 The other day I was perusing a news article about social media when I came across a reference to Donald Trump's now defunct blog, which he called "From the Desk of Donald Trump." He put up his first post on May 2, 2021.  Twenty-nine days later he gave up blogging and all his posts were deleted. Whoa, thought I upon reading this news, or news to me, at least, as it likely would have been to most folks: It seems that "From the Desk of Donald Trump" both entered and dropped out of the blogosphere with a yawn. Anyway, Whoa, I thought, Donald Trump cannot blog! Now, granted, the guy can do a lot of things that I can't. I can't build hotels, casinos, exclusive golf clubs or factories in China, the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Honduras where workers make "Make America Great Again" hats.  I can't buy people, I can't mesmerize people or garner their adoration.  I can't compel people to lie for me, commit crimes for me, do wrong for me, make fools of themselves for me, throw away their good names and careers for me, go to prison for me, or jeopardize their health for me.  Donald Trump can and does do all those things. But dude can't write a blog. Dude can't write anything. Unless you call tweets writing. Apparently Trump didn't even write the few blogs he posted. According to an article in The Washington Post, "Trump dictated his messages to his aides, who would print them out so he could revise them with a Sharpie before manually posting them to the blog." (1.) Sorry, but doing that no more makes you a blogger than hiring a ghost writer to produce a book then attaching your name to it makes you a writer.    As for me, neither my books nor my blog are widely read, and few people have heard of me or ever will. But I can blog and I can write books, and every word ever posted or published under my name has been my own, straight from my own head, hand, and heart. And that I wouldn't trade for all Donald Trump's millions.  References 1. https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2021/06/02/trump-blog-dead/ 2. https://abcnews4.com/news/local/where-is-maga-merchandise-made 3. https://thehill.com/homenews/administration/395464-trump-biographer-trump-didnt-write-any-of-his-books
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...for brunch at the Black Bear Diner,
...a cozy place with a rustic decor,
...and great food.
We then returned to The Garden Corner,
...where Romaine picked out a few more plants for her garden.
The next day, Memorial Day, was the last day of my visit, and so it was my wish to return to Biscuits Cafe, where I had consumed that most memorable cinnamon roll.
However, this time I had a hankering to try the hot biscuits with strawberry jam that had caught my eye on our previous visit, so I ordered the eggs and hash browns with which the biscuits and jam came as a side.
However, this time I had a hankering to try the hot biscuits with strawberry jam that had caught my eye on our previous visit, so I ordered the eggs and hash browns with which the biscuits and jam came as a side.
Were the biscuits and jam as yummy as I had fantasized they might be? Indeed they were. The eggs and hash brown were also very good.
Romaine likewise declared her veggie scramble delicious.
Romaine likewise declared her veggie scramble delicious.
After breakfast we drove about forty minutes to Salem to the Adelman Peony Gardens, where there were thousands of peonies of many varieties,
...as well as a few other kinds of late spring flowers in bloom.
That afternoon Romaine and I decided to go to the movies. This would be the first time that either of us had been inside a movie theater since the beginning of the pandemic last year. We decided that for our for first foray back a 2:45 pm matinee on Memorial Day should be a fairly safe venture.
This turned out to be the case, as the movie theater was practically empty.
On the walls and floors were posted the same cautionary admonitions that one has become used to seeing in public places since the pandemic.
Social distancing turned out to be easy enough since there were only two other people besides ourselves in our auditorium. We saw "A Quiet Place II."
Now, much as I liked "A Quiet Place" (see post 4/23/2018, "A Quiet Place," A Troubling Metaphor"), I thought the sequel was a drag, kind of ho-hum but at the same time nerve-wracking due to all the "gotcha" moments. My sister, on the other hand, really liked the flick. In fact, I think everybody else really liked this flick. It'll probably win an academy award.
That night we watched on TV a Netflix movie called "Army of the Dead" in which Las Vegas is taken over by zombies,
Now, much as I liked "A Quiet Place" (see post 4/23/2018, "A Quiet Place," A Troubling Metaphor"), I thought the sequel was a drag, kind of ho-hum but at the same time nerve-wracking due to all the "gotcha" moments. My sister, on the other hand, really liked the flick. In fact, I think everybody else really liked this flick. It'll probably win an academy award.
That night we watched on TV a Netflix movie called "Army of the Dead" in which Las Vegas is taken over by zombies,
...and which I thought was considerably better than "A Quiet Place II."
Early the following morning I caught one final, glorious glimpse of Mount Hood,
Early the following morning I caught one final, glorious glimpse of Mount Hood,
...then I was back at the Portland airport,
...and soon headed home.
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A LITTLE SLICE OF HEAVEN IN SHERWOOD, OREGON
...Continued from previous post:
My fiascos with planes and Uber rides finally behind me, I arrived in Portland, Oregon late in the evening of May 26 for a visit with my sister Romaine,
My fiascos with planes and Uber rides finally behind me, I arrived in Portland, Oregon late in the evening of May 26 for a visit with my sister Romaine,
...and my fur niece Lucy,
...who had recently moved to Sherwood, a small Portland exurb.
Sherwood seemed to me a fitting name, as the environs were quite foresty.
Romaine's new forest green house,
...with its charming back yard,
...sits on a pretty green cul-de-sac,
...in the center of which is a tree that looks to have been transplanted from an enchanted forest, and which is the favorite climbing tree of the neighborhood children.
Though when she moved into the house all the walls were painted the same shade of café au lait as the living room still is,
...little by little Romaine has been transforming the rooms with blues and blue-greens.
The guest room.
Shortly after she moved into the neighborhood my sister discovered what she has nicknamed the Little Slice of Heaven: a wooded area at the end of her block.
Every day we walked Lucy through the neighborhood,
Every day we walked Lucy through the neighborhood,
...passing along the way another magical-looking tree,
...to the Little Slice of Heaven.
Each time we walked through this little forest I'd find myself recalling the words printed on a card given to my mother by her mother and passed on to me over 40 years ago by my mother, who died last November and whose birthday happens to be today, June 24:
To be continued...
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INTO THE UBERVERSE AT THE LA AIRPORT
...Continued from previous post:
I had been warned that finding the Uber pick-up point at the Los Angeles airport could be a little tricky. In fact, it didn't seem at all tricky. I stepped outside of the terminal and saw that the many lanes of traffic were divided by a pedestrian island where there were several bus stops as well as a tall grey pillar a few hundred feet down the island upon which was written "Uber." Well, that wasn't hard, I thought.
I crossed to the island and walked to the Uber pillar. I found it strange that no one was waiting there. However, I did see a few passengers waiting around a nearby pillar indicating Terminal 4B, which made me wonder if that was where one should wait for one's Uber. Just to be safe I decided to wait between the Uber pillar and the Terminal 4B pillar.
I had been warned that finding the Uber pick-up point at the Los Angeles airport could be a little tricky. In fact, it didn't seem at all tricky. I stepped outside of the terminal and saw that the many lanes of traffic were divided by a pedestrian island where there were several bus stops as well as a tall grey pillar a few hundred feet down the island upon which was written "Uber." Well, that wasn't hard, I thought.
I crossed to the island and walked to the Uber pillar. I found it strange that no one was waiting there. However, I did see a few passengers waiting around a nearby pillar indicating Terminal 4B, which made me wonder if that was where one should wait for one's Uber. Just to be safe I decided to wait between the Uber pillar and the Terminal 4B pillar.
I then pulled up my Uber app and ordered a car. I was informed that a car was twenty 20 minutes away, which was a little surprising and a mite annoying. One is not accustomed to waiting long for one's Uber. A few minutes later I was notified that a different driver was ten minutes away. Eight minutes later someone else was fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes later my ride was two minutes away. Then twenty.
Now, I really should have figured out by then that something was amiss between myself and the Uberverse. Especially since the other folks waiting by the 4B pillar had already been picked up, though by whom or what entity I did not know. I also should have recalled my daughter's warning that finding the Uber stop might require some sleuthing.
No, after twenty-some minutes of waiting between the pillars, for the most part by myself, I still wasn't getting it.
Finally I received a message that a driver named Leon was six minutes away. Then four. Then three. I felt an inner surge of satisfaction. That is, at least until a member of the Los Angeles airport police approached me and asked me if I was waiting for someone. I told him I was waiting for an Uber.
"This isn't the Uber pick-up," he said.
"But what about that?" I asked, pointing to the Uber pillar behind me.
"There's no Uber pick-up allowed here anymore," he said. "You have to take a shuttle to the ride lot. Back that way." He pointed towards the terminal. "Take a left and keep walking until you get to the shuttle stop."
Miffed that I'd waited around so long for nada, I wanted to shout, But then why is the Uber pillar still here! However I thought better of dumping on this armed and up-until-now patient police officer. Besides, I had a more immediate problem: according to my Uber app my driver Leon was now two minutes away! I sent Leon an apologetic message explaining what happened and admitting that I had no idea how long it would take to get from the airport to the ride pick-up lot.
No problem, Leon graciously texted back.
I began walking in the direction towards which the police officer had pointed me. A couple of terminals later I came across the bona fide ride lot shuttle stop. The stop was crowded, and it appeared that the shuttle bus loading passengers was on the verge of reaching capacity.
Now, I really should have figured out by then that something was amiss between myself and the Uberverse. Especially since the other folks waiting by the 4B pillar had already been picked up, though by whom or what entity I did not know. I also should have recalled my daughter's warning that finding the Uber stop might require some sleuthing.
No, after twenty-some minutes of waiting between the pillars, for the most part by myself, I still wasn't getting it.
Finally I received a message that a driver named Leon was six minutes away. Then four. Then three. I felt an inner surge of satisfaction. That is, at least until a member of the Los Angeles airport police approached me and asked me if I was waiting for someone. I told him I was waiting for an Uber.
"This isn't the Uber pick-up," he said.
"But what about that?" I asked, pointing to the Uber pillar behind me.
"There's no Uber pick-up allowed here anymore," he said. "You have to take a shuttle to the ride lot. Back that way." He pointed towards the terminal. "Take a left and keep walking until you get to the shuttle stop."
Miffed that I'd waited around so long for nada, I wanted to shout, But then why is the Uber pillar still here! However I thought better of dumping on this armed and up-until-now patient police officer. Besides, I had a more immediate problem: according to my Uber app my driver Leon was now two minutes away! I sent Leon an apologetic message explaining what happened and admitting that I had no idea how long it would take to get from the airport to the ride pick-up lot.
No problem, Leon graciously texted back.
I began walking in the direction towards which the police officer had pointed me. A couple of terminals later I came across the bona fide ride lot shuttle stop. The stop was crowded, and it appeared that the shuttle bus loading passengers was on the verge of reaching capacity.
The door to the bus closed just as a pair of young men with a couple of small dogs were preparing to board.
"Open the door, you f***ing b**ch, I have a support animal!" one of the men yelled at the driver, to the obvious dismay of his companion. "Didn't you hear me, f****ing b**ch?" he yelled after the bus as it drove off, "I have a support animal, b**ch! "
Now, I figured another shuttle would be along soon enough. But I sure as shootin' didn't want to share it with this anger management challengee.
However, upon closer look at the info-pillar I saw that it was possible to walk to the ride lot.
"Open the door, you f***ing b**ch, I have a support animal!" one of the men yelled at the driver, to the obvious dismay of his companion. "Didn't you hear me, f****ing b**ch?" he yelled after the bus as it drove off, "I have a support animal, b**ch! "
Now, I figured another shuttle would be along soon enough. But I sure as shootin' didn't want to share it with this anger management challengee.
However, upon closer look at the info-pillar I saw that it was possible to walk to the ride lot.
I decided to hoof it.
As it turned out, fifteen minutes was a bit of an optimistic stretch. It took me a good fifteen minutes to walk to the five-minute pillar,
As it turned out, fifteen minutes was a bit of an optimistic stretch. It took me a good fifteen minutes to walk to the five-minute pillar,
...at which point a shuttle arrived - not inhabited by the support-animal guy, thank goodness - and so I rode for the final leg of the trip.
The LA airport ride lot was a vast expanse crowded with vehicles and people.
The LA airport ride lot was a vast expanse crowded with vehicles and people.
And yet, as I was making my way through the throng, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a car in the Uber waiting area bearing the license plate of my Uber! After all this time Leon was still here waiting for me! Or else he was just here waiting for anybody. But it didn't matter, I'd finally made it to Uber Valhalla and I had me a ride!
To be continued...
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SURPRISE, SURPRISE
...Continued from previous post:
"This is not your flight," said the lady at the boarding gate, studying the boarding pass that had made the scanner emit a loud, hostile beep.
"What?" said I.
"This ticket is for the 8:45 PM flight to Portland. Not the 8:45 AM flight.
"But, but.." said I.
But there were no buts. My boarding pass clearly stated 8:45P, the P meaning PM.
"Come back tonight," said the gate agent, though not unkindly.
I slunk away in shock and mortification, yet still sure this must be a mess-up on somebody else's part. I couldn't possibly have made such a dumb error.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my flight info. Sure enough. My flight was for 8:45P.
In truth I was less dismayed that I was staring at a twelve-hour wait for my flight to Portland than that I had made this ginormous mistake. How could I do this? When booking a flight I always check, double-check, and triple check the times and dates against making just this kind of goof.
I lingered in the boarding area in funk. Was I losing my ability to book a plane ticket? Was this my brain's first step heading out the door?
Then, just like that, in that area of my cerebral cortex that I feared was going dim, a light bulb snapped on: I didn't make this reservation!
I had a credit from a flight I'd booked last year to attend my son-in-law's niece's quinceañera in Arizona that I had to cancel because of the COVID epidemic. In order to cash in my flight credit I had to call the airline and make my reservation through a booking agent. I now remembered that I'd found online an 8:45 AM flight from Los Angeles to Portland and I asked the agent on the phone to book this one for me. I remembered, too, that the agent was having some trouble finding this flight that I wanted. She offered me several other flights, but I was quite insistent that the 8:45 AM flight must exist as I was looking at it on my computer. Finally she found - or claimed to find - the flight I wanted and booked it - supposedly - for me.
Now, I admit, I guess I should have realized when looking over the reservation confirmation I received from the airline that 8:45P (which, for all I knew, the "P" could have stood for "Portland") meant 8:45PM, though, in my defense, if the time had been written 8:45PM I would surely have caught it. So I'm willing to take half the responsibility for the mistake. Which is a whole lot better than making the mistake.
I was still rejoicing that my brain wasn't yet bidding me adieu when I was hit with another cause for jubilation: I have another day to spend in Los Angeles!
As my hosts were working I told them not to worry about coming to fetch me at the airport, I'd Uber it home. They warned me that I might find snagging an Uber at the Los Angeles airport a little challenging. I jauntily told them that I was up to the challenge.
"This is not your flight," said the lady at the boarding gate, studying the boarding pass that had made the scanner emit a loud, hostile beep.
"What?" said I.
"This ticket is for the 8:45 PM flight to Portland. Not the 8:45 AM flight.
"But, but.." said I.
But there were no buts. My boarding pass clearly stated 8:45P, the P meaning PM.
"Come back tonight," said the gate agent, though not unkindly.
I slunk away in shock and mortification, yet still sure this must be a mess-up on somebody else's part. I couldn't possibly have made such a dumb error.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my flight info. Sure enough. My flight was for 8:45P.
In truth I was less dismayed that I was staring at a twelve-hour wait for my flight to Portland than that I had made this ginormous mistake. How could I do this? When booking a flight I always check, double-check, and triple check the times and dates against making just this kind of goof.
I lingered in the boarding area in funk. Was I losing my ability to book a plane ticket? Was this my brain's first step heading out the door?
Then, just like that, in that area of my cerebral cortex that I feared was going dim, a light bulb snapped on: I didn't make this reservation!
I had a credit from a flight I'd booked last year to attend my son-in-law's niece's quinceañera in Arizona that I had to cancel because of the COVID epidemic. In order to cash in my flight credit I had to call the airline and make my reservation through a booking agent. I now remembered that I'd found online an 8:45 AM flight from Los Angeles to Portland and I asked the agent on the phone to book this one for me. I remembered, too, that the agent was having some trouble finding this flight that I wanted. She offered me several other flights, but I was quite insistent that the 8:45 AM flight must exist as I was looking at it on my computer. Finally she found - or claimed to find - the flight I wanted and booked it - supposedly - for me.
Now, I admit, I guess I should have realized when looking over the reservation confirmation I received from the airline that 8:45P (which, for all I knew, the "P" could have stood for "Portland") meant 8:45PM, though, in my defense, if the time had been written 8:45PM I would surely have caught it. So I'm willing to take half the responsibility for the mistake. Which is a whole lot better than making the mistake.
I was still rejoicing that my brain wasn't yet bidding me adieu when I was hit with another cause for jubilation: I have another day to spend in Los Angeles!
As my hosts were working I told them not to worry about coming to fetch me at the airport, I'd Uber it home. They warned me that I might find snagging an Uber at the Los Angeles airport a little challenging. I jauntily told them that I was up to the challenge.
To be continued...
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THE EXISTENTIAL MYSTERY OF BUTTERFLIES
...Continued from previous post:
Oh happy day, the butterflies have arrived!
This morning two of the eight chrysalides hanging - literally - around the back yard,
Oh happy day, the butterflies have arrived!
This morning two of the eight chrysalides hanging - literally - around the back yard,
...hatched into butterflies.
The chrysalides this morning:
The chrysalides this morning:
The newborn butterflies this afternoon (with a caterpillar photo-bombing one of the shots):
I've spent the afternoon thinking about butterflies and the metamorphosis by which they come into existence.
I've never before thought excessively about butterflies, even less about how they turn into what - or maybe who - they are. But now that I know more about the process and was personally involved with the care and nurturing of these particular butterflies when they were among the cadre of hungry little caterpillars eating their way through my daughter's garden (See yesterday's post, "The Buttas"),
I've never before thought excessively about butterflies, even less about how they turn into what - or maybe who - they are. But now that I know more about the process and was personally involved with the care and nurturing of these particular butterflies when they were among the cadre of hungry little caterpillars eating their way through my daughter's garden (See yesterday's post, "The Buttas"),
... I find myself trying to wrap my brain around the existential mystery of metamorphosis.
Think about it: The caterpillar is living its life when its body is invaded from inside by this growing green thing that destroys the caterpillar's body and sloughs it off like dead skin. But here's what has set me to pondering: What happens during metamorphosis to the caterpillar's consciousness, essence, spirit, whatever you want to call it? I suppose we could call it the caterpillar's mind, that immaterial thing that in humans makes us who we are, gives of us our unique individuality and is a function of our brain.
So what does happen to the caterpillar's mind during and after its metamorphosis? Does the chrysalis start growing around the caterpillar's brain, in which case the caterpillar would still be itself as a chrysalis and later as a butterfly? This would make sense, I suppose, as the caterpillar voluntarily hangs itself upside down,
Think about it: The caterpillar is living its life when its body is invaded from inside by this growing green thing that destroys the caterpillar's body and sloughs it off like dead skin. But here's what has set me to pondering: What happens during metamorphosis to the caterpillar's consciousness, essence, spirit, whatever you want to call it? I suppose we could call it the caterpillar's mind, that immaterial thing that in humans makes us who we are, gives of us our unique individuality and is a function of our brain.
So what does happen to the caterpillar's mind during and after its metamorphosis? Does the chrysalis start growing around the caterpillar's brain, in which case the caterpillar would still be itself as a chrysalis and later as a butterfly? This would make sense, I suppose, as the caterpillar voluntarily hangs itself upside down,
...and the chrysalis grows from the head, where I assume the caterpillar's brain, such as it is, would probably be.
So are the chrysalis and the butterfly the same individual - this is, have the same mind - as the caterpillar they started out as?
Or is it possible that the butterfly ends up a different individual - that is to say, with a different mind - from the caterpillar?
While the chrysalis is destroying the caterpillar's body, might the caterpillar's mind exist in both the caterpillar and the chrysalis? Or does the chrysalis have its own mind that will be the mind of the butterfly when it is born? In which case, does the caterpillar's mind die along with its body?
But here's the most mind-churning question of all for me: If the caterpillar and the subsequent butterfly are the same individual but the caterpillar's mind dies when its body does - as minds generally do - how does the caterpillar's identity re-emerge in the butterfly's body?
I don't know whether it's a question for science or theology.
So are the chrysalis and the butterfly the same individual - this is, have the same mind - as the caterpillar they started out as?
Or is it possible that the butterfly ends up a different individual - that is to say, with a different mind - from the caterpillar?
While the chrysalis is destroying the caterpillar's body, might the caterpillar's mind exist in both the caterpillar and the chrysalis? Or does the chrysalis have its own mind that will be the mind of the butterfly when it is born? In which case, does the caterpillar's mind die along with its body?
But here's the most mind-churning question of all for me: If the caterpillar and the subsequent butterfly are the same individual but the caterpillar's mind dies when its body does - as minds generally do - how does the caterpillar's identity re-emerge in the butterfly's body?
I don't know whether it's a question for science or theology.
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THE BUTTAS
...Continued from previous post:
In the small garden behind our host's house there grows a patch of bright orange flowers called butterfly weed.
In the small garden behind our host's house there grows a patch of bright orange flowers called butterfly weed.
During our visit these butterfly weeds were living up to their name, as the plants were crawling with beautiful yellow- and black-striped monarch caterpillars,
...who apparently find the leaves most delicious and nourishing to nosh upon in this early stage of their journey to one day becoming monarch butterflies.
And nosh these future butterflies did.
These hungry little tenants - whom we nicknamed the Buttas - were objects of fascination for us all. Multiple times during the day we would go out to the butterfly weeds to check on the Buttas.
Concerned that the Buttas have a solid, secure structure from which to hang while they transformed from caterpillar into chrysalis into monarch, Tom moved some trellises from another part of the garden into the milkweed. patch,
...and gerryrigged together what hefigured would be a nice hanging structure for the chrysalides.
Day by day the Buttas appeared well and thriving; the butterfly weeds, less and less so. For the plants were being stripped of their leaves by the very hungry caterpillars, who, it became clear, were about to run out of provisions in this garden patch.
A grocery run was called for. And so on the last day of our visit Tom and I made a trip to Home Depot for more butterfly weeds.
Last I saw, the Buttas appeared to be enjoying the extra munchies.
Butta Update:
We've been kept apprised of the progress of the Buttas. The first week in June, for the most part eschewing the fine trellis structure that had been built for them, they began attaching themselves upside down to various spots around the back yard,
We've been kept apprised of the progress of the Buttas. The first week in June, for the most part eschewing the fine trellis structure that had been built for them, they began attaching themselves upside down to various spots around the back yard,
...shedding their beautiful black, white, and yellow skin from the bottom up,
...until each had transformed into an emerald green chrysalis. The black bunching at the top is the remains of the skin.
As of yesterday, June 13, the Buttas were still chrysalides, leaving us all to ponder the how and why of the existential magic trick of a caterpillar disappearing then popping out of a bright green box in the identity of a butterfly.
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I LOVE THE VENICE CANALS. (THE OTHER VENICE CANALS).
...Continued from yesterday:
Everyone who knows me well knows that I love the Venice Canals.
Not the ones in Venice, Italy, which I find kind of creepy,
Everyone who knows me well knows that I love the Venice Canals.
Not the ones in Venice, Italy, which I find kind of creepy,
In fact I've been to Venice, Italy twice and both times I found the whole city kind of creepy. I don't know, too much water, or something. I kind of felt like I was stuck out in the middle of the ocean, which I guess I actually was. And then I read this scary novel called "Vaporetto 13" set in Venice which really creeped me out, as did the movie "Don't Look Now", another spine-chiller set in Venice. And then there's "Death In Venice," where, well, the guy dies in Venice (no spoiler, it's in the title), and a sci-fi short story version of that classic I once read called "Old, Old Death In New, New Venice," which also didn't give me a good feeling about the place.
Anyway, I'm not a huge fan of Venice, Italy. Maybe it's because I never learned to swim.
Ah, but warm, sunny, Venice, California is another story, and so are its canals.
Anyway, I'm not a huge fan of Venice, Italy. Maybe it's because I never learned to swim.
Ah, but warm, sunny, Venice, California is another story, and so are its canals.
For me the Venice - California - canals never seem to lose their magic.
So when our host kindly suggested a Saturday morning trip to the canals for my benefit, I considered it a splendid idea, which it did, in fact, turn out to be.
Upon entering the city of Venice the vista is a mix of busy, palm-lined streets,
So when our host kindly suggested a Saturday morning trip to the canals for my benefit, I considered it a splendid idea, which it did, in fact, turn out to be.
Upon entering the city of Venice the vista is a mix of busy, palm-lined streets,
...mountains off in the distance,
...and copious traffic.
But then one parks the car, walks a half-block to the canals, and enters another world.
At one point while strolling along I declared, to no one in particular, "I love this place."
From behind me a voice answered, "So do I."
I turned to see a gent about my age. "I come here every day to walk," he said.
It's always nice to meet a kindred spirit.
To be continued...
From behind me a voice answered, "So do I."
I turned to see a gent about my age. "I come here every day to walk," he said.
It's always nice to meet a kindred spirit.
To be continued...
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MANHATTAN BEACH ON A FRIDAY EVENING IN MAY
...Continued from yesterday:
One Friday evening during our L.A. visit our hosts invited to some friends' house for an outdoor get-together.
Did we mind, our hosts asked, being on our own for the night? To which hubby and I answered, "Hecks, no!"
We narrowed our most promising choices for an evening's diversion down to staying home and watching a movie or going for a walk along the beach. We opted for the walk along the beach.
And so we set out for Manhattan Beach,
One Friday evening during our L.A. visit our hosts invited to some friends' house for an outdoor get-together.
Did we mind, our hosts asked, being on our own for the night? To which hubby and I answered, "Hecks, no!"
We narrowed our most promising choices for an evening's diversion down to staying home and watching a movie or going for a walk along the beach. We opted for the walk along the beach.
And so we set out for Manhattan Beach,
We snagged a parking spot several blocks from the beach, then we walked to Manhattan Beach Boulevard,
...the main downtown thoroughfare, where one may cross the streets in five directions.
The restaurants, shops and streets along the Boulevard were crowded with mostly masked folks,
We walked until we reached the pier,
...which offered splendid views of the beach, strewn with volleyball nets for the professional tournaments that take place there all summer,
...as well a panorama of the houses on the Strand, the walkway that runs along the beach.
...and the Pacific Ocean, with the Palos Verdes hills visible off in the distance to the south.
...and the Santa Monica Mountains to the north.
Tom on the Manhattan Beach Pier.
We walked from the pier back to the Strand,
....towards Hermosa Beach, the next town over,
...taking in the sights along the way.
The "Walk Streets," residential pedestrian streets that run between downtown Manhattan Beach and the Strand.
As the sun began to set we turned and headed back towards the Manhattan Beach Pier,
...to downtown,
Then we headed for home.
To be continued...
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THE MEDITERRANEAN FLOWERS THAT BLOOM IN THE SPRING
...Continued from yesterday:
The biological community of interacting organisms and their physical environment known as the Mediterranean Ecosystem occurs in only five relatively small areas around the planet: the area bordering the Mediterranean Sea,
...central Chile,
...the Cape region of South Africa,
...southwestern Australia,
and southern California,
...in which is located the city of Los Angeles.
I've been to Los Angeles on numerous occasions at different times of the year and seen the striking flora and fauna on display there all year round.
I've been to Los Angeles on numerous occasions at different times of the year and seen the striking flora and fauna on display there all year round.
But to see L.A. blooming in all its Mediterranean glory there's no time like mid-May.
During our visit for the last two weeks of May colorful flowers appeared to be climbing over walls,
During our visit for the last two weeks of May colorful flowers appeared to be climbing over walls,
...and through fences,
...and onto rooftops.
Flowers bloomed in the trees,
...in gardens everywhere,
...and pretty much all around the town.
There were flowers everywhere, growing effortlessly, all thanks the gift of balmy Mediterranean biology.
...or so a bloom-struck visitor like me would think.
To be continued...
"Tropical Depression"
by Patti Liszkay
Buy it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTPN7NYY
by Patti Liszkay
Buy it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTPN7NYY
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I am a traveler just visiting this planet and reporting various and sundry observations,
hopefully of interest to my fellow travelers.
hopefully of interest to my fellow travelers.