how cool and refreshing it was. It’s darn hot here, but inside it was lovely, with a gentle breeze. If they built buildings like that today, no one would ever need air conditioning. And I am sure that if the next ice age ever hit The Dominican Republic, there would be no need for heaters.

Cathedral

Today on my morning exploration route, I had decided that it was time I went inside the Cathedral of Santa Maria de la Encarnación, the oldest cathedral in the Americas. Not only did I want to see it, but it was hotter than heck at 9am, and they keep the air con blasting inside.

Regrettably, today they didn’t open until noon so instead I walked around the exterior. And that’s where I came upon the young lady in a photo shoot. I wondered if green was the new wedding white, but when I asked her auntie if I could snap a photo, she explained that it was her niece’s Quinceaner. (15^th birthday.)

Quinceanera

 

 

 

 

 

Further up the road I found the Ruins of San Francisco something-or-other. Here, I generally would do a little research beyond what is in my tourist pamphlet, but I don’t have easy internet access. You’ll just have to do with ruins, old, very cool. One isn’t allowed indoors, but it looks in awfully good shape for being labeled a ruin.

Ruins of San Francisco

 

 

 

 

Next it was on to the Museo del Amber. Who knew there was amber in The Dominican Republic? When I think of amber, Bulgaria, Russia, and some other countries come to mind. Little did I know that there is a ton of it here and it comes in various hues.

The ground floor - again, in a colonial era building, housed a beautifully set up jewelry shop selling amber pieces as well as those made of larimar. I had never heard of this pastel blue stone before, which can only be found here. I skipped the ornamentation and walked up stairs to the museum. I didn’t have the mindset to really read all the information in the wonderfully curated area, but will go back. There were displays explaining the geological history of amber, where it is found in the world, the various types of amber, and even a small case with Jurassic Park references.

I was alone in the museum when a man who worked there came in and I started to ask questions. It turned out that he was the founder/owner of the museum and had worked with amber for fifty years. We had a lovely conversation about amber and education, and other topics. This is one of the reasons I adore travelling alone. One meets people that one would never meet if in a group. Or perhaps you would meet them, but you would miss out on the personal interaction.

San Francisco Ruins

From there, I went back down to the lower entrance to the fort, just off the river. A sign read Puerta de las Atarazanas. For the life of me I can’t figure out what atrazanas is. I’ll get around to looking it up later. But the tourist policeman explained that the river, at one time, did indeed run right up to this entrance that has now been replaced by a road. He told me that the building directly across the street had been the original customs house.

Everywhere I walked in the zona, there was another plaque or another statue. Just around the corner from the customs house is a statue of Salomé Ureña De Henríquez, (1850-1897), who was a pioneer in woman’s education. I was very pleased to see the statue, but why did they give her such a sad face?

By this time, I was starting to feel a little heat wiped-out. I have a tendency, when I arrive in the tropics, to just keep walking and ignore the feeling. I had been drinking enough water but I could taste the salt on my lips and knew that meant it was time to cool down. I never worry about passing out, but in the past I have ended up with a splitting headache but being stupid and not stopping. Fortunately for me, I was just around the corner from the Plaza de España, with several restaurants in view.

Statue of Salome

You didn’t need to be close to tell this row of restaurants, built in what once was a large house,(I think), were top-dollar places. But all I wanted was an iced coffee and I figured I could afford that.

Looking out on Plaza de Espana

No one was in any of the restaurants, being that it was around 11am and scorching, so I chose one, and walked to an outdoor table by the front entrance. I sat down and realized just how hot I was. Everyone is so nice here. The two waiters not only said there was no problem in ordering only a coffee, but also brought out a fan to cool me down. We talked about where I was from and what their future life plans. Another delightful conversation.

This reminds me of my seemingly confusing national identity. I find it interesting that no one ever thinks I am American when we start talking. They ask if I am French, or Italian, or Swedish, or German, or even Spanish. (not sure how someone made that mistake.) I love that I am mistaken for an International Woman of Intrigue, but don’t know why. No one in California has ever thought I was French.

After coffee, it was time to head back. Today I found a place that serves very reasonably priced meals. I got some chicken and rice and veggies to go, and dragged myself back to the hotel.

I’m now hoping that since it’s Saturday, the baseball World Series is on at a reasonable time today. In California, we always get skunked when it comes to live sports. Case in point, the Rio Olympics. They could have, and should have been broadcast live. I mean who wants to watch a tape-delay of Usain Bolt sprinting down the track? But no, they run it on New York time and we get it three hours later. Baseball, however, is a different story. An 8pm start time in the east is 5pm in California. I always wondered how anyone stayed up until midnight. Now I know. They don’t. Or at least I don’t. The DR is on EST and I really have tried to watch all of any given game, but it just gets too late.

More explorations to come

Kate

 

 

The Mostly Joys and Partial Frustrations of Life on the Road

THIS IS THE TEMPORARY HOME OF Kate McVaugh’s RAMBLES

It’s the best feeling in the world to be warm 24 hours a day. The humidity means beautiful skin and curls in my hair. And the joints just don’t hurt in this climate. The Dominican Republic is everything I had dreamed of. And mostly it has been wonderful.

Before I left California, I dug out my old flip-phone, (still my favorite device), and sat down at the computer to try and figure out a way to unlock it so that I could use it in the DR. It took a while, but all the information is available online. Just to test that I really had unblocked it, I slipped in a SIM card from my Vietnam phone. I’d done it!

Jardin Botanico

Once here, it would be a simple matter of purchasing a SIM card and I’d be set. The ladies at the hotel directed me to the mobile provider Orange, whose store is just around the corner. Once my details were noted and paper signed, the very pleasant service rep inserted the SIM and turned on the phone, where it said the card was invalid. So much for my hacking abilities. No problem, he told me, just go down the block where there is a tiny shop that can fix it. So phone in hand, I walked over.

In less you have been overseas, it’s hard to explain all the tiny businesses that are set up in tiny alcoves at the front of houses. Maybe the area was once part of a garage. Or a broom closet, because that’s about the size of some of them. This particular shop had one guy sitting behind a small counter, with a few items hanging from nails on the wall. Before leaving Orange, I had the sales rep write out exactly what needed to be done. This was no time to test the Spanish skills. The fix-it guy read the message, looked at my phone, and said he couldn’t unblock it, but the guy down the street could.

The Spaniards used a whole lot of coral in construction

The next shop was larger, (although still an alcove), that extended back into the building. The owner had properly printed signs regarding warranties, services, etc. Judging from those waiting to get phones fixed, it looked like this would defiantly be the man to unblock my phone. He took my phone, read the note of what was needed, told me it would take a few minutes and cost about $7. And he did just that. I asked if he had used a code like I had found on the internet, but apparently that really won’t do it on American locked phones. He had to plug something in and do something else. And when the phone reverted to blocked status the next day, I simply went back and it is now fixed for good. I couldn’t quite understand what had happened, but it will stay unlocked now.

I do love the entrepreneurial spirit one finds in countries like the Dominican Republic. Have a skill, set up a small shop, and build your business.

Regrettably, there are always the pitfalls of travel. Usually they are only minor annoyances and I generally roll with them. But finding that my travel blog of 11 years has suddenly been deleted is not one of them.

I have gone from a complete feeling of devastation, to frustration, to anger, to just dealing with it in any way I can.

My travel stories are what I do every day. Since starting Kate McVaugh’s Rambles when I arrived in Vietnam in 2005, I cannot imagine being abroad and not writing. It makes me happy to write. Maybe it makes other people happy to read. Told that my blog no longer exists was almost the end of the world.

Zona Colonial

I have no idea why it happened, as I was able to post one article on 24 Oct. 24 hours later, the blog was gone. I have tried all the recovery options from Google, and all I get is a “We can’t verify you are you, so fill out the following form.” Alluded to form, that they keep sending me to, is not available.  

Honestly, Kate McVaugh’s two blogs are linked, my photo is the same on both, they are both linked to my Amazon Books page and Goodreads. They have the same recovery email. They have the same cell phone recovery contact, but my US phone is inoperative here. What more proof do they want? Actually, I think all their responses are automated as I have listed all the above in 5 different recovery attempts and get the same, generated reply.

The only thing to do is post these on my author’s blog. Then, when I get back to the San Francisco area, I’m jumping in the car, driving an hour and a half straight down to Mountain View, and banging on Google’s front door.

As upset as I have been, I do realize that Kate McVaugh’s Rambles are not lost. Nothing’s lost forever out there in cyber-land. But I hate that there are lots of people who will be typing in Kate's Rambles and coming up with “there is no such blog”.

Japanese Garden at the Botanical Gardens

But onwards and upwards to the next bit of frustration I will have to endure to post this on my author’s site; difficult internet connection. Both in the hotel I was in the first two days, and the one I am in now, it is hard to get connected and then stay connected. It seems that if I am not sitting within 1 or 2 feet of the modem, I can’t connect. Again, I don’t get it. Everyone’s smart phones work within a huge area. And someone else was on his laptop with no problem. I really do think it’s because that my laptop is still trying to learn Spanish – I can’t come up with another reason.

So today I am staying in and trying to sort out blog writing and internet connecting. I’ll explore somewhere else new tomorrow.   

Kate

 

 

 

BLOGGER World, Please Help!

I have no idea what happened, but my travel essay blog, katerambles.BlogSpot.com, was deleted a few days ago and I can't get it back.

I have had this blog for over 10 years and used to sign in with my Hotmail account. Stupidly, (it seems), I thought I had set it up to sign in with my other blogs on my gmail/google acct.
I got one post off on the 24th of Oct, and 24 hours later, my blog was deleted.

I keep emailing Google, and keep getting back no reply - or reply forms that lead nowhere. I have asked that they email me, since I do not have mobile ph service here in the Dominican Republic.

Does anyone have suggestion? Although I'm sure my blog is not of importance to anyone else, it is my life. I'm serious.
thanks you for any suggestions.
kate

Eurovision 2016

AP photo - BBC

For the first time in history, the Eurovision Song Contest Finals were broadcast in the US….and I nearly missed it. Had I not seen a piece on BBC yesterday, I wouldn’t have known that the competition was even on. (it’s another minor miracle that one can now get BBC World in the USofA.) 

     Most Americans have never heard of Eurovision. Saying it’s a song contest simply does not convey the enormity of an event that keeps half the world glued to their TV sets.There is nothing to compare it to. Sporting events attract a certain type; reality shows – another. But it seems everyone, across all sectors of society watch and, more importantly, vote for the Eurovision contestants.

     At first I didn’t even try to see if I could get it on TV or the internet since past years have proven to be a waste of time. However, I finally did go on the Eurovision site, clicked on Watch the Finals Live, and then was quickly flashed the “You cannot watch from your part of the globe”.

     I thought I might as well see if it was on TV. And low and behold, it was on LOGO TV. The channel description on DirecTV states: MTV Networks’ LOGO is for gay and lesbian viewers. I found this rather funny – Eurovision is watched by everyone on the other side of the planet, and now also Australia, but it appears only LOGO had the sense to get the rights.

     I believe the first time I ever watched the competition live was in Israel. I know for sure that I watched Dana International win for Israel in 1998. Back then, it seemed entrants sang mostly in their native languages. The rules changed back and forth regarding the use of English and I think this year everyone sang in English or in a combination with their country’s language.

     In years past, I well remember the kitschy costumes and staging and bubble-gum-pop-y tunes. But I adored it, as did the millions watching. Although I missed the first two hours of the live broadcast today, I simply went online to watch a few of the entrants. (That, one can do.)  Catchy tunes, beautiful voices, even if the ones I saw were of that bubble-gummy-love genre. And that’s just how I remembered Eurovision. What I hadn’t expected was the winning entry from Ukraine.

     “1994”, sung by the Ukrainian singer Jamala, is beautiful in every way. The lyrics refer to the deportation of Crimean Tatars under Stalin. It is based on her family’s personal history. The words and her performance were both haunting and moving.

     Right now I am going back on the Eurovision site to take a look at the other entrants. It is truly a marvelous spectacle. If I happen to be stuck here next year, rather than in a country that joins in with the Eurovision fever, I will be tuning into LOGO TV once more.

Books Inc. - Now carrying 'Costa Contente'

Books Inc., "The West's Oldest Independent Bookseller", is now carrying my book,
The Many Wonders of Costa  
            Contente. 
    (at their Berkeley store.)
You can't get much better than that, in my opinion!

 A little of their history from   their website:

"Books Inc.’s origin dates back to the Gold Rush Days of 1851 when Anton Roman struck it rich in Shasta City, California and set himself up in business selling books. That small bookstore was moved, bought, sold, burned, rebuilt, renamed and became Books Inc., as we know it today, in 1946."

Although I was born more than 100 years after those Gold Rush Days, I did grow up in Northern California, surrounded by the stories and influence of those heady times. I've often wondered what I would have been doing to strike it rich during those golden years. It would not have been panning for gold, but the possibilities were endless. And now I feel like I actually have a real connection to those 49er's. And I feel honored that an Independent California bookstore now stocks a native daughter's book.

Glancing through their site, I saw that Saturday, April 30th is Independent Bookstore Day.
I think I may have to go in a purchase a book.
(Books Inc., at the top of the page, and Independent Bookstore Day, above, are links. Somehow, they don't look like they are.)

The Mavericks is On



not Half Moon Bay....but close

The Mavericks surf competition near Half Moon Bay, CA is a go. The call went out a few days ago giving 24 of the best big wave surfers in the world 48 hours to get on over to California.  It only happens one day a year when the conditions are perfect. If those conditions do not appear between November 1, and the end of March, there is no contest.

    
     Waves get big…really big, during the winter months off of Pillar Point. Owing to its unique position on the Northern California coast and the sea floor below it, when a big winter storm hits, waves off the Mavericks surf break can reach 60 feet. It is not for the feint of surfer; it’s quite the treacherous ride. Not only that, it’s damned cold.

     I didn’t grow up at the ocean’s edge, (otherwise I would have been a real surfer girl), but I did brave the frigid summer waters of Stinson Beach on weekends in my youth. No one had wetsuits back in the day, and I had always believed that gradually numbing first your toes, then your legs, then your waist, and then finally just diving into the ice-water was what all ocean swimming was like. Boy, was I ever in for a shock the first time I waded out into the ocean in Southern California; it was bathtub warm!

     And even though surfing was never to be a part of my life, I have always loved it. There is nothing more beautiful than the ocean and the sound of its waves hitting the shore. Riding those puppies has to be one spectacular adventure.

     The surfing scene in Half Moon Bay started back in the 60’s when a few guys went out into the waters off Pillar Point. They could see the huge surf break farther out, but stuck to the smaller swells closer to shore. However, they did name the break after one guy’s dog, Maverick, who liked to follow the boys out into the surf. The waves they rode were plenty big enough, but nothing like the ones a half mile out. It took a surf-crazed teenager to paddle all the way out to ride the monster waves.

     Jeff Clark, at 17, was the first to give it a go back in 1975. And it wasn’t until the 90’s that he’d convinced other surfers to join him.  

     I’m not quite sure when I first heard of the Mavericks – I do know that it must have been before it became the huge event it is today. Although the first competition was held in 1999, I’ve never made the hour and a half drive down there. For one thing, many of those years I wasn’t in the area. Maybe more importantly, hanging out on the Northern Californian coast in the winter is not anything I would categorize as entertainment. It’s freezing cold. But being a surfer-gal-in-my-dreams, I had always longed to see the guys ride the big waves.

     And then out of nowhere, this week we got hit with a week of spring/summer weather in the middle of the winter. Next, the Pacific Ocean throws up a mighty storm and the folks out at Mavericks Control put out the call. The game is on.

     That was my signal that it was also a go for me; I'd just grit my teeth and battle the Friday morning traffic down to Half Moon Bay. I quickly went about researching where exactly I needed to go. And just as quickly found out that this year there is nowhere to go. It seems too many people had been doing too much damage to the ecological balance of the Point. Additionally, there were those folks who got too close to the waves and almost died on land a few years ago. (That would be hard to live down.)

     Not ready to give up on my mission, I searched around a bit more. I had to make sure that there was really no viewing point for the completion. How did I find out? Called Jeff Clark’s Surf shop, of course. The nice lady who answered assured me that it would not be worth the drive. There is absolutely no access this year. And there never again will be.

     I have missed my chance. I should have braved the elements a few years back. There’s nothing to do now but go back to dreaming about that surf shack I have always wanted. It would be a small shop on a rustic beach. I would sell surf clothes and jewelry that I design and make. I still have the clothing designs in my head and samples of the necklaces, bracelets and earrings I have made over the years from shells and found objects picked up along the shores of beaches around the world.

                          As Brad said to Pia, “There’s hope for you yet, girl-dude.”

Winter Solstice 2015

     People who know me might assume that since today is the first day of winter, I might be headed fast for bummer's-ville. Not in the least. The winter solstice is quite a significant day for me. I figure that if I can make it until today - the darkest, gloomiest, day of the year - everything will be uphill from here on in.
     Starting tomorrow, the sun will begin to rise a few minutes earlier with each passing day. In just a few months it will once again be birds chirping and sun rays streaming in at 6am. And that is how the world should be all year round. I am ruled by the sun and like to be up at the crack of dawn. Especially when that's 5:30 in the morning. I would also prefer sunlight late into the night but, if I had to choose, I'd take early sunrise over anything else. 

     So even though it's the first day of my least-liked season, I feel as if the worst is over and hot sunny days are on the horizon. (and I refuse to ponder the reality that in the San Francisco area hot & sunny are not part of the normal weather parlance.) I'll deal with finding that local in a few months.

                     






      Happy Solstice, (be it winter or summer)
Peace on Earth, God Will Towards Men

                        

Waiting for a Bestseller Listing

    

The books are all in print and now it's just a matter of selling a few. My attempts at marketing are in full swing, and time will tell how successful I have been at it this time around.
     I now have another reason to hope for best-in-book sales other than just paying the bills and buying a bit of food. I need a comfortable place to sit and read and watch TV.
     As the years go by, I find that I can no longer sit on the floor with a pillow and be content. All those younger years of having no furniture and making do with a beach chair in the living room and a blanket on the floor, just don't do it anymore. Presently, I do have furniture but it's quite ancient. I had thought that my constant discomfort and fidgeting to try and get into a halfway decent position, was a matter of age. It wasn't. Or at least not 100% of the problem.
     Driving by a La-Z-Boy store last week, I thought I'd drop in to try out some recliner chairs. All they seemed to have on the floor were rocking-recliners which I don't care for. Then I asked about sofas with recliners and was led over to another section of the massive store. The sales manager left me to look over the extensive selection.
     The first one I saw was dead ugly, but I took a seat. I raised the foot rest. I leaned back. And that's when I realized that it actually was possible to sit comfortably. My neck didn't hurt, my knees felt great, and I felt like I was in the arms of a giant teddy bear. I swear I could have closed my eyes and gone to sleep in three seconds flat. I would never have thought all the discomfort I associated with sitting in a chair or on a sofa was just because I wasn't in the proper piece of furniture.  
     I am so tempted to drop by again to make sure the comfort I felt was real. But I know I can't do that again until I can afford to buy one. Ever since my outing, I have realized just how uncomfortable I am when trying to sit and relax. I hope, as the days go by, that I return to the thought process of it's just an older body....deal with it.     
     Some people dream of buying Ferraris or yachts or a house in Beverly Hills. I dream of a La-Z-Boy Lancer sofa.