Road to Rangoon: Health Matters

My two trips to sub-Sahara Africa in the nineties introduced and initiated into the issues and practices for health maintenance and disease prevention while traveling abroad, and for a little over a decade I kept current a rather exotic shot record:

• yellow fever (feels like an injection of "sting juice"--perhaps a characteristic of a "live virus" shot)
• typhoid (makes the arm a bit sore for a day or two)
• hepatitis A
• hepatitis B
• hepatitis C (probably not necessary but I have it)
• polio booster

I also became more mindful of maintaining relevant not-so-exotic inoculations like these:

• tetanus-diptheria-pertussis
• flu

There are some others that often appear on the recommended list of shots before travel, but I have never had a doctor suggest them for me yet:

• rabies
• Japanese encephalitis
• measles-mumps-rubella
• chickenpox (However, I've had shingles twice--once on a trip in Thailand! My primary care doctor does intend to have me get the shingles vaccine as soon as I am old enough that my insurance will pay for it. Apparently, it is an expensive one.)

On the other hand, malaria and dengue fever--rather pervasive in many areas of interest to me in both Africa and Asia--have no preventive vaccines developed to date. Lamentably, where these two diseases are concerned, there is no easier/better living through chemistry yet.  Instead, one must employ due diligence to prevent mosquitoes from supping on one's blood--repellent, clothing choices, and mosquito nets. Granted, in the case of malaria, certain drugs used to treat the disease have proven effective in limiting one's susceptibility to the disease when taken in smaller doses as a preventive measure. The strain(s) of malaria in the area visited determines which drug(s) to take as a prophylactic. I have taken different drugs for malaria prevention, and my body rebels in some measure to all of them.  Nothing of too dire a nature as of yet--although that one doctor wanted me to take a pregnancy test after my return from my second trip to Africa because "all your symptoms indicate you're pregnant"--but malarial prophylactics and I share no bonhomie! In fact, I heave a major sigh of contentment when my research on a potential travel destination includes "little to no malaria risk" in the health information section.

And dengue fever? Yeah, well,...all due diligence is all there is!

For the last ten years or so, I have updated nothing on the shot record, regular flu shots and tetanus-diptheria-pertussis updates not withstanding. I think I have incurred only one prescription for malaria medication in that timeframe as well. Somehow I have kinda-sorta believed a trip to Myanmar could unfold without a hitch in my slide into first-world medical "slackdom." Yes, the travel literature for Myanmar strongly suggested a viable typhoid inoculation (necessary every three years) and urged a serious discussion with a travel doctor about the need for malaria medication. But, I argued with myself, I have friends who lived through a trip to Myanmar without any health preventatives at all except due diligence.  And I studied the map showing malaria risk in Myanmar. I studied it multiple times. Yangon and Mandalay showed no malaria risk. Yes! Both will be major stops on the travel itinerary. Yangon and Mandalay...and that is all of Myanmar that shows no risk.

My friend Tammy went to a travel doctor in Germany. I went to a travel doctor in Seoul. Now we each are freshly inoculated for typhoid, and we each are in possession of malaria medication. SIGH--and not of contentment--for the malaria medication.

But hey, Myanmar, we will come all healthy-like, and--best case scenario--we will remain all healthy-like!


ADDENDUM.  While perusing Myanmar travel sites online today, I read this:  "Myanmar has one of the highest incidences of death from snakebite in the world. Watch your step in brush, forest, and grasses." Alas, another SIGH! But I will not contemplate this factoid any further until such a time as I may tread in Myanmar's brush, forest, and grasses.

Road to Rangoon

Yes, I am fully aware there is no Rangoon any more except in history and memory. The correct place name is Yangon. "Rangoon" hearkens to the era of British colonialism and most likely came from the British imitation of the articulation of  "Yangon" as spoken in the Rakhine dialect of Burmese.   Yet I still prefer the musicality of pronunciation for "Rangoon." (See previous post.) Ask me in 2015 if I continue to hold this preference after traipsing the byways of said city in the flesh, for I currently have a flight in place scheduled to arrive at Yangon International Airport on December 21. My anticipation quickens.

However, the road to Rangoon is a bit bumpy compared to many other roads I have traveled previously.  Perchance the wait--as in twelve years--for the possibility of travel into Myanmar to become feasible constitutes the biggest bump.  I certainly do hope so, especially now that the wait is virtually at an end. Another bump--though certainly not as big--tourist travel to Myanmar has surged ahead of available tourist infrastructures, apparently, so the market principle of supply and demand has accommodations pricier than will probably be the case in a year or so when the boom in current construction reaches completion. Hence, Myanmar does not classify as a cheap Asian destination...at the moment.  It has been, and it will probably be less expensive in a year or two.  

But here in space and time as October begins its downhill run into November, my friend Tammy and I have flights to Myanmar and a tour itinerary in place.  I use the term "tour" loosely because Tammy and I are the only participants on our tour.  We have accommodations, transfers, and transportation in country arranged through the Asian travel company I used for my first trip to Vietnam:  Buffalo Tours.  

More bumps. Unless one is a citizen of the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, or Indonesia, one must obtain a Myanmar visa.  Our travel agent strongly encouraged us to obtain our visas directly through an embassy rather than mess with the online version:  apply on line, receive a special letter of approval, and then secure the visa on arrival at the airport.  Still way too problematic our travel agent insisted. When I informed her that neither Tammy nor I currently resided in the USA, she remained adamant that obtaining a visa through the Myanmar Embassy in our respective countries of residence would be a much better option.

SIGH.

Well, Tammy lives in Germany but not particularly near Berlin where the Myanmar Embassy is located.  I live in Korea--Seoul, to be exact, where the Myanmar Embassy is located.  My bump may not be as big as Tammy's bump.  Tammy and I both inquired online through our respective embassy websites whether or not US citizens could obtain a Myanmar visa through their embassy.  Tammy received a reply outlining what she needed to do.  I received no response whatsoever.  I started exploring further online and located forms for a visa application written in English.  Then I found a blog post written by an American working in Korea about how she and her husband obtained a Myanmar visa last spring.  According to Jessica (see this), all I needed to do was show up at the embassy between 9:30 and 11:30 with the following things:

• Tourist visa application: You can get this at the embassy.  (I filled out one form for myself, and one for Simon and they did not question anything.)  Questions include physical description, permanent address, workplace and phone number, father’s full name, date of trip and other basic information.
• 2 color passport photos taken recently:  Mine were 2 inch by 2 inch, the same as what the Indian embassy requires, whilst Simon’s were normal passport photos.  Both were accepted.
• Alien registration card: For people without an alien registration card, the instruction form in the embassy states tourists in Korea without this card cannot get a Myanmar visa in Seoul.
• Flight schedule/itinerary to and from Korea.  Ours were round trip from Bangkok, and those were fine as well.
• Trip Itinerary including activities and cities you are visiting.  If you don’t exactly know, make one up.  Ours was a rough itinerary stating the days we would be in Yangon, Inle Lake, Bagan, and then back to Yangon.
• Passport with 6 months validity and space for a full page visa sticker.
• Visa fee of 25,000 won.

Everything listed I could do except show an ARC--an Alien Registration Card. Because I legally live and work in Korea through a different agreement between Korea and the USA, I do not have an ARC. SIGH. I decided to just wing it anyway.  

From the embassy website I printed a copy of the application and filled it out at home. I had one photo left in my stash of "visa" photos that I have learned to keep on hand traveling here in Asia. Although online instructions always state that 2-3 photos are required, inevitably the officials at the airport--where I usually complete my visa work--seem to only want one. Not willing to gamble with the protocol here, I had my photo taken at the mini-mall on post: four visa size photos for $11. ("Most Koreans are very picky about what photo to print," the Korean photographer says to me when I tell him he can choose which shot to print, "and you don't really even care." He doesn't know quite what to make of me. SIGH. I point out that the photos will disappear into some file never to be viewed again.  He smiles weakly.) Copies of the flight itinerary and the tour itinerary I had at the ready.

Although I kinda sorta knew the neighborhood referenced by the address for the Myanmar Embassy, I took a taxi. My plan was to offer the application, photos, itineraries, passport, and fee and then improvise regarding any fallout due to a missing ARC if necessary.  No one ever requested identification beyond the passport (YES!) and I certainly didn't volunteer anything. Only one photo was required. TOLD YOU! The English-speaking girl handling the transaction with me (there were three Korean men in the room feverishly filling out applications while I stood at the grated window) then instructed me to return in three days between 3:00 and 4:30 to pick up my passport with a visa inside. She reiterated that I could only pick it up between 3:00 and 4:30.  

As I departed the rather small and unassuming building housing the Myanmar Embassy, I considered my passport-less state and the fact that I had nothing to verify or vouch for my having surrendered my passport to the Myanmar Embassy in Seoul. Oh, the risks we take to wander the planet!

On the afternoon of the third day I returned to the Myanmar Embassy. At the same grated window where I had submitted my passport and paperwork, I now stood behind a Korean man receiving a stack of Korean passports--maybe six--held in place with a fat rubber band. When he stepped away, a different girl than the one who had helped me previously looked at me, and I said in English that I had come to pick up my passport. There was a noticeable moment of silence, and then she asked me--in English, thankfully--"What country are you from?" I didn't appear to be Korean, I guess!  After locating mine, she began thumbing through it. She did it three times, and I felt my anxiety escalate. Finally she said with a rueful smile, "I can't find the visa in your passport." Well, that wasn't good! The reality is, though, I have an abnormally fat passport because it has a ten-page extension in it. That and she kept getting side-tracked by the China visa, the Cambodia visa, and the Vietnam visas--of which there are THREE! And just when I thought I might have to SIGH aloud, she did find that Myanmar visa! Looking visibly relieved, she proudly showed it to me. I smiled big-time because I was definitely relieved, too, whether visible or not!

And so, dear readers, I now have a Myanmar visa in my passport good for a single entry into Myanmar of no longer than 28 days in duration to occur at some moment in time before January 16, 2015.

Road to Rangoon: Myanmar visa (CHECK!)

What's In a Name?

In Shakespeare's play Romeo and Juliet, Juliet thinks of Romeo and speaks these now famous lines:
      'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
      Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
      What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
      Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
      Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
      What's in a name? that which we call a rose
      By any other name would smell as sweet;
      So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
      Retain that dear perfection which he owes
      Without that title.

And probably the sentiment expressed is indeed true. Still, there is something about a name. Certain names, even certain words, just embody possibility--or lack thereof--in ways that other names and words never can. I think most often the musical components of their pronunciation spark their magic, although the meaning of some word parts can kindle magic as well.

During my childhood, my mother had moments when she would tell us--her four, five, and ultimately six children--"I'm running away to Timbuktu." After assuaging that momentary first fear that she really might leave us behind, I would think that Timbuktu sounds like place so strangely wonderful it might only reside in imagination. In fact, on one occasion I asked my mom if it was a real place, and she assured me it was, and although I didn't feel particularly assured in that instant to know that it was a real place that she could go, I decided that someday I would like to go there too...even if my mom never agreed to let me accompany her on any of her threatened departures! (Running away to Timbuktu was apparently a solo trip.)

Literature and maps have provisioned me with multiple place names on which to focus my rambles. How could there not be something amazing, memorable, or at least endearing about a place called Kekaha, Cashel, Todos Santos, Ashkelon, Kota Kinabalu, Dingle, Machu Picchu, Irrawaddy, Jaipur, Ngorongoro, Ercolano, Bangkok, Cordoba, Saipan, Fort Huachuca, Lisdoonvarna, Pondicherry, Alice Springs, Kinshasa, Langkawi, Tipperary, or Isle of Skye?  And what about Drehenthalerhof? I actually lived in that wee German village for seven years!

I have yet to set foot in Timbuktu, the first place name to initiate thoughts of ever wandering away from the homeland. But this year currently looks promising for Rangoon (now Yangon), Mandalay, and the Irrawaddy. A trip to Myanmar is on the horizon!

A Train Story

After the development of several water projects in Utah’s central desert, Delta was founded in 1908 as an agricultural town supported by irrigation.  With that irrigation water in play, Delta achieved a prominent ranking as one of the largest alfalfa and hay seed producing regions in the USA from the 1920s through the 1960s.  But this is not an agriculture story; it is a train story.  In 1911, the Utah Southern Railroad closed its Deseret Station in Oasis, Utah, and opened its Delta Station—the largest station south of Salt Lake City—in the burgeoning new town.  My mother was born and raised in Delta, Utah (not counting the one year the family resided in Las Vegas).  Throughout my entire childhood, my family made regular trips to Delta to visit my grandparents, a few aunts and uncles, and lots of cousins.  I was a girl raised in suburbia, but the family visits to Delta introduced me to small town life—a realm with only one high school, pickups and tractors, water play optioned by large scale irrigation, dragging Main Street, full knowledge of back stories for the cashier in the store or the teens at the fast-food drive-in where we bought root beer flavored soft serve cones—and trains.

On a summer’s night, outside on a lawn in a tangle of sleeping bags with siblings and cousins, or even nestled on a couch or a bed in my grandparents’ house with windows open to catch the fortuitous cooling of a desert in darkness, the din and the vibration and the melody of trains wove themselves into intervals of a night’s soundtrack.  One summer my mother led us on a family hike along the tracks.  We practiced walking the rails like she had done as a child, with our hands we felt the tremor of those rails as a train in the far distance approached still too silent for our ears, then we marveled at the tangible clamor of a train passing over us as we crouched under the tracks bridging a dry gully, and we gaped at the flattened penny my dad placed on the tracks before the train actually passed our small party standing in reverential awe a safe distance away.  In Delta I learned the sound repertoire of trains:  hiss, clank, murmur, whistle, chug, rumble, shriek, and roar.  Up close and personal, without a car’s protective encasement, a moving train envelops one’s very being in blaring tumult, ambient agitation, and then a sense of shift in time and space.  For me, even now, it is shocking alchemy.

During summers stateside, I often drive from my dad’s home near Tooele, Utah, to the Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City, Utah, to attend a few plays.  Instead of taking the Interstate route, I follow a string of two-lane highways “the back way”—Tooele to Delta to Milford to Cedar City—roads with sparse traffic and signs cautioning drivers of the possibility of deer or cattle sharing the drive space.  My sister Diane mentioned a spring located just off the highway in all the space and empty between Delta and Milford that might offer some photographic moments interesting to me; it would also necessitate my leaving the highway and following a dirt road for short way.  On my return trip from Cedar City to Tooele, I spotted the sudden green space in the otherwise arid landscape, and I turned off the highway onto the dirt road.  After twenty minutes or so of dirt road driving and photographic fun, I made my way back to the highway but discovered this:

A train fully stopped on the tracks just in front of my entrance back onto the highway!

I waited a few minutes, hopefully expecting it to begin moving again.  Instead, I heard the hum of engines power down to silence.  Surely it would move again soon, I explained to myself, because why would a train stop here.  Then I hopped back out of the car to take train photos, of course.  The train remained still.  There was no way I could get my car to the highway side of the tracks as long as the train maintained its current position.  Where did the dirt road lead, I began wondering.  Would it end abruptly somewhere out on the desert or would it connect to another road that would lead back to the highway at another place?  What kind of options did I have if the train did not move?

Maybe twenty minutes later I discovered the headlight of a train traveling in the opposite direction of the one stopped in front of me.  So, the scenario unfolded before me did have a rationale, and I smiled with a certain sense of relief. 

The second train passed by, and the first train revved up the engines once more before slowly commencing forward movement.  Eventually the space between my car at rest on the dirt road and the highway across the tracks had cleared of train car obstacles, and I was on my way.  Once on the paved highway, I pursued “my train,” passed it, and then surrendered my view of it at all as the tracks angled right and the highway curved left. 

Train tracks stretch along the bench of the small mountain range several miles east of my dad’s house.  On summer nights when the windows are open, sometimes I hear the mournful wail of a train running those rails, and I am transported into the magic of childhood and memory.  All is well and I sleep.

Devastatingly Beautiful

My family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, when I was in high school.  We had relatives living in Spokane, Washington, so a couple different summers we traveled as a family of eight from Salt Lake City to Spokane in a Ford station wagon fully laden with people and road-tripping paraphernalia.  My mom, whose imprint on me certainly includes every last one of her wanderlust genes, could never resist a historical site, a new place she had read about, or a road not taken before.  On one of the trips home from Spokane, we abandoned the Interstate for US Highway 93 at the behest of my mother and followed the Salmon River southward through Idaho. Although my memory of that trip has manifestly dimmed, I can still conjure “pretty” as a descriptor of that stretch.  My sister Diane remembers it as “devastatingly beautiful.”  With our lives always carrying us elsewhere, neither of us ever quite found our way back to that Salmon River valley.  Until last Monday, that is.

Early Monday morning, four of us—my sister Diane and I and then two of our friends, Katherine and Carolee—piled into Diane’s vehicle and headed northwards. After exiting the Interstate at Blackfoot, Idaho, we wended our way through a bit of the Fort Hall Indian Reservation (Shoshone-Bannock Tribes) to Challis and rediscovered the Salmon River valley from Challis to the Idaho-Montana border.  Sacajawea was born in this valley, and the Lewis and Clark expedition explored it as well in the summer of 1805, first floating a stretch of the Salmon River but ultimately finding it necessary to trek their way out.  I am most positive my mother knew all these facts when she bent the route of our family trip into that valley so many years ago.

From Challis, driving north on US 93 and escorted always by the Salmon River on one side or the other, we commented sporadically on the beauty of the landscape unfolding before us.  And we would inquire of Diane, “Is it devastating yet?”  Even though Diane never quite found the “devastatingly beautiful” images treasured in memory over all the ensuing years, she did concede that before us was indeed a land of aching beauty.

Arriving in the town of Salmon by late afternoon, we checked-in at our motel—the Sacajawea Inn, where each room was graced by a mural painted by a Native American artist, a mural that also established each room’s decorative theme.  Diane and Katherine would bed down in the Turkey Room—turkey feather fan, turkeys on the light fixtures, and a turkey toilet paper dispenser to accompany the mural—while Carolee and I would spend the night in the Deer Room—a deer head on the wall next to Carolee’s bed in all its taxidermied glory and a deer toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom…in addition to the mural!

Then we headed to the river, spotted the Idaho Adventures office, and signed up for a morning float on the Salmon River.  Such an assignation in place behooved us next carry out a brief shopping foray in pursuit of more suitable clothing items for our newly planned exploit. In Salmon, a town with the population of approximately 3000, we prowled the aisles of two of the three premises offering clothing options.  At the second one, where three of us purchased river-worthy shorts, the proprietor was visibly relieved to learn that the four of us did not plan to float the river on our own but had also rented a strapping oarsman along with the raft!

The next morning we floated the Salmon River for about ten miles with our strapping oarsman—a Boise State student studying civil engineering—who pointed out wildlife and geographic features, discussed both Sacajawea and Lewis and Clark lore, laughed at our antics, and skillfully navigated us along that stretch of river.  It was beautiful—at moments, devastatingly so.

Beach Bumming

I have accessed my inner beach bum and we have embraced.  The exact evolution of my life to this circumstance shall not be fully elaborated here because the story of how a girl born in a desert clime—who never even saw an ocean until she was almost twelve—ultimately disembarked in this state would be long and convoluted.  Suffice it to say, it happened.

My most recent endeavor in beach bumming occurred at the end of May.  Two friends and I fled our lives in the metropolis of Seoul for four days in Boracay, the Philippines.  Once inaugurated into a lifestyle befitting White Beach, I never deviated.  Whereas Chris went diving for a goodly chunk of each day, Camille and I “beached” it.  Each and every day.

We began with sunrise walks—in the constitutional style…except when I needed a photo moment—before a leisurely breakfast in venues on the beach. 

Then lounge chair activities under the umbrella interspersed with regular sea dipping ensued for pretty much the rest of the day except for a long lunch at another venue near the beach.  Most often that was the Lemon Cafe because it had such a splendid array of delectable options for consumption.  Now I am an ardent fan of mango smoothies—and I indulged in at least one per day while in Boracay—but the Lemon Café’s watermelon ginger smoothie was truly an amazing mingling and so refreshing.  Yes, the food was excellent, too!

Our lounge activities included talking, reading, dozing, and always watching the sea—okay, people, too—but mostly the beautiful sea.

One morning we rented paddle boards, something I have wanted to try for several years.  I had so much fun, and once the instructor told me I was a natural, I fully committed!  (The balancing and shifting of weight reminded me a lot of skiing for some reason.)

Sunsets on White Beach illuminate the sky in a breath-taking spectacle of sweeping, ever-changeable color for almost a half hour.  Two different evenings we spent at least a half-hour camera chasing that panorama of sea and sky at sunset.

Four perfect beach bumming days surely completed my conversion.  And, with the way my life spins out in reality, I will probably remain a converted beach bum...in four-day stints!

To Kill a Mockingbird

One night when my dad was out of town on a business trip, my mom—pregnant with her sixth child--loaded her five children into the car and headed to a drive-in movie venue showing To Kill a Mockingbird.  Whether or not my mom thought her children would sleep through most of the movie, I do not know.  I certainly did not, and except for perhaps my brother Ken, who would have been about three, none of us slept at all. I was eight-years-old, the oldest of the brood, and I still remember vividly certain scenes from that first movie experience: Jem rolling Scout inside a tire that ends up hitting the Radley front porch, Atticus shooting a mad dog, the jury convicting Tom Robinson of a crime he did not commit, Bob Ewell attacking Scout and Jem in the dark woods.

As a teenager, I read To Kill a Mockingbird on my own, never as part of an English class in school, and subsequent readings have only enhanced my wonderment and appreciation; it never loses ranking as one of my favorite books of all time.

Over a decade ago I had the opportunity to receive a classroom set of To Kill a Mockingbird books because of bonus points garnered from repeated purchases through a prolific publisher of books aimed at schools and students.  Most often To Kill a Mockingbird is taught during the high school years—that has certainly been the case in the school systems for which I’ve taught—yet I’ve spent my career as an English Language Arts teacher teaching solely in middle school.  Still, I rationalized that I might teach high school at some point—after all, I’m certified through grade twelve—so maybe I would have the chance to use those books with students someday.  I selected them as my “prize” and then proceeded to carry them in and out of five schools in three different countries.

But my “someday” arrived.  This spring I taught To Kill a Mockingbird ... to my eighth graders!

Such a remarkable venture:  fascinating discussion, unexpected insights, and some incredibly moving moments.

And just how did this all transpire, you may wonder.  Well,... you work with someone (my someone is Frank) who has only taught adults and high school before teaching eighth grade English Language Arts and who wants to teach Great Expectations or Grapes of Wrath to eighth graders and who insists the high school won’t mind if we do and who has ultimate say on the funds allotted to the English Department.  You wince and maybe roll your eyes a bit and say you don’t plan to do Dickens with eighth graders and there is probably a more accessible Steinbeck to use in middle school.  Then he counters, what about To Kill a Mockingbird?

At the end of the last school year, Frank had enough funds to purchase eighty copies of To Kill a Mockingbird.  He taught it for a goodly portion of first semester this school year.  In February he turned over 76 copies of the book to me, before departing for England where he had accepted a new job teaching high school German.  Because my four sections of eighth grade English numbered about 85 students, I could finally let one of my classes use the copies of To Kill a Mockingbird I had scrupulously cached all these years!  We commenced our reading at the beginning of April and finished at the end of May.  In June we watched the movie, and along with several students I choked up when Reverend Sykes said, “Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin’.”  (Of course, I did it four times, once in each class!)

Most definitely I read To Kill a Mockingbird in its entirety again this spring and then reread certain portions with my students in class.  From both discussion and student writing, here are things I observed and learned about the novel and my students:

·         The Finch family made an impression; they wanted to include Calpurnia as part of the Finch family and felt enormous frustration that Aunt Alexandra was part of it by blood.

·         Tom Robinson, Boo Radley, and Dolphus Raymond fascinated them—their circumstances and their choices.

·         One question arose in all classes after we finished reading the book:  Who would take care of Bob Ewell’s children?

·         I had multiple parents actually sit down and read this book with their children.  This action totally made a difference in the experience of reading a novel for two of my struggling readers; in fact, it may be the only book each of those students read from start to finish all year.

·         One afternoon after school, Craig and Alyse came in to work on their final projects and started discussing the novel with me: Why couldn’t the judge just decide Tom Robinson’s case?  He would have acquitted him.  We ended up talking quite a bit about our jury system in the USA.

·         Discussions and essays also showed my students' naiveté and innocence; they still lack a very complete knowledge of history and even life in general—which is okay, of course.  They are only thirteen and fourteen.  Still, I do hope they read To Kill a Mockingbird at least one more time in the coming years

As I look ahead to next school year and the fairly certain prospect of teaching eighth graders again, I realize two things:  (1) Since Frank has abandoned me for that high school position in England, I may be facing the wrath of some high school English teachers on my own.  (2) I will still teach To Kill a Mockingbird again next year!

** FOOTNOTE:  In the novel, Scout mentions how her father preferred to sit by himself at church.  I do, too—at least when I’m not with family.  I tend to get a lot more from the sermon and lessons when I can disappear into the space in my mind where the words and ideas and my own experiences intersect, when I don’t have to concern myself with social niceties and expectations.  I know there are people who worry about me and feel like they need to sit by me or invite me to sit with them, but I really am okay by myself.  So was Atticus!

Hoi An, the "Jewel of Vietnam"

Obviously in the running and certainly pressing for the lead, Vietnam may just end up as my favorite place in Asia.  In less than eighteen months, I have traveled to Vietnam three times, most recently in April for spring break.  My friend Cindy and I returned to Hoi An, Vietnam--one of our favorite places on the Vietnam tour we took back in December, 2012, my introductory trip to Vietnam.  (See my first post on Vietnam here.)  This time we spent seven days pretty much just hanging out in and around Hoi An, a city often referred to as the "jewel of Vietnam."  Piece together ambles and wanderings, a bicycle tour, boat rides, shopping, spa time, beach time, and pool time, binding them with the thread of Vietnamese cuisine, and you can create one masterpiece of a spring break!

Here now is my spring break reprised in photos.

 View from the hotel.

Hotel pool--early morning before the crowd arrives!

These next photos are all Hoi An, the old town.

One afternoon while sitting at a small cafe overlooking the river, we watched this man in his boat working with his fishing nets.  In the end we hired him to take us for a little cruise!

On a full day bicycle tour--which included boats and bamboo bridges--we checked out the countryside around Hoi An and life on the Thu Bon River.

And the beach:  This is Cua Dai.

I love Vietnam!