Hapuna Beach

Saturday, June 21, 2014

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 CafĂ©’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!






Tuesday, June 17, 2014

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' naivetĂ© 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!

Saturday, May 3, 2014

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!

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Where the Desert Meets the Sea


During a week of days ending 2013 and beginning 2014, I sojourned in a land where the desert meets the sea:  Baja California Sur, Mexico. As one who is continually awed by the unexpected beauty of desert but who ultimately prefers terrain lushly green with prolific vegetation, I suspect I could reside in Baja's stunning rendition of a desert clime--at least its southern tip--more easily than others I have known.  

Truly Baja Sur presents iself as quite pretty desert:  tall, peaky mountains in its center, deeply-hued rock and stone to fashion cliffs and bluffs, appealing vegetation, . . .


and always in proximity to the sea, one painted in tropical blues and often caressing expansive sandy beaches--pale gold to platinum.


My friend Carolee and I flew into La Paz via Los Angeles and took up residence for the week in a hotel there in La Paz on the Malecon--the Spanish word for a stone embankment or esplanade along a waterfront. In the mornings we would walk/run along the Malecon with boats and sea as a backdrop and in the company of fellow walkers/runners, applicable statuary, a few fishermen, and plenty of pelicans.


Thanks to a rental car, we had the chance to spend the rest of each of our days exploring not only La Paz and its environs but also the loop of highway circling south and west from La Paz to Todos Santos, situated on the Pacific coast, and on down to Cabo at the southern tip. From Cabo, we turned northwards toward La Paz but this time on the eastern coast highway running along the Sea of Cortez.

There are two Cabos at the southern tip of Baja:  Cabo San Lucas and San Jose del Cabo. Both have gorgeous settings, and the 30-kilometer "corridor" between them is absolutely dazzling. Cabo San Lucas throbs with a party-city vibe, and the McDonald's where we stopped in the early afternoon for its restroom facilities and some refreshment was thronged with English-speakers, mainly with American accents, and it had already sold out its supply of ice cream and Sprite.
Beach moment--Cabo San Lucas.

Todos Santos, the town where Carolee and I decided we would like to stay should we ever return to Baja Sur, has a Hotel California, rumored to be the inspiration for the famed Eagles' song "Hotel California." Apparently this seemed a possibility because the Pacific coast of Baja near Todos Santos became popular with surfers in the 1960s and the Cabo San Lucas area was certainly popular with rock stars of the 1970s. Alas, I have discovered since my return home that it is an urban legend.  The song is not about a hotel at all; instead, it is a metaphor for the loss of innocence, particularly for artists who find themselves "ensnared in the 'glittering web' of life in the music industry."  In an interview with 60 Minutes in 2007, composer Don Henley described the song "Hotel California" as a "song about . . . excess in America, which is something we knew a lot about." He alluded to the fact that in a culture of decadence and wealth, it is easy to be trapped in the high life, dealing with the dark underbelly of the music industry. 

Still, once one has driven that loop of highway and wandered the cobbled walkways of Todos Santos and other coastal villages, those lyrics evoke the experience and conjure memories of scents and sounds and scenes, witnessed or imagined.


Hotel California
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year (Any time of year)
You can find it here

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

So I called up the Captain,
"Please bring me my wine"
He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine"
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Bring your alibis

Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device"
And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
"Relax, " said the night man,
"We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave! "