Day 1 (& 2 & 3) London + Paris

Well, I’ve just toodled Leann off to her “locking the gates at the Tower of London” ceremony by way of the best local fish and chips shop in TripAdvisor, downloaded photos from her phone, H’s phone, my phone . . . And now time to put it all together.

So – Hi!!!

Has to be about a year ago, a friend texted me out of the blue saying, “You and Leann want to go to the Olympics?” (My reaction – “Um, whaaaa?”) Turns out that you need to enter a lottery to be able to purchase tickets early on; she had, and had won. This allowed her to purchase sets of 3 tickets (to “lower ranking” events) for 6 people. Leann and I chose Men’s Water Polo, Men’s Trampoline (which may or may not be taking place in a museum), and Men’s Beach Volleyball (at 9 p.m. – on “the beach” . . . At the foot of the Eiffel Tower!) We all wanted to go to the Rowing finals, Women’s Skateboarding finals . . . Then booked a few events together, and a few separately, via Get Your Guide (recommended by the American Express concierge as “Not a scam.”)

As Leann hadn’t been “across the pond,” we decided to take a few days in London first.

Delta had a few issues along the way – first, cancelling Leann’s direct flight … then just cancelling her trip altogether (Me: “Why did I just get an Amex credit for the $ value of your flight?” Leann: “#$@*&^@# Delta!!) … then getting hit by the computer issue last week and having to cancel ?5,000? Flights – but ultimately we both made it! (NOTE: In my opinion, best seat in Virgin Atlantic Upper Class = 1A. Only one person “behind” you, you don’t share an overhead bin, and there is a HUGE “vent” that you can put your things on, just not for take off and landing. Virgin’s lie-flat seats are a little oddly configured, so this made a HUGE difference.)

After a thankfully uneventful passport control and customs, I met Leann with one of my best friends from my 8 years in Washington D.C., Gay (“Half Way”) from the Hash House Harriers. What a surprise! Gay lives down in Kent, and we had discussed possibly trying to meet up in London – she looked at our arrival schedule and decided to meet us at Heathrow! She had a bag of “treats” to welcome me “back” – PG Tips, Hobnobs, Digestives, Cadbury chocolate . . . Yum!

After a bit of up and down and around and skyways and lifts, we met our Uber driver in the Heathrow car park and headed in to London. The sedan was able to fit the three of us, our carryons, and our checked luggage (hat tip to Solgaard’s large “trunk” – wonderful!), and off we went. Leann took the front seat to have a better view (to the left is MI5 as we crossed Vauxhall Bridge), and to let Gay and me catch up on about !35! Years.

We checked in at the Strand Palace and Gay came up to the room with us. We opened the door … and at about half way open, it slammed into the foot of one of the beds! The room is clean, mattresses are comfy, shower head can be raised so only minimal ducking … Who needs a ton of floor space? 🙂

We decided to head down to the Art Deco-inspired “gin joint” at the hotel. The atmosphere was fun; each cocktail was inspired in some way by a historic event at The Strand Palace or person involved in its history.

Gay told us that it had been raining before we arrived, and we all wondered how it would affect the Olympics Opening Ceremony, which we thought was starting at just about the time our drinks arrived. (No TVs in the “gin joint.”) We had a super fun evening, though Leann and I were starting to be a bit “worse for wear” jet-lag-wise. Gay had taken a train up from Kent and was staying at a nearby hotel, so we bid her “adieu,” actually thinking we would be able to meet up the next day (Spoiler Alert: Bad cell phone communications…*sigh*)

When we got back to our room, Leann and I changed into jammies (mine, the ones I had “liberated” from Virgin Airlines), turned on BBC, and were just in time to see the Ukrainian athletes slide by in their barge on the Seine. We had missed the beginning with Lady Gaga, the Marie Antoinettes holding their heads in the windows of Versailles, ménage at Trois at ?the library?, all countries before “U”, etc. – but we saw the end of the parade of athletes, the “fashion show,” dancing, “steampunkesque” horse and rider on the Seine (amazing!), fireworks, parkour/ninja delivering the torch, Carl Lewis and Serena carrying the torch in the wavy water (Serena looked seasick!), turn-of-the-last-century-style balloon as the Eternal Flame “caldron,” Celine Dion and, of course, *THE RAIN*! We discussed how we hoped that none of the athletes would come down with a cold! It was *pouring*.

Didn’t sleep great this first night . . . And then, waking up at about 3 a.m. local time, I had a “Waaaaaait a second…” moment, and quietly got out my phone and started doing a bit of research.

I was to start off with a guided tour of the Churchill War Rooms, which is run by the Imperial War Museum. Back when I was in grammar school and high school, my family had a board game that we called the “London Tube” game. I don’t really remember how to play it, but I *do* remember that if you had to get to the IWM (Imperial War Museum), it was *way* down in a part of London that was difficult to get back from, at a station called “Elephant and Castle.” Leann and I had planned that she would go to the IWM, I would do the War Rooms, and we would meet when I was done.

Herbert and I had gone to the IWR the last time we were in London. We both loved it. But my 3 a.m. wake-up was a reminder from far earlier, when I had been in London with my cousin Robin. That memory centered around St. James’s Park – which is far from Elephant and Castle – walking past the War Rooms “entry” and discussing it.

Sure enough – I looked up the War Rooms – and they were *nowhere near* the actual War Museum. Yikes!

When Leann “finally” woke up (about 5 lol), I told her what I had uncovered. We decided to scrap the idea of actually going to the IWM at all (remember the Tube game? It’s out of the way, not near other sights…) She would come with me to the War Rooms (which are, indeed, across from St James’s Park), and do what she had really wanted to do at some point in our travels – head down to the Thames and see Ben Ben, Westminster, etc. Perfect!

We found the only coffee shop open in about a 5 mile radius at that hour (truth!), took a few snaps, and then she was off to the Thames, I was off to the War Rooms. The streets were deserted, though we kept coming across barriers, police, etc. (More on that later.)

Here are a few shots from Leann’s jaunt while I was 12’ underground in Churchill’s War Rooms. (Yes, only twelve feet!) I cropped them to be a bit more artistic, but I would *bet you* if you asked her nicely, she’ll show you the actual photos. 🙂 And BY the way, did you know that “Big Ben” is NOT the name of the clock tower? “Big Ben” is the name of the bell inside…the clock tower is Elizabeth Tower. Yes, really!

Meanwhile, I was (only) 12 feet underground, doing the tour of the War Rooms. If you think they are a close and claustrophobic rabbit warren now, imagine adding thick cigar and cigarette smoke from every single person! When the “fresh” air came in from outside, it was so polluted with dust, grit, etc from the continual bombing (plus the “usual pollution that was rampant in London until just recently” per our guide), in actual fact, the cigarette and cigar-laden air was considered preferable!

Once Leann and I met back up, we headed over to Buckingham Palace, which was PACKED with people obviously believing they were going to see the Changing of the Guard at 11:00. It was about 10:50 … but it was Saturday (no Changing). Since we were “In The Know,” we headed through a gorgeous sunny St. James’s Park up to Fortnum and Mason to have a scone and some Countess Grey.

We tried to catch a cab from F&M to Raffles, where we were having lunch. First, the driver texted us that we had to walk about 3-4 blocks, because the roads were closed. Once we got in the car and drove about 3 more blocks, he said that we would get there faster if we walked – it would take him about 40 minutes by car but it would take us about 25 minutes to walk. And he charged us the full fare – ah well….

We followed Citymapper through back streets and wound up on the Plaza behind the horse guards – just as they were having a changing of the guards! That was a huge surprise! In case you’re wondering, the guards with the big bearskin helmets are all infantry. They “stopped smiling” during Victoria’s reign. She had lost her husband – the love of her life – early, and from that moment she started wearing black and “never smiled again.” The guards in “sympathy” also started looking more stalwart. It’s currently $200 if you are caught smiling, which goes directly to the Royals. Leann and I talked about it being like a Secret Shopper in a store – perhaps they have “Secret Tourists Snapping Photos”??

When we finally made it to Raffles, we accidentally wound up in the Drawing Room versus the Guard’s Bar, and had a spendy high tea. It was great, just unexpected. Our waiter was particularly nice. He was from Portugal. Actually told us he had been almost a shut-in computer guy, but after COVID he decided to get into the hospitality industry and “learn how to” talk to people, etc. He now was exceptionally proud to be a waiter at Raffles.

Turns out the Amex concierge had booked us in the Drawing Room though I’d asked for the Guard Room Bar. When I went to the Guard’s Bar to apologize that we hadn’t shown up for our reservation, they felt bad for us and gave us a glass of champagne, gratis. 🙂

There had been an *enormous* protest when we were at Raffles. The maitre d’ told us that they had been told to “plan for” two protests today, but had found out that morning that there would be three. That’s why *so* many roads were closed.

The bartender at the Guard Bar gave us a “back way” to avoid the protest, closed roads, etc on the Strand, which we followed. It took us under the Embarkment and then into a sweet little park that ended right behind the Savoy, which was across the street from our hotel. Score!

Police laden down with machine guns across their chests = a completely different visual than anything I expected in the U.K. As most folks know, generally Police in Britain do not have guns. The idea is that if a policeman is shot, “everyone knows” that the police do not have guns, so it’s far, far more egregious than other countries.

We walked back to the hotel; Leann took a nap while I started downloading photos for this post! The wifi here is pretty slow, so it’s been a bit of a slog.

She headed out about two hours ago for her “Key Ceremony” locking the doors of the Tower of London – and she wanted to get a “fish and chips” while alone (since I’m allergic to fish). She did text me that she made it, had a great time, and was checking off another thing on her “bucket list” – a ride in a black cab with “suicide doors” on the way back to the hotel.

As an enormous surprise, a beautiful cheese and fruit plate, and champagne, showed up at our door, courtesy of my friend’s family, as a thank you for helping them through some personal sorrow. What an amazing surprise! I am now completely happy and completely stuffed!

Tomorrow: British Museum meeting up with another friend from the U.S. who moved back to the U.K., our “actual” high tea at The Langham, some other things that I’m forgetting about (lol) and a Jack The Ripper tour in the evening!

Cheers!

Gyms & COVID-19

We have to close our gym! What can we do about our lease obligations? What about income?

1.       Quickly consider alternative/home-based workouts. Sometimes necessity has to be the mother of invention. Consider setting up a “virtual gym” for your members who may also be stuck at home because of school closings, work closings, etc. If you can still actually access your gym (i.e., you are not under a “shelter in place” order), set up a camera and do a Live Stream. Perhaps do it outside! (Maybe cajole your members outside, too!) Consider loaning out some of your equipment for the duration of any closing (keep a very good list of who took what, of course!) Maybe come up with “prizes” (case of Corona, anyone?) for members who can show that they kept up with their workouts – what about a dedicated “hashtag” related to your gym on social media? How about a prize for the biggest [weight loss/bicep increase/squat hold] differential during your shutdown? This is likely to be your best bet to keep your income flowing – keep your members happy and keep them working out. Your head too full to come up with workouts on your own? Always remember that Crossfit® HQ has your back 😊 www.crossfit.com/workout/

2.       Consider novel payment options. Perhaps, as an alternative to suspending monthly memberships, give your members the option to continue to pay while you “add more time onto” the “end” of their memberships. At our gym, we don’t have “punch cards,” we have drop-in fees (highest $), monthly fees (worthwhile if you’re coming more than once a week), and then annualized fees, paid monthly (lowest rate by far). When given the option today, annualized members seem overwhelmingly to be choosing not to suspend. As Crossfit members, we love our affiliates – give your members choices to help you that are still beneficial to them. Keeping payments flowing during the crisis should be your main goal – give something in the future to smooth your situation now. Even the promise of a Mexico-inspired (Corona, remember?) member party at the end of all this will keep community spirits up.

3.       Keep updated on your mayor’s proclamations. For example, as I write this, our local mayor and two others in different states’ cities (found in a cursory Google search) are stating that landlords cannot penalize tenants (including commercial tenants) that are unable to make their rent during the pandemic. Be sure you understand what might be available to you, and what you need to do to avail yourself of it. This might also include checking out any tenant organizations that cover commercial leases, as well as your local small business organizations. While it might seem unpalatable to take out a loan due to this situation, it is a better choice than to get behind on your obligations – things inevitably wind up snowballing.

4.       Read your lease. In general, to get a break as a tenant, you’d need to prove that either (i) your obligations under the lease have “substantially changed” so that it’s impossible to perform the lease (deeming the lease “frustrated”); or (ii) that a global pandemic like COVID-19 fits under a “force majeure” boilerplate in your lease.

Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, most leases do not have protections like this. Most (if not all) leases are drafted by the landlord. If you didn’t involve an attorney in your lease negotiation, it’s virtually guaranteed that your contract is “silent” on protections for you as a tenant. Moreover, in general, commercial leases require damage/destruction to the premises itself for rent suspension to be triggered under (i) in the above paragraph – and a pandemic doesn’t fit the bill.

What about (ii), force majeure? Force Majeure provisions address “Acts of God” – events “beyond the reasonable control of a party” that prevent that party from performing their contractual obligations. A typical “Act of God” is a hurricane, earthquake, or a flood.

 Sadly, it’s important to note that, even if a contract has a force majeure clause, nearly all of them exempt ”monetary obligations” (such as rent payments). But, it can’t hurt to take a look: If your contract has one, and it includes language that says “including, but not limited to…” then perhaps you can suspend your performance (in the case of a lease, this would be paying rent) until you can re-open your doors. However, this doesn’t actually excuse your payments . . . it just allows you to push your payment forward by the amount of time it takes to right yourself (or for the number of days stated in the contract – some state that you can push your obligations forward, for example, “the lesser of” the amount of time that it takes to right yourself, or [10] days).

As an aside, if you do happen to find a force majeure clause in a contract, also know that an Act of God clause can’t protect non-performance if the force majeure event occurs after the delayed performance; there are also always very specific notice provisions. 

If you’re actually planning to just throw up your hands and default on your contractual obligations, it really is strongly advisable not to do this. If your lease has an “attorneys’ fees” clause (nearly all of them do), it will cost your landlord nothing to sue you if/when they win – you’ll be paying all their fees and court costs. And… since you have your lease out… definitely check for things like: (i) acceleration clauses (which state if you are ever late, the entirety of the lease term’s payments are due immediately); (ii) attorneys’ fees clauses; (iii) penalties/interest clauses; (iv) jurisdiction clauses (did you agree to an inconvenient forum, and law that isn’t tenant-friendly?); (v) personal guarantee clauses (where, even if you’re incorporated, you are personally liable for the payments – a/k/a the “lose your house” clause); (vi) etc.

5.       Don’t forget to look at your insurance. While Force Majeure provisions, in general, allow a party to suspend performance until a catastrophic event is over, what covers loss of business due to general fear, governmental direction to engage in “social distancing,” or orders to shelter in place/stay home? This will severely impact many “brick and mortar” businesses, such as bars, event venues, restaurants, theaters, and, of course, gyms.

While some business insurance/business interruption policies cover disruptions, in general, they cover loss of earnings due to an ‘insured peril,’ which also require property damage. While Contingent Business Interruption (CBI) insurance is generally broader, you would have needed “Back to the Future” foresight to add this rider onto your business interruption insurance before the occurrence. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, after the global outbreak of SARS in 2002-2003, many insurers have excluded viral outbreaks from standard business interruption policies, and coverage may only be procured through special endorsements/riders purchased at the time of coverage. (In other words – it’s too late now, sorry ☹ )

In sum, while insurance covering non-nature-related “interruptions to business” (such as strikes, lockouts, or down utilities) can compensate both parties during the period at issue, it’s unlikely (without physical loss or property damage) that business interruption and other current forms of coverage will compensate either landlords or tenants for loss of business or rent merely because the government mandates that potential customers stay home.

6.       Throw yourself on the mercy of the courts? Since your lease is likely silent on force majeure, and your insurance likely doesn’t call out “COVID-19” directly, if your landlord sues you, the courts in your jurisdiction will determine whether you win based on the foreseeability of the event and the jurisdiction’s statutes/ precedents. But don’t hold your breath. For example, in an insurance case where an event organizer intended to lease space at the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan shortly after 9/11, but the City of New York decided to utilize the Javits Center as an operational hub and therefore “ordered” it closed to non-first responder personnel, the courts held that the event organizer’s insurance only covered “direct physical loss or damage,” not loss of business. Penton Media, Inc. v. Affiliated FM Insurance Co., 245 F. App’x 495, No. 06-4215 (2007).

Be safe – and live up to your side of contracts, even if you need to pay everyone a little versus paying nothing. If you wind up in court, while I can’t guarantee it, this is likely to be looked at more favorably than just throwing up your hands and hiding your head in the sand(bags).

The information provided in this article does not, and is not intended to, constitute legal advice; instead, all information and content are for general informational purposes only.  This article may not constitute the most up-to-date legal or other information. Readers should contact their attorney to obtain advice with respect to any particular legal matter.  No reader should act or refrain from acting on the basis of this article without first seeking legal advice from counsel in the relevant jurisdiction.  Only your individual attorney can provide assurances that the information contained herein – and your interpretation of it – is applicable or appropriate to your particular situation.  This article does not create an attorney-client relationship. All liability with respect to actions taken or not taken based on the contents are hereby expressly disclaimed. This article is provided AS IS; no representations are made that it is error-free.

The New Normal

I mentioned in my previous post that we had met with Michael Broffman at the Pine Street Clinic to get our protocol during the “cyberknife” treatment and as an overview for what we need to think about not only at Sanoviv, but also into the future. Pine Street Clinic has specialized in evidence-based integrative medicine since 1982. These are my notes from that meeting, which I think are incredibly instructive for the “New Normal After Cancer.”

Broffman advised us to treat our month at Sanoviv as a place to get into a routine….to learn the curriculum and then carry it back in a “return home” program. He strongly suggested sticking with Sanoviv’s meal program – mostly vegetarian with low net carbs. He said that our follow-on plan should involve committing to, for 24 months after returning from Sanoviv, eliminating red meat, pork, lamb, etc. (whether or not organic/grass fed). Basically to stick with chicken (if 100% sustainably sourced), eggs (same), and seafood (ditto). He advised us to eat what we have in the freezer now (which we are – we are calling these two weeks our MeatFest(TM)!) 😉

Broffman reiterated that the Quantity that we should consume is directly related to Fitness. So, on any day we’re “desk bound,” we need to stay Vegan on that day. If we’re doing Strength work, we can have some animal protein. (There’s more below about “Fitness.”) That said, the human animal is an omnivore, and needs meat. Just not as much as the “now typical” American diet gives it — especially as most “so-called meat” is produced by BigFarm and contains the stress of animals “engineered” to get as fat as possible in record time . . . who live in terrible conditions, are fed on suboptimal feed, and are not treated as sentient beings.

Vitamin C IV treatment: This is something that is done at Sanoviv, and we are to get hubby’s calculated Vitamin C blood saturation. How this apparently works is that your target saturation is 350 nanograms/milliliter. So each time you do the IV, they will test to see how much they have to give you to get you to this ultimate saturation. If you get the IV and afterwards you’re only up to 150, next time they will give you more, until they know exactly what it takes to get you to 350 nanograms/milliliter. We are to bring that back, and then continue with this protocol.

Vitamin C + Doxycycline: There have been a number of published protocols of adding doxycycline (pills) during the Vitamin C IV, to deal with cancer stem cells. It has recently been shown that, like heart stem cells, bone stem cells, etc. there are actually cancer stem cells. Unfortunately, they are not responsive to chemotherapy. If you happen to hit one with radiation or cut one out with surgery then it’s gone – but the only systemic treatment for cancer (chemo) doesn’t kill them. Unfortunately, at some point the cancer stem cells “wake up, look around” and realize that there is no cancer in the body – and then busily start to make it. Vitamin C plus doxycycline is the latest leading edge fight against cancer stem cells. Although doxycycline wipes our your gut biome, etc., it’s a trade off that could be worth it, in the short term, as the Vitamin C IV taken with doxycycline is showing in trials to kill the cancer stem cells. Unfortunately you can’t just “get doxycycline over the counter” in the U.S., so if we are able to obtain any in an international pharmacy we should go for it – otherwise, try to see if the doctor at Sanoviv will add this to the Vitamin C IV protocol.

OM85 (“Broncho-vaxom”): This is an immunostimulant used with young children and old folks basically everywhere BUT the United States for lung issues. It boosts the immune system, working to increase a person’s natural defenses against a variety of respiratory pathogens. It is an oral treatment consisting of eight different strains of (dead) bacteria, so it sort of works like a vaccine to create an immune response in the lungs. There have been a LOT of papers written about it recently, in relation to potential uses in lung cancer, and OM85 is likely over-the-counter in Mexico. About a decade ago, an Italian cancer doctor published that 7.5 mg/day (10 days on, a month off, for 3 months) worked as a treatment for lung cancers. (NOTE: I did some internet sleuthing to try to find the article and link it, but without the name, came to a dead end.)

Beating Cancer

              The way to look at the whole “post-cancer” situation is as follows. Think of a timeline:

—————X->->->——————–Y->->->->—————–

X is where your immune system is. Y is where the cancer is. Each is moving forward, but if you can’t close the gap, you’re never actually well. “Catching up” is not the same as “Caught up.” This is the biology of how things work.

Western medicine basically says “We will buy you time, as you catch up.” In other words, they knock out the Y with, say, chemo. The problem is, that the chemo also sets your immune system (the X) back. The issue is that Western medicine “attacks.” And “Attacking” the disease is not the same as “Preventing” the disease.

Alternative therapies try to narrow the gap. The whole idea is to get the X in FRONT of the Y. The immune system must be “competitive” and ready for anything, not always behind and just working hard to catch up.

And this means lifestyle changes.

Post-cancer life must be organized around the strategy of narrowing the gap between X and Y, with the hope of jumping the X in front of the Y. And always remember that — while “giving up” things that are suboptimal for health – having good health is not a punishment. All the suggestions here might not be what you are doing now – or might mean not doing what you “want to do” with regard to eating, drinking, exercise and the like – but, post-cancer, one must persist for at least the next couple of years along this strategy, to stay in “synch” with the idea of closing the gap between the immune system and what it’s fighting . . . and then (hopefully) getting in front of it.

The Abscopal Effect:

The Abscopal Effect has been proven in trials and double-blind studies. It is a combination of radiation and immunotherapy wherein treating a cancer causes untreated tumors to disappear or shrink concurrently, outside the scope of the treatment. This has particularly been seen when Stereotactic Radiosurgery (“SRS” or “cyberknife”) treatments are the “radiation” part of the equation.

Cyberknife plus Immunotherapy leads to a systemwide immune response. The question is how to make this happen. Western medicine is trying to use various methods:

a.           CAR T Cells: In this protocol, T-cells (“fighter” cells) are taken out of the patient’s body and modified to produce specific structures called chimeric antigen receptors (CARs). Basically, they take your T-cells and expose them to your cancer, rewarding them for attacking that cancer. Then these fighters are grown and re-injected in the 100s of millions back into you. This has led to the most durable remissions.

b.           USC/Victor Longo: This is the fasting program that I discussed in my previous blog. It is basically a three-day water fast. In trials, what happens is this: During the 1st day, your body fights you (“Eat, Eat, EAT you IDIOT, I’m HUNGRY!”). On the 2nd day, your body’s “cleaner” cells cleans up anything that they see that is “easy to clean up,” because they don’t have any digesting, etc. to do. Then, the third day is the charm. On the third day, all the easily-cleaned things are cleaned up, there’s still no digestion going on, and so your “cleaner cells” go back over everything, and start going after older immune cells, terminating them. Think of it this way:

Cancer Cell

—X1—>—X2—->—X3—>—X4—>—X5—>—X6—>

In the example above, the T cells (X1 to X6) flow past the cancer cell. T-cell X5 is a month or so old, and a few days from being terminated by the body. X4 is only a day old. X4 is a “new, aggressive fighter.” X4 says to X5, which has passed the cancer by, “Hey, isn’t that a suspicious cell?” The X5 cell says “Yeah Sonny, I see it, but it’s a big body out there, and we have other things to do. We’ll attack it later.” But then it doesn’t. Since the T-cells speak to one another, the X4 has just “learned” from the X5 that it’s “not that important” to attack the cancer cell.

In the fasting protocol (and actually also the trained CAR T-Cells mentioned above), old cells like X5 are wiped out – so the newbie X4 cell doesn’t learn to “not attack” the cancer cell (or, in the CAR T-cell protocol, is specifically taught TO attack that cell). This means that the new T-cells work more effectively against the cancer.

While the USC/Longo/3 day fast protocol DOES drop your immunity a bit, the next day, when you start eating again, the trials have shown an unprecedented reboot of the T-cells and their ability and desire to fight the cancer.

There is also a “5 day fast-mimicking diet” for folks who just won’t do a 3-day water fast. But as my hubby did it during chemo, and the actual 3 day total fast protocol is the one being shown to have the best effect, we should presume that this becomes part of our long-term protocol.

USC/Longo recommends that every day you have a 14-hour interval of not eating/drinking (except water). While some are pushing this to 16 hours (in other words, an 8-hour eating “window”), the studies have been done on the 14 hour interval. Since Sanoviv operates on this schedule, this needs to be the “after Sanoviv” protocol for eating/drinking. THEN, every week, one day a week, have breakfast, then do a 24-hour water fast until the next breakfast. Just pick a day and do it. (Or dinner to dinner – whatever.) Finally, every 7-10 weeks, do the full 3-day protocol. This is what the research shows is optimal for killing the most cancer cells and revitalizing T-cells to their “fighting best.” Just pick the days, put them on the calendar, and get them done.

In sum: 14 hour daily interval of no eating, no drinking except water (or you can see it as a “10 hour eating window”). One day a week, eat a meal (e.g., breakfast), then just water to the same meal (e.g., breakfast) 24 hours later. Once every 7-10 weeks, full 3 day water fast.  

While the Abscopal Effect was incredibly important to try to obtain, unfortunately, as the SRS treatment was being done via our traditional Western medical situation, the Chief was unable to get the permissions to even do a “trial of 1” using the SRS with one of the additions above. Just not enough time to get it “through the system.” If, however, someone reading this is interested, the interventional radiologist Dr. Jeanne Stryker in Solana Beach does SRS/cyberknife plus immune therapy using either Keytruda or Optivo.

Supplements: Broffman prescribed a host of supplements for the SRS (as he had during chemo). We will receive an abbreviated protocol for the time that we’re at Sanoviv and when we return, he will re-evaluate. I would say what was prescribed, but I don’t feel comfortable doing that. If you’re in a situation where you want to explore ways to use integrative medicine for fighting what ails you or just reaching optimal health, please consider contacting Broffman at Pine Street. He has clients internationally, and in my opinion (as your first visit is about 90 minutes) is incredibly inexpensive for what you get ($500 for the first consultation and then any follow-on supplement changes, etc. – if your situation changes drastically and you need another full consultation, $400 for each). And – yes – they take plastic.

Fitness:

a.           Strength. Hubby needs to be doing strength work at least 30 minutes, 2x/week. Broffman likes the “Super Slow” protocol, which uses ARX equipment. Unfortunately, this is only available in San Francisco and Emeryville. There is a place in Mill Valley that uses MRX equipment, the pre-ARX equipment. ARX hasn’t caught on so much, because you have to lease it – you can’t own it like MRX. “Super Slow” was originally proposed by Arnold Schwartzenegger – i.e., having resistance in both parts of a lift. By way of example, pressing up in a bench press, but having another person there that is then “pulling up” on the bar when you’re trying to put it back down to your chest. See HERE for example. Hubby needs to concentrate on putting mass on, which is active tissue that will work for you, versus fat – and especially “toxic fat” – which works against you.

b.           Walking. At least one day a month of “long slow distance” walking is required. This means walking, for example, from home to San Francisco, and taking the ferry back. This should take a few hours. This will become a meditation – you “stop talking in your head” and just walk. Hubby is to keep doing the “quicker” (30 minutes) or “mid-range” (hills) daily, but needs to incorporate a long-slow distance once a month too upon returning from Sanoviv. As he is currently on disability, this needs to be his “work.”

c.           Swimming. Broffman particularly recommends taking a “holistic swimming” class. This is run by Russ Monsell in Tiburon of DynamicVitality.com on Tuesdays – you show up with money, a bathing suit, and a towel and he will run you through the basic/beginner class. The idea is that swimming is very helpful to your immune system, but ONLY if you’re not constantly fighting it. We are not “meant to” live in the water, and our system knows it, so is constantly, in the background, “fighting” it. The idea is to develop breathing and stroke dynamics that mimic what a creature that really lives in the water will do. No neck movement – just roll to breathe – low kicking – etc. This has been proven to immensely improve the immune system; however, it is relaxing at an immune level only if you are not defensive. You must “swim like a marine mammal” not like a “land mammal.” Your body has to think “I live here in the water.” Swim for meditative cardio.

d.           Baseline. Upon returning from Sanoviv, we are to get a baseline of skeletal muscle, fat (brown v white), etc. The company that does this, BodySpec, uses a modified DEXA scan. It is $45, and will give you metrics that you can then try to improve upon. It is on Broadway in San Francisco. They also have a mobile van that they take out sometimes, but the best metrics in the Bay Area are from this company.

The idea here is to have a baseline so that you can see as you make yourself more competitive with the disease – as you “catch” the X “up to” the Y, with the goal of “jumping” it.

Stress Reduction:

This is another mandated piece.

a.           Meditation. Broffman particularly likes the 10 day meditation routine retreat offered free worldwide from DHAMMA.org. The closest to us is in Yosemite in North Fork. It is the same program worldwide, just different languages. At the retreat, you are introduced to the “technology” of meditating. It is a silent retreat, Vipasenna style. It is an extremely popular program, however, so getting on their list is important. They will send out when the enrollment will “open” for the program, and it is full with a long waiting list 2 hours later.

                             Another suggestion locally is the Sonoma Mountain Zen Center. On Saturdays, they are open to the public. They are similar to Green Gulch, but ONLY meditation (no pottery, tea classes, gardening, etc.) It’s the standard: meditation, sitting, dharma talk, soup and salad. A very pretty place, up in Sonoma, acres of farmland. The owner has run the center for decades with his wife and his kids, some of whom are monks there.

Taking A Deeper Step, and Changing the Narrative.

After you try a few of these out, your responsibility will be to figure out “What’s the next deeper step after this for me?” Just go with whatever sounds intriguing, but with the goal of “Changing the Narrative.” By way of example, there is a group in Santa Cruz called 1440 Multiversity. 1440 is the number of minutes in a day. They have a protocol for “optimizing” the minutes. However, he finds it stressful to think of it this way – as in “don’t waste any minute!” Perhaps instead, think of it as how many hours you have in a week – block out when you’re going to be eating, sleeping, walking, fasting, yoga, meditating, whatever – and then calendar, and stick to it like it’s your job, to be sure that you “do them all” and don’t let anything slide, at least for the next 24 months. This often happens. You need to keep the goal in mind of “jumping the Y” – in other words, to get your whole “being” in “front of” the cancer instead of trying to catch up, or doing things that are suboptimal for the best health, which sets you back as your body rids itself of whatever you just did. (You know, the fun things like drinking wine and eating red meat!)

Changing The Narrative:  

If you change any aspect of an adverse story, it will affect your immune system. (Example: If you address what’s behind PTSD to help the body/mind to stop fighting that, the body can then move on to fight other things.) Changing the narrative affects the immune system and your entire micro-environment. And chronic stress (caused by thoughts or “dwelling on an unproductive narrative”) are particularly bad.

              So how do you get a New Story? It has been clinically proven that Chemistry follows Thoughts . Stressful thoughts -> Stressful chemistry -> Bad things happen. Change the story? Change the chemistry.

              Psychoactive plants: While meditation practice can be helpful, the biggest jump start that is being trialed now is using psychoactive plants/chemicals. Johns Hopkins is currently the leading researcher in this area, and they are comparing synthetic versions of chemicals (psilocybin, LSD, iowaska) with the “plant” versions. The reason that using a synthetic version is preferred is (a) you can be absolutely positive about the dose and (b) you don’t denude the planet of all these plants. The downside is the plants may have some element in them that you miss in the synthesized version. There are some iowaska farms now, but not a lot. So to optimize, you have to go synthetic.

              There was a researcher from Johns Hopkins recently who spoke in Mill Valley at a tiny facility and it overflowed at 400 people. He stated that they have now (a) actually quantified the “mystical experience” scientifically and (b) the dose is over 80% effective in helping people shift their internal narratives by actually having a “mystical experience.” He laid out the tenets of what a “mystical experience” is, and they then trialed whether folks were having them or not. They found that 25 mg of Ketamine produced a “mystical experience” 80% of the time. This is the only legal drug – and of course, it’s just another tool. This might be something to consider around September.

How can you tell if you’re making progress?

One of the best ways is outside observation. You want to aim for “invisibility.” You want to create an “unrecognizable person” compared to the person that harbored an environment that led to the cancer. Also think of Stoicism, and books like Essentialism — You want to stop expending energy unless it is absolutely required of you. Spending that energy means that you can’t spend it on other things (like healing).

How do you “become unrecognizable”? Imagine that there is an “A” list and a “B” list of your entire life. The “A” list contains every single experience you’ve had; the complete set of all life experiences and occurrences. It includes birth, marriage(s – for my hubby), schools, and all the genomics and epigenetics that led to cancer – plus having cancer. To create the “B” list, you just want to take things from the “A” list, but as few as possible. Let the rest go. Stop giving energy to them, give them up, and get them out of your “story.”

Let’s say that means that you bring over 3 of the 10 things that led your body to express the cancer. That’s still going to be okay – because it took all 10 to get there. The idea here is to “shed” the things from the “A” list that aren’t leading to optimal health. Remember to just think “Change is good,” even if you don’t know what that change looks like from where you’re standing in the Present.

Winter will be key. It is the season of the bladder and kidney. So this is all prep for that. Even though there is no “bladder organ” after the surgery, there is a re-built one, and there are 57 points on the bladder channel and meridian that are still active. Those come into their season in winter. So this all needs to be teed up for then.

Sleep:

This is awkward, as, with the neobladder, one has to empty the bladder every two hours (it’s not “bladder material” so if it overstretches, it doesn’t bounce back). What about substances to “Help” you sleep? When asking about using THC/CBD, we were reminded that, while THC improves the “sleep latency” (i.e., the time to fall asleep is shortened), it disrupts the actual sleep cycle. So you don’t get the same restorative/deep sleep. CBD does NOT do this. The goal here is to optimize the REM cycle. Moreover, keeping track is important, because you need to quantify to be able to see what’s working and what’s not. Perhaps find an app, or a sensor, but it is important to really see how sleep is going, and then to address issues. We’re reminded that the temperature of the room for sleep should be low 60s at the highest, and that dropping by 2 degrees F kicks sleep in. No electronics/TV, take some time on getting into bed to “review the day” and get ready to sleep – basically, have a sleep routine.

              There have been studies that show that 2 hours before you “know that an alarm will go off,” you stop having quality sleep. However, if you tell someone that you will wake them up “some time” during the night (not giving them an exact time), they NEVER have REM sleep. As such, the 2 hour “alarm” to get up to void the bladder is not optimal, but it’s necessary. Reminded to ensure that it doesn’t affect my sleep. (NOTE: It usually doesn’t, but if hubby doesn’t get it right off, it WILL wake me up, and then I have to get out of bed. And hence those 4 a.m. Facebook and Instagram posts!)

So, there you go – those are my notes from our second visit to Pine Street. I also have notes from our first visit, but they’re really geared towards the particular type of cancer we were facing (as well as the phased protocol for dealing with chemotherapy), so I thought that these ones might be more universally interesting. As a final tidbit, I’d like to suggest another podcast listen: it’s 5 Ways To Heal Yourself With Dr. Kelly Turner from The mindbodygreen Podcast.

Any questions?

The Cancer Caregiver Life

In just over a week, my husband and I will be going to The Sanoviv Medical Institute for three weeks. I will be updating F&F (friends and family) via this blog on what goes on there. If you just happened upon this blog because you’re searching at 3:00 a.m. for the blogs of other cancer caregivers – well, that’s been me for a year. This is sort of a “precursor” blog to the set of Sanoviv blog posts that will follow – but here’s a bit about my journey.

For more information I can recommend a lot of books and medical articles, but The Emperor of All Maladies is fascinating as the “history” of cancer, going back to ancient Egypt.

We found out about my husband’s bladder cancer about this time last year. I won’t go into the details, but he had been having issues that he hadn’t discussed with anyone, so by the time it was discovered, the tumor was big. After we received the Western medicine protocol, I immediately contacted Michael Broffman at the Pine Street Clinic. Broffman has been in the cancer “arena” for decades and so not only has a big list of what specific oncologists “will and will not do” when it comes to supplements, non-Western treatments, etc., he also (if your oncologist is on his “list”) can help you with how to talk to your oncologist about your situation and your potential desire to use integrative treatments.

Unfortunately when I finally “conned” my husband into seeing Broffman, he was too late stage to get into a couple of clinical studies (one in Italy, one in the U.S.) that Broffman was tied into. He gave us a number of “homework assignments,” one of which was to watch the last 1/3 of the video The Science of Fasting (starting right at about 39 minutes) about Valter Longo. (NOTE: Longo now has his whole “schtick” of supplements, etc. – Broffman didn’t recommend them, so I can’t speak about them.)

Broffman explained that during my husband’s chemotherapy, we needed to follow Longo’s fasting protocol (“FMD”), which closes down more “healthy” cells during the chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy’s “job” is to kill any cell in your body that is splitting while you are getting the treatment. So stopping “healthy” cells from splitting is a great idea. The reason that folks lose their hair (by the way, cold caps don’t work, don’t waste your money), get mouth sores, get neuropathy, etc. is because hair/nerve/mouth/stomach cells split often – so if you’re getting chemotherapy when one is splitting, you’ll kill it. Fasting convinces your “healthy” cells that it’s winter – when they should not be splitting so much. But cancer is stupid. (Bwa-ha-ha-ha DIE M***** F*****!!)

Cancer eats sugar and insulin acts as a “power up,” turning it into the Incredible Hulk. (Yes, this is overbroad, but this post can’t be 92 pages). Since this is the case, during chemotherapy in particular, one needs to keep carbohydrates to a minimum. The focus of Broffman’s supplementation involved supplements during the chemotherapy to help with the poisoning, then ones after the chemotherapy to help get the toxins and dead cells out of the body while staying in ketosis, and then ones to “rebuild” before the next chemotherapy cycle.

This involved a very elaborate calendar for me, the Caregiver, containing which supplements to give at what times. It also involved foods that would help. (Osso Good’s AIP-compliant bone broth, with the Chinese herbs already incorporated, was recommended and super helpful.)

The sad thing is that chemotherapy units – now made as comfortable as possible with personal TVs, lounge chairs, acupuncture and social workers – are awash in crappy, high carb food. Everything from “nutrition bars” to ice cream to the beloved Saltine cracker for nausea. The nurses were horrified when my husband would tell them not only that he was fasting, but also that he was coming into chemo on a fast. Everyone else is munching away on ice cream, pizza, cookies, Saltines, or whatever else made them feel better about being hooked up to a gigantic bag of poison for hours and hours. And every munch feeds their cancer.

We had provided the medical articles to our oncologist with respect to the fasting, so he had written in our file that we shouldn’t be “forced to” eat. Broffman had looked our oncologist up in his notes, and explained to us that – while he resembles “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Oncologist” with his spiky hair and vocal fry – the only way to get this particular doctor to agree that we could do what we wanted to do was to provide him with Western Medicine articles that showed that while a protocol (like fasting) might be difficult to do, it actually works. Most articles, in fact, stated that the fasting protocol worked better than anything else that was in trial; however, folks just didn’t stick to it. “Give me that Rocky Road Ice Cream, Ma, I have cancer, I’m on chemo, and feel like trash! And hand me a Saltine while you’re at it.”

I have, quite literally, a novel that I wrote after we saw Broffman, as well as the articles he recommended. If you’re interested in it, let me know in the comments. It talks through the entire Pine Street Clinic visit, and goes into great detail about the Phase I, II, III protocol during chemotherapy. We also re-visited Broffman a month or so ago, and I have another 10 pages of notes from him regarding where we are now.

My husband’s surgeon told him that there was basically “no way” that his bladder could be rebuilt after the surgery, but we did everything that was recommended by Broffman to get the best possible result, and the urologist’s assistant called me during the surgery to tell me that they were, indeed, able to build him an internal bladder. The whole surgery story and me terrorizing the poor intake nurse is for another day.

My husband was cancer-free for six months, then a tumor showed up in each lung. One was in the middle of the inferior lobe on his right side (three lobes on the right side, two on the left). The one in the left lung was (cue Louisiana-accented thoracic surgeon) “Snuggled r’aht up next to his ay-OR-ta” – so – impossible to operate. While the tumor in the right lung could be cut out either by cutting a “wedge” out of his lung or taking the whole lobe, the left tumor couldn’t be dealt with at all.

I asked the surgeon what he’d do and he laughed, saying: “Well, you go to a barber, he’s not gunna tell you not to get your hair cut,” but then we talked through what would happen if we did the “cyberknife” treatment that he was recommending on the left side to the tumor on the right. He said that the only issue would be the inability to biopsy the tumor . . . but in doing the surgery, my hubby would be left with 2/3 of his right lung. We opted to go find out about what “cyberknife” treatment was all about.

After discussion with the Chief of our various options (my new girl crush…), we decided to do SRS (stereotactic radiosurgery) on both tumors. As she reiterated, the downside of not being able to do a biopsy is the inability to see if this is the bladder cancer moving into the lungs, or if it is a “new” cancer (lung cancer), because the SRS obliterates the tumors. SRS is really quite amazing technology – I have a bunch of notes on that, too.

Lung cancer is a tough cancer – I had a friend die of it who had never smoked a day in her life, never lived around smoke, etc. When you tell someone that you have lung cancer, they look down their nose at you as if to say “Well, if you hadn’t smoked 12 packs of cigarettes a day for 10 years, you wouldn’t be in this position.” Just because >75% of lung cancers are in smokers doesn’t mean that it’s 100%. That said, we wouldn’t know whether the cancer was now lung cancer or was just migrating bladder cancer, as we would be blasting the tumors to smitherines.

A friend of mine’s family is tied to Sanoviv; that is how it was originally recommended. I had tried to get my hubby to agree to go to do their cancer-related protocol after his bladder cancer surgery. He had felt that the tests showed him to be ‘cancer free,’ so why spend all that money? As soon as the cancer was back, he agreed to go once the SRS treatment was completed.

We will be at Sanoviv, doing their Cancer Program, from mid-June to mid-July. The program is full-immersion and quite pricey, but we checked out two other integrative cancer treatment hospitals (one in Europe, one in Israel) and in actual fact, this program not only involves less travel but winds up being less expensive than the others we researched. I’ll be going too – a caregiver gets to go for $100/day, which includes all non-treatment related offerings (e.g., meals, the pools, room, etc.). HERE is their general description of what to bring/not bring/etc.

Every day apparently starts with meditation on the cliffside overlooking the ocean, then “grounding” on their chemical-free lawn in your bare feet, and yoga. You are given your schedule the night before at dinner and walked through it with your doctor, so you know what’s expected. While hubby is at treatment, I am expected to go to workshops on subjects such as functional nutrition, supplementation, how to transition from Sanoviv, and the like. The treatments are not only physical but also mental – you can see some of that if you poke around the Internet and the Sanoviv Programs.

As I understand it, we will be in two different bedrooms with the same “sitting room,” because the program involves detoxing. That means no wife in ze bed! 🙂 This also means that you show up with underwear, a bathing suit, and a sun hat – everything else is provided to you. Yes – shampoo, conditioner, soap, toothpaste, clothing, shoes (Birkenstocks), socks, etc. Really! No makeup, no nail polish (just took mine off in fact), only one of a couple of sunblocks (they sell it, or you can bring it), no plastic or plastic bottles, even if BPA-free, and – yes – no electronics.

Your “sitting room” has a balcony overlooking the ocean, a mini-trampoline, infrared sauna, chi machine, and wall racks to do stretching. You’re expected to do at least 15 minutes of “rebounding” on the mini-tramp daily, plus use the infrared sauna and the chi machine. The TV in the room only has two channels – I believe it’s Discovery Channel and National Geographic Channel – because they want you to detox from that, as well.

There is a separate room at the facility where you can use your/their computer, but it is the only place on “campus” where wifi is allowed, as it’s considered something that you need to “detox” from. This will be interesting for me, because I will need to work when hubby doesn’t need me. As I was writing up this blog, I actually emailed our Admissions guy to ask about this, and he said that if your computer has “an Ethernet port,” that you can connect in your room. Of course, most newer laptops have USB 3.0 ports /HDMI ports, but no Ethernet port. While hubby was researching getting an adapter so that I can at least do some work (and particularly teleconferences, of which I know I have to attend at least one) outside the “computer room” I happened to mention it to a client – the next day, an Amazon package showed up, with 2 adapters, and a long and a short Ethernet cable! I had to laugh at that!

I have been reading a number of write-ups on Sanoviv, though the ones that I can find are all written by folks who went for a one-week “cleanse”/detox-type protocol. So that’s why I felt that I should try to blog about what happens during the cancer program. HERE is an example, that shows you “what you get” at Sanoviv – HERE is another. HERE is a third.

That said, there isn’t one write-up about their fitness center! They have “Zumba” classes and “salsa” – but nothing “Strength-ish.” I was told by the Admissions person that there are “a few ellipticals and some dumbbells, but not heavy.” Since I have been working really hard on strength and HIIT training, my gym owner (bless him) crafted a workout for me for the time I will be gone. I will be bringing a TRX, some resistance bands, and an EmPack and 3 reservoirs. So we’ll see how that goes, too!

The Sanoviv diet is basically plant-centric, with no caffeine, dairy, soy, sugar, toxins, alcohol, corn, gluten, etc. They have a garden and a lot of what you eat is grown there. They also have organic/raised chickens and eggs, plus fish at some meals. (I’m allergic to fish, but that was noted in my intake.)

This will be a big difference for us – and we’re drinking all the wine we can before we go (ha ha – um, kinda joking). We eat very clean and pretty “primal” – organic veg/fruit, grass-fed meat – no soy, corn, sugars, gluten, etc. – but we know that our portion control is lax. We do our best to eat in a 12 hour window, though Broffman had told us it would be better to winnow it down to 10 (and that’s Sanoviv’s system). We also have meat every dinner – I’m looking forward to learning some new recipes (and have been boning up on them also through the Thug Kitchen cookbooks!)

I mentioned to Admissions that, because of my migraines (written about before), I have 2 cups of coffee a day. They are vasodialator migraines – caffeine helps. He said I would need a prescription and to take it as a pill. So I talked to my doctor, and she told me what to buy, which I did. Any meds that you take have to come in their bottles (not in a weekly/daily pill container), and you’re not to bring any non-prescribed supplements.

(Speaking of supplements and nutrition, I am binge listening to The Funk’tional Nutrition Podcast, because a client of mine was on it. They’re GREAT! If you’re a ‘Nutrition Nerd’ like I am, they really know their stuff.)

So that’s about all I have to say in this “introduction” to what we’ll be doing from mid-June to mid-July.

Work has been insane recently which is great for my wallet but tough for getting prepared to go. That said . . . I mean, how prepared can you get when you are just packing undies and a hat? 🙂

What are my expectations? I expect that hubby will be pretty sick the first week (we were told as much). I expect that we will both likely lose some weight since we will be portion-controlled and won’t have, oh, say, cheese. 🙂 I have set a goal to do the workout that my trainer has given me each day, whatever that takes. I plan to take notes and then blog each day or at least every other, and write up what’s going on so that there is a comprehensive log of it all. I plan to check work email a couple times a day, if the building that has the “computer room” isn’t too far away and the wifi is working (apparently somewhat dicey).

If you’ve gotten this far, bless you! You are either a devoted F&F, or perhaps a previous blog subscriber who didn’t unsubscribe when I went “radio silent” for about a year. (Now you know what I’ve been, sadly, up to. Caregiving takes every free moment, that’s for sure.)

I’ll be reading all the Comments when I get on the computer at Sanoviv. So if you have any questions, etc. let me know – or if you just want to say Hi! As per the whole “no electronics” thing, I’m bringing a couple books (yes, paper), but don’t plan to access Instagram, Facebook, or even personal email while gone. We’ll see how THAT goes! So if you’re in that “F&F” category, keep me company by commenting.

Onward!

Green Living Guide

Hey all!

I received a note from Kendra at (of all things) CouponChef.com related to one of my podcasts – from 10 years ago! (Yes, everything on the Internet really does live forever!) I liked what she sent, and I think you might too. (If you haven’t checked out this podcast, just know that the Listener Call-In Line is no more – what can I say, it’s been a decade . . . ) That said, here’s her email:

Hi there, I listened to your podcast about living more ‘Green’ – thanks!

I’ve been looking for some resources about green living online. I’m glad your website has content that could be useful to people looking to reduce their impact on the environment. We at Coupon Chief recently created a massive guide about inexpensive ways to go green. It includes up-to-date information and special tips to help people adopt a more Earth-friendly lifestyle without draining their wallets. We’re hoping it’s worth linking to along with your other resources!

If you think that it could be valuable to your readers, here’s the link to our Green Living guide. It took us a lot of time and effort to put this together, so I hope you (and your Bond Grrl readers!) like it!

Best,
Kendra

I am not quite sure how CouponChef.com decided to write such a detailed guide, but I think that it has a lot of good reminders and some very good information. Maybe I’m just impressed that someone found a podcast of mine from a decade ago, listened to it, and decided to write because of it!

Make it a great day,

Sandy

Travel Tips – 20 quick trip tips you might not have thought of

The section of my book entitled “Preparing for Paris” gives you a  LOT of suggestions (flip to page 69 if you have it on your shelf). However, in the 11 years since I wrote that book (and 8 since the Companion Playbook!),  I have come up with a few more suggestions to help with everything from preparing to go to being safe on a trip.

I won’t repeat the suggestions found in my book here. They include being sure your passport runs at least six months “past” your return date (required by some countries), to having a “mail stop” form filled out and on your refrigerator in case you decide to up and go on a whim, to already having plants and lights on timers, to putting together a “go bag” of toiletries (with a list of your meds/anything you need to add  before you run out the door). I also detail how to set up your closet so that you can pack quickly and efficiently.

As a sidebar – I’d like to mention some shoes that I used on a recent trip. They are by Mime et Moi, and they are not inexpensive. (I was lucky enough to get two pair, with 4 interchangeable heels a piece, on Kickstarter). However, they’re genius – one “shoe” base to which you can add different heels. If you pack black-based clothing for your trip, here are all the shoes you may need, from knocking around town to going to the Opera.

So, how about those tips? Well, here we go! In no particular order . . .

    1. Use www.checkmytrip.com as a travel resource.
  1. If you’re travelling on miles with a companion who is not, use your miles for your companion’s ticket. That way you will still accrue miles on that trip.
  2. Take a photo of all your documents, driver’s license, credit cards, itinerary, boarding pass, etc. and email it to yourself, trusted neighbors, and the like. (We use a specific Gmail address for this purpose, and this purpose only – it also contains a document with our passwords, just in case.) If anything gets stolen, you can pull it up at an “Internet cafe.” Put a copy of your itinerary at the top of your suitcase as well, in case your luggage is lost. I recently ordered a little “luggage tag” that you can insert your itinerary into, so it’s on the outside of the bag. My dad, a veteran traveler, uses this and I think it’s genius. (Typing up this post just reminded me to get one!)
  3. Make a list of everything in your luggage. If you check your bag and (horrors!) it doesn’t show up, you can quickly and efficiently list things out for your insurance company. It’s not a bad idea to actually take a photo of everything laid out on your bed before you pack – this and the list can also be sent to yourself in your email. Do keep a “hard copy” list in your carry-on, though, in case you need to make an immediate claim at the airport. Also, of course, be sure to have a list of all your medications. Snapshots of the fronts of bottles, also saved to your email, are quick and easy. It probably goes without saying that if you’re going to be gone for a while, get a checkup and go to the dentist before you go – better to find out here, than there! And while you’re at the dentist, stock up on an extra toothbrush (if you drop yours abroad, you’ll be glad to have an extra!), dental floss (see below), etc. Be sure to throw away your toothbrush at the end of the trip!
  4. Tell your bank, phone, and credit card companies that you’ll be away. Check their procedures. While American Express never seems to have this issue, I have had trouble using my credit card outside my local area (especially in Vegas). Since you really want to slim your wallet down to the bare essentials while traveling, it shouldn’t be a problem to alert the one or two companies whose “plastic” you’re carrying. (NOTE: My husband and I have found a couple of times that one or the other of our ATM “networks” won’t work in a given area. As such, be sure if you are bringing a Visa/ATM or Mastercard/ATM combo card, that you bring at least 2 different “networks.” But leave any extraneous cards at home! If you belong to clubs that you might visit along the way – Elks, reciprocal yacht clubs, golf clubs, or the like – then have your club write a note of introduction for you before you go, then just bring a copy of your card.)
  5. Pack multi-use/useful items. Wrap Duct tape around a pencil (then you have both in a pinch). Always have toilet paper (take the cardboard roll out, squash it down). Ziplocs are useful – as are “throw away” plastic bags (e.g., the kind you might use for vegetables at the grocery) in case your shoes get muddy. Thick socks can be slippers. An ace bandage can be used for many things, as can dental floss (you can even hang laundry from it in a pinch!) If you use a non-toxic deodorant (for example, think a Crystal), you can rub it on your face/forehead/upper lip in a hot climate. Dryer sheets can be used to fend off mosquitoes and bedbugs (though if you’re really worried, bring a silk sleep-bag). The lowly bandana can be used as a headband, a belt, a napkin, a seat cover, a gift ( 🙂 ), a cold compress, a tourniquet, or a pillow cover. A string grocery bag (they stretch to amazing sizes!) is never a bad idea, and having a pretty, thin sarong can do duty as a hair and arm cover in a mosque/church, a beach cover up, a tote, a picnic blanket, etc. Since you want to pack as little as possible, that same sarong can jazz up an outfit. Though it seems crazy – always bring a swimsuit. The one time you forget will be the time there are hot springs to visit! (You’ll have your sarong to dry off!)
  6. Iron your paper money. This is going to sound CRAZY, but a number of countries won’t accept “battered” money. In fact, when we were in Peru, we wound up purchasing a beautiful work of art from natives on a tiny island in Lake Titicaca . . . for $35 instead of $50 – because we had a pristine $20, $10 and $5, but couldn’t “make up” a perfect $50. Really! We even tried to “make him” take the extra $15 and he wouldn’t. If you are going to bring cash, make sure it has no “nicks,” and then iron it (it also takes less room in your wallet that way). Always be sure to have small bills and coins in your pockets while travelling, too – you are likely to need them in restrooms, many of which have either attendants to tip, or coin-locked doors.
  7. If you’re going on a tour-guided trip (or cruise), set up the tips that you will need in advance, put them in separate envelopes, and forget about them. You don’t want to get caught short at the end.
  8. If the water isn’t safe to drink, beware! Remember things like showering with your back to the shower (so you don’t aspirate the water – suck on a candy to help you remember!), use bottled water on your toothbrush, and remember that glasses are often just “wiped out” – not sterilized. In many countries it’s required as a point of hospitality to drink a glass of mint tea – if you bring a short straw, you at least aren’t putting your lips to the glass.
  9. Eat at the bar. If you’re traveling alone, eat at the bar. You can read a book there if you want, but you can also chat with the bartender. You’re less of a “mark” if you’re eating at the bar and look like you might just be “waiting for your husband” than if you’re sitting at a table with only one setting. It’s never a bad idea to tip the bartender beforehand to take care of you. And – obviously – don’t drink too much, and be sure to watch your drink like a hawk. You just never know who might have something “special” to slip into it for you. While out, try to keep your purse either in your lap, or behind your back in a chair. Never sling it over the chair or put it underneath.
  10. Speaking of tips – if you are staying at a hotel for a few days, be sure to leave a couple dollars for the housekeeping staff every day on your bed. The staff rotates – leaving a bunch at the end of your stay will only go to that day’s staff. Moreover, the staff tends to take better care of you if you tip while you’re still there – we have had extra “amenities” show up after doing this for a couple of days (e.g., “high roller” toiletry kits when in Vegas, etc.)
  11. Use pantiliners, if you’re a woman. They’re small, and especially on a hot or long travel day, you can just swap them out without fuss.
  12. Shampoo is nearly always available, but I always bring conditioner. Not all conditioner will “tame my locks.” That said, you can concentrate shampoo or conditioner by pouring it on a throw-away pie plate and putting it into a low temperature oven for a few hours. The water will evaporate, leaving a thick liquid you can pour into travel-sized bottles. (Use a funnel – otherwise it’s a mess 😉 ) This way just a few drops will “blossom into” a full handful of shampoo/conditioner and less “volume” will last weeks longer.
  13. Pick up the concierge’s business card – or even a matchbook – from your hotel. That way if you get lost, you can hand it to a taxi driver and get back! In Venice, almost all stores have cards that show “how to get there” from a tourist area (e.g., “start at the cathedral, then . . . “). If you are even considering returning to purchase an item, be sure to get a card. If they are shipping an item for you, be sure to make a big deal out of taking a photo of what you are purchasing, the people selling it to you, etc. Then get their email and make a point of emailing the photo to them immediately. This acts as insurance against the box arriving with something completely different in it! A final note about Venice – as long as you don’t cross a bridge, if you get lost, just keep wandering. You haven’t left the island . . . you’re bound to find your way back 😉 And trust me – you’ll get lost 😉
  14. Protecting yourself might seem fairly obvious. Don’t wear flashy jewelry (even costume!) – but do wear a wedding ring to fend off the sharks. Leave your “real band” at home though – you’d be heartbroken if it was stolen. Keep money on different parts of your body, so you don’t pull it all out at once. Don’t let a receptionist at a hotel “announce” your room number. Ask for a room by the elevator – sounds dumb, but the more traffic, the less likely you are to get ambushed. Buy a small rubber “triangle” (often used to hold doors open in offices) to ensure your door cannot be opened from outside. Approach your door with your key in hand ready to go, then when you first walk in, block the door open with your suitcase, and look through the closet, shower, etc. – to be sure you’re alone in there – and then ensure that every single door and window actually locks. If you are given an “electronic” key, always obtain two. If one doesn’t work, you don’t have to go all the way back down to retrieve another. And – as I mentioned in my book – it’s actually often well worth the small tip to have a bellboy take your luggage up with you. You don’t need to wrestle your bags, he knows the way, and if the key doesn’t work, he is the one that needs to get another. He can also fill your ice, answer any questions, and stand bemused as you check out the shower for bad guys.
  15. Set up an Instagram account if you don’t have one already, and save your snapped photos there. My husband has chided me about this for years – he’s a “real camera” kind of guy. Until he managed to lose it on our last trip . . . without the SIM card having been backed up. Though my photos aren’t as beautiful as his, they were (ahem) all backed up into my Instagram account. How I do it is I actually just take the photo in the Instagram app. On the posting page, for the first photo at a given site, I type in the hashtags I want to use and then “select” them all and copy. I push to “post” each photo to Insta – even if I don’t have an internet connection, they will all stay “queued up” until I do. With each subsequent photo or video at the same site, I just “paste” the hashtags on from the first photo. And as for that lost camera and SIM card – my husband now does what I have asked him to do for years – the first photo on each SIM card is a photo of a $100 bill with a note containing our name and my office address, stating that they can keep the camera, but if they return the SIM card to the address, we will Paypal them a reward. Doesn’t mean we will actually send them $100, but what are they going to do with our photos otherwise? It kills me that a SIM card with nearly a year’s worth of photos (yes, a year . . . ) was probably pitched into a dumpster after my hubby left the camera on a gondola.
  16. Be sure you have Polarized sunglasses. You can also use them as a “polarizing filter” on your camera (even your phone camera) by holding them up to the lens. If you take a second to do it right, it works like a charm. Especially good if you’re taking photos on or near reflective water.
  17. There are, of course, a zillion things you can do with your phone – from using it as a flashlight, to an alarm clock, to a camera, to a portable entertainment center (be sure to download – wifi might be broken!), VOIP for calls home without incurring charges (be sure to check!), currency converter, TripAdvisor for restaurants/hotels/etc. nearby, etc. One of the best things I ever did was to download an “ambient noise” app – “pink noise” blocks snoring quite well. You might consider some industrial-strength earplugs as well. One of the most important things to do with your phone is to put it down. Be sure to “live in the present moment” during your trip. A few shots here and there are great (especially 10 years later, when they can bring you right back to that moment), but we see folks taking selfie after selfie – at museums, etc. – without even “seeing” where they are. Taking shot after shot of your face with 1/2 of the Mona Lisa blurred in the background means that you’re taking those shots to “show you’re there” – which means you’re not really “there-there” as it were. Try taking a “whole day” without a selfie. Take shots of beautiful things so you can remember them when you’re a grandma – but without you in the shot. Is that hard for you? Hm.
  18. Things that just “live” in my suitcase to be “prepared” to travel: A cord and charger for my phone, a swimsuit, a sarong, cleansing wipes, corkscrew, Swiss Army knife, hand sanitizer, sunscreen/insect repellent (2 oz.), nail clippers, mini-medical kit (Imodium, Neosporin, etc.), mending kit/safety pins (a small one from a hotel), personal lubricant (which can be used to lubricate anything), toilet paper, small umbrella, quick dry washcloth, rolled up water bottle, ziplocs, Duct tape on a pencil, and a flexible power strip. The power strip allows you to plug that in and “share” an outlet if you’re ever stranded trying to charge your phone in an airport crowded with other travelers doing the same thing – take it from one who knows! My ‘go bag’ has 2 oz. or less sizes of everything else – face/eye cream, hair brush, disposable razor, toothbrush/paste, dental floss, deodorant, eye drops, etc. (all as detailed in my book).
  19. Finally, I would strongly suggest getting TSA-PRE. Being able to use the “TSA-PRE” Security line is a huge boon. You don’t have to take off your shoes/belt/jacket/etc., the lines are always shorter, and hey – you look like a Bond Girl as you scoot on through without disrobing. If you happen to have an American Express card, they will reimburse you for the cost – check with them for details.

What about you? What sort of tricks and tips do you have?

best beef jerky ever!

2018 UPDATE! Use London Broil steak, cut against the grain (e.g., cut parallel to the short end, not the long end). It is WAY less expensive than skirt steak, and works just as well if not better.

Recipe:

1 gallon Ziplock bag
a cookie sheet (must have a lip) or two
a cookie cooling rack or two
aluminum foil (to wrap around the cookie sheet)

For every 1 to 1 1/2 pound meat you need:
1/4 cup tamari (gluten-free and organic is only pennies more . . . hint hint!)
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 1 lime
1/2 teaspoon onion powder (or onion salt, in which case use garlic powder)
1/2 teaspoon garlic salt (see above – if you want to substitute garlic powder, use onion salt – or if you use powder both times, double the salt added below)
1/4 teaspoon black pepper (or less if you don’t want it spicy)
1/8 teaspoon sea salt or Himalayan pink salt
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (or less if you don’t like it spicy)
1/4 teaspoon red sumac (a Lebanese spice I use in everything – this is totally optional but if you find it and use it, you’ll be stuck on it too 😉 ).

Start with Skirt Steak.

1-1.5 pound packets of skirt steak
1-1.5 pound packets of skirt steak

Our local market sells packets of skirt steak in 1-1.5 pound vacuum-sealed packages. These are fantastic, because you can buy a bunch of them at once and freeze them if you’re not going to use them – then when you want some steak, you can take them out of the freezer and throw them right into the sous vide, bringing them up to about 90 degrees “and holding” when you’re at work. (If you don’t have a sous vide, you might want to read my blog HERE.) When you get home, heat up a cast iron skillet super hot, scorch them on each side for a minute or so, voila, done.

But today, these are for jerky.

The photo shows four 1.5ish pound packets. With this recipe, you can double or triple or quadruple or ??? the recipe without any issues. The smallest of the packages in the photograph is just over a pound – the largest is 1.5 pounds. So I’m quadrupling today. Because my butcher’s packages are always about 1 to 1-1/2 pounds, I always figure one package = one “set” of the marinade ingredients listed above.

If you don’t have a market that has these packs, but you do  have a market where you can talk to the butcher, just bring him the photo from the blog and say you’d like one of these, please. 😉 It’s not expensive meat – some butchers cut it up to make fajita meat, but it starts like this.

The recipe by and large comes from Haylie Pomroy’s book The Fast Metabolism Diet, which has some great recipes. This one is particularly good.

I started down the Fast Metabolism Diet road last week, and though I haven’t lost any weight, my energy is really good, and I feel great. I blogged about what it entails HERE.

You can use any “meaty meat” – halibut, turkey, buffalo, etc. – but it works particularly well with beef.

My issue with jerky is that it always contains some form of sugar, and/or some sort of preservatives. I’m sure there are jerkies you can order without these, but they’re probably immensely pricey. This recipe is so easy, it’s ridiculous not to make your own.

Cut the steak into 3 strips (against the grain).

2015-05-04 16.00.20
skirt steak before cutting (about 3 feet long or so)

The photo at left is what a skirt steak looks like out of the package. I don’t have a “selfie stick” and even at the end of my condor arm I could barely get it all in the picture. It’s like 3 feet of meat.

If there is any obvious fat, trim it off – but this is a very very lean cut of meat.

The fat you see in this picture doesn’t count as “fat” by the way – that’s just “marbling.” You may, however, run into a bit of fat that run all the way through the meat – particularly at the “fat” end of the meat – that’s what you want to cut off. But to give you some idea, I did not have any in all 4 of the steaks that I cut up before writing this blog.

Get your kitchen shears, and cut the strip the “long way” (against the grain). Your steak will be meatier on one end and less so on the other. So that means you’ll have three strips on one end, and usually as you cut, you’ll wind up with only two strips on the other end.

this is the meaty end of the skirt steak - as you can see, I get 3 strips on this side.
this is the meaty end of the skirt steak – as you can see, I get 3 strips on this side.

I keep these in as long of strips as they go. (Yes, I’m juvenile enough to sort of make a game of it – like trying to peel an orange in one strip of rind.) Sometimes you hit a weak spot in the meat, so that “strip” breaks off – it’s not important. But if you’re using a full skirt steak, you want the width of the strips to be about 1/3 of the strip at the “fat end” or 1/2 of the strip at the “skinny” end. It’s not rocket science, just do your best 😉

marinade ingredients
marinade ingredients

 Mix up all the other ingredients into the Ziplock.

Take the ingredients from the above recipe (multiplied by however much meat you have), and put them into a Ziplock. Take it from me, if you use a Ziplock with the actual “zipper” it’s a LOT easier to turn it upside down and shake it than if you use one that you just “press” together. No need for the excitement of the entire marinade and meat concoction slipping out on the floor when you shake it ‘cos you didn’t quite get the tracks of the bag to match….

A gallon Ziplock will take up to four times the recipe above, if you’re wondering. If you’re doing more than four times the recipe, I would use a couple of Ziplocks, but you only need one up to a quadruple recipe.

Again – the thing I really like about this recipe is that there is nothing sweet in it. Honey, sugar, whatever. And it’s delish. Trust me here.

Shake the marinade to mix it together.

2015-05-04 16.13.34Plop all the meat into the Ziplock.

Once you have all the strips in there with the marinade, seal the Ziplock almost all the way. Then squeeze down on it so that you get all the air out of the top little opening you’ve left.

Then seal it tight.

meat in marinade, all air squeezed out.
meat in marinade, all air squeezed out.

Now turn the Ziplock over and over to be sure the marinade gets to all the meat (like I said, this is the exciting part if you aren’t completely sure about your Ziplock zipper…)

Put the Ziplock into the refrigerator overnight (at least 8 hours, but better if it’s overnight).

Whenever you open the refrigerator between then and cooking time, give the Ziplock a few little tosses to move the marinade around on the meat. It will settle on the bottom side, so you want to be sure you let all the pieces get evenly marinaded.

After 8+ hours, drain & discard the marinade.

Squeeze the meat (while still in the Ziplock) to get it pretty dry. The easiest way to do this is to get the bulk of the marinade out first, and then zip the zipper back up most of the way, and squeeze the marinade out the “spout” by rolling it up from the bottom. This is similar to what you did when you were letting the air out to seal it, before putting it in the fridge.

You don’t want to pat the marinade off, but you do want to squeeze out as much of the liquid as you can, because you’re going to be dehydrating that meat, and more liquid = more time.

Take your cookie sheets and wrap them in aluminum foil.

You’ll need about two sheets and two cookie “cooling racks” for about each 3 pounds of meat, give or take.

Because the marinade and fat from the jerky is going to drip onto the aluminum foil, you may want to spray a little coconut oil in between the cookie sheet and the foil. I’m not sure if you have ever had this happen, but sometimes the foil “adheres to” the cookie sheet. So you might want to put a Pam-esque buffer. Personally, I use what are called “baker’s sheets” over my cookie sheets. They are PFOA-free silicone, non-stick, re-usable, and work like a charm. But as most folks don’t have these or do as much in-oven baking/roasting as I do, I am using aluminum foil in this recipe.

Put the cookie cooling racks on top of the aluminum foil, with their “feet” folded in.

If your sheets and racks are the same size as my sheets and racks, the racks will fit inside the lip of the sheet with a pretty good amount of room to spare. That will come up in a second.

If you’re only doing 1x of the recipe (silly you, you’re going to eat all that jerky before anyone gets home . . .  🙂 ) then you can likely use one sheet, or use two and leave more room between the pieces.

one rack, set up - about 2 to 2-1/2 lbs.
one rack, set up – about 2 to 2-1/2 lbs.

Put the meat on the racks, cutting it to size as you go. It can be close together, but shouldn’t overlap.

Although the recipe I used stated that you have to have the meat strips 1/4″ apart, they shrink up a LOT. So, I snuggled them up close, and as I checked the jerky, I was able to move them farther apart as they shrank. If you leave the strips long, be sure to tuck the ends down into the pan, so that they drip into the pan (not onto the bottom of the oven). That said – I’d still put down aluminum foil in the oven anyway, just in case. 😉

Remember I mentioned the space between the rack and the sheet? I personally actually laid a couple strips along the “long side” of the sheet (between the sheet and the rack) and then another along the “short side.” The jerky drips a LOT as it’s dehydrating, but that basically means that about 1/2 way through, you’ll be able to move those strips up to the rack and out of the drippings.

As you can probably tell, I’m not too fussy of a cook 😉 I just wanted to be sure that you knew that everything came out just fine when I did things this way. I wasn’t interested in doing two batches, because that’s a lot of time. So I made it work. Also, to give you an idea, I’m doing 4x the recipe this time around (I did 3x last time), and I’m still going to use the same setup. They really do shrink up a lot as they cook.

Bake the strips uncovered at 200 degrees for about 3 hours.

At three hours, you want your oven timer to go off so you can check on them. If you have two pans of strips, this is the time to swap the bottom pan for the top pan. It’s also time to re-arrange the strips as you may need. You can taste one, but they’re not going to be close.

4x the recipe in the oven, so about 4 to 5 pounds of meat.
4x the recipe in the oven, so about 4 to 5 pounds of meat.

If you have some other situation – more strips down the sides/off the rack or some such, you’re going to need to get them up on the rack as soon as you can. So you might be checking more than just once at 3 hours and once when “nearly done.” But this is what I did. At 3 hours they had shrunk in enough for me to get all the strips that were off the rack onto the rack, plus I was able to re-arrange them to allow a bit more room between all the strips.

Bake the strips for about another 3 hours.

I say “about” because I have a convection oven, and mine were done at 6 hours total. If you don’t have a convection oven, I think it’s going to be more like 7 hours. Leave the temperature the same, don’t cover them . . . just do what you just did, and come back 3 hours later and check on them.

You’ll know they are done when the meat is dry and leathery. And you can’t stop eating it.

Remove from the oven and cool completely before refrigerating or freezing in an airtight container. (I just took the cookie cooling racks off the pans and set them aside until the jerky was cold.)

If, that is, you can make it that far, and don’t eat them all as you’re waiting for them to cool. 😉 .

On this Haylie Pomroy eating plan, the first two days are basically fruit/veg/grains/some protein, then the next two are strictly veg/protein (with protein as the snacks – enter the jerky), then the last three days are a lot more relaxed with fruit/veg/protein/grains.

I made the jerky on the first of the middle two days, and actually weighed out how much 3 ounces was, to be sure I got the snack portion right. Yeah . . . then I weighed out 6 ounces, to get the lunch portion right . . . and another 3 ounces for the next snack . . .

2015-05-04 17.42.53
leftovers from last week. NomNomNom 😉 I think I have to have one…And YES, this is all that’s left of 3x the recipe 🙂

It’s very addictive, and so easy to make!

By the way, the aluminum foil is going to be coated with a thick mixture of hardened on marinade, fat, etc. While the jerky is cooling, get that off the cookie sheet and throw it away. (As I use baker’s sheets, I just hit them with super hot water and this slides right off, then I pat the sheet dry, and hang it to use for the next roasting/baking extravaganza 😉 ) If you have a dog or animal that might go through your trash, I recommend crumpling it up into a ball and zipping it into the Ziplock that you marinated the meat in. It’s harder to smell that way 😉

Any questions…?

And..speaking of recipes…tonight is roasted chicken night – if you didn’t catch it last time, HERE is the recipe for the easiest and best roast chicken in the Universe 😉

Between the Harbor and the Sword

The road wandered on
Until harbor, garden, sword
Became one journey

This trip was supposed to be several separate things.

A promise.

A city.

A garden.

A seminar.

A ferry ride.

A hotel on a lake.

A flight home.

Instead, somewhere along the way, they all became the same story.

The trip began with a promise.

More than a decade ago, H and I spent our tenth anniversary in Vancouver. Like many couples celebrating on a budget, we spent a certain amount of time looking at things we couldn’t quite justify.

The Pan Pacific Club Floor.

The Michelin-starred restaurants.

The little luxuries that belonged in the category of “someday.”

This year, someday arrived.

Five Sails and Botanist were extraordinary, but not simply because of the food.

What I remember most is the kindness.

A place set at the table.

A marble quietly present.

A staff that somehow understood that an anniversary dinner for one was still an anniversary dinner.

A promise that had waited patiently for years.

And was finally kept.

From there, the trip began to wander.

Or perhaps I did.

Vancouver slowly transformed from a city I was navigating into a city I understood.

The map and the town finally agreed.

The harbor stopped feeling like a destination and started feeling familiar.

Even the ping-pong tables somehow became part of the story.

Nitobe Memorial Garden reminded me that some places feel familiar because they are introducing us to something we already love.

The tea house.

The lanterns.

The moss.

The realization that the Urasenke tradition I had studied at Green Gulch connected me to a place I had never visited before.

Not through memory.

Through recognition.

Then there was the callback to the Ripplecove Inn from our honeymoon.

Or perhaps more accurately, the realization of what Ripplecove had always meant.

For years, when I looked off into the distance in thought, I was remembering the inn.

The lake.

The room.

The white-gloved waiter.

Looking out across Long Lake in Nanaimo, I finally understood that what I had actually been remembering was trust.

The moment before the destination.

The moment when H suggested we abandon the only part of the honeymoon I’d been responsible for planning . . . and simply see where the road went.

The moment when I let go and followed his hunch—and discovered something wonderful.

The road and the map agreeing.

The same lesson wearing different clothes.

Then came Nanaimo.

The official reason for the trip.

The swords.

The corrections.

The seminar.

The endless reminders to relax.

To see.

To stop chasing speed and instead move correctly.

The lesson itself turned out to be surprisingly simple.

Relax.

Actually see your teki.

Everything else follows.

Uchizono Sensei taught it.

Hiro Sensei taught it.

Dr. Scott Sensei taught it.

Each in different ways.

And perhaps that is why the lesson finally landed.

Not because it was new.

Because I was finally ready to hear it.

The seminar also reminded me of something else.

Community matters.

Genwakan participants

The House of Knives text message.

The Nanaimo practitioners.

The Vancouver practitioners.

The Genwakan contingent.

The hot-tub discussions about secret waza.

The laughter.

The corrections.

The encouragement.

The strange collection of people who voluntarily spend weekends discussing swords, alignment, and whether one’s elbow is sufficiently tucked in.

My sword weirdos.

By the end of the weekend I found myself standing in the back row during the awards ceremony, listening as names were called.

Wilson-san.

Of course.

Marla.

Of course.

And then:

“Dangai, Shepādo Sandora.”

Followed immediately by:

“Eep.”

An Excellence Award was never something I expected.

The certificate itself is lovely.

But what I will remember are the conversations afterward.

The people who explained what it meant.

The people who were happy for me.

The realization that sometimes we are the last people to see what others have already noticed.

And then, because the universe refuses to allow any story to become too sentimental, there was Lady Nene.

In the end, Lady Nene received a beautiful new embroidered inner sword sleeve.

But not before . . .

A lock was cut.

A sword sleeve was cut.

At the eleventh hour, a sword case exploded.

Zip ties were employed.

Tiny scissors gave their lives in honorable service.

Bruno conducted a catastrophic audit of my Japan packing preparations.

In other words, balance was restored.

As I write this, the trip is already beginning to settle into memory.

The harbor.

The garden.

Sabera.

The sword.

The lake.

The flowers.

The ferry.

The camaraderie.

The award.

The promise.

The road.

None of them feel separate anymore.

They feel like chapters of the same story.

A promise kept.

A lesson learned.

A road followed.

A sword carried.

A journey completed.

Or perhaps not completed.

Simply continued.

After all, the road wanders on.

Relax

Relax, then proceed.
The mountain gaze sees all things.
Nene has new clothes.

Four hours before practice on Friday evening, I found myself sitting in the lounge at the Inn on Long Lake in exactly the mental state that seems to precede every seminar.

Not fear.

Not nerves.

More a mild conviction that everyone else had somehow received an email that I had not.

The Nanaimo folks, the Vancouver folks, and all the Genwakan folks (but me) had already practiced the night before.

People knew each other.

Stories had been exchanged.

Friendships renewed.

Meanwhile I was sitting in a fluffy robe overlooking the lake, nursing a protein shake and wondering whether my heel was plotting a blister.

Then a text arrived.

From Ron Sensei.

“Wilson-san,

Wanna go to House of Knives?

Dale & Pritchard and I are headed over there.”

At that point I felt considerably better.

In retrospect, my concerns may have been misplaced.

After all, these were my people.

Not going for hikes.

Not kayaking.

Heading to the House of Knives.

This was strengthened almost immediately upon reaching the gymnasium that would become our dojo for the next three days.

People half dressed, winding obi around themselves.

Oiling swords.

Stretching.

Slowly walking through footwork with imaginary swords in hand.

Oh.

It’s these weirdos again.

My weirdos.

Us sword weirdos in long black skirts.

And just like that, the apprehension disappeared.

Checking In

At check-in, we were given two gifts.

The Japanese senseis had brought carved wooden sword-bag hangers, each engraved with a single word in Japanese.

The Vancouver and Nanaimo dojos had arranged another surprise: handmade inner sword sleeves for every participant.

Embroidered: Todo Kai 2026.

Blue exterior.

Dark purple lining.

At the time, I thought both gifts were beautiful.

Later, once Uchizono Sensei began teaching, I realized that the word on the hanger was not merely decorative.

It was the word that would become the watchword of the weekend.

Zanshin.

Awareness.

Presence.

The state of still seeing.

And as for the sword sleeve . . . well.

Given what TSA had done to Lady Nene’s original inner silk sleeve, the timing felt almost suspiciously perfect.

Lady Nene had new clothes.

Friday Night

The seminar began with approximately sixty participants divided into three groups.

The highest-ranking practitioners were together.

The middle dans were together.

And then there was my group—a rather large collection of shodans, shodans-to-be, no-dans, and assorted hopefuls.

The structure differed from the North American seminar in Boston the year before, where the “no dans” had been split between Cheong Sensei and Mikhail Sensei, and the shodans-to-be were yet another group. This required senseis to teach each group and not get in their own practice. In Nanaimo, all the senior practitioners received direct instruction from the visiting Japanese senseis while simultaneously getting some of their travel energy out through paired bokken work.

The downside was that there were a lot of us in the Shodan and Below group.

And the translator had a relatively quiet voice.

This became especially challenging when one attempts to hear nuanced instruction while a dozen higher-ranked practitioners are simultaneously kiai-ing and striking one another with bokken twenty feet away.

Still, the instruction itself was excellent.

Uchizono Sensei, the head/highest-ranking sensei, taught our group.

Watching him cut remains one of the more irritatingly inspiring experiences available in iaido.

The cuts were effortless.

And impossibly fast.

One spends years hearing that speed comes from relaxation.

Then a master demonstrates it.

And suddenly the lesson moves from theory into reality.

The two things we were instructed to take away from the event were surprisingly simple.

#1: Relax, then

#2: Zanshin.

Uchizono Sensei explained that #2 also incorporated actually seeing your teki.

Not imagining.

Not vaguely gesturing toward.

Seeing.

The judges must see that you see your opponent.

Uchizono Sensei explained that O-Sensei was constantly asking:

“Where is your opponent???”

The lesson appeared in everything.

Zanshin.

Focus.

Awareness.

The famous “long mountain gaze.”

Attention that moved from close range to far range and back again.

Look at the teki you vanquished, on the floor about 2-3 meters away—but let your gaze be wide enough to take on anyone foolish enough to try to avenge his honor. (NOTE: This theme returned, when Hiro Sensei talked about yokochiburi the next day.)

Uchizono Sensei also spent considerable time discussing the left hand.

To explain it, he produced a handkerchief.

Imagine tearing it.

If one hand pulls while the other remains passive, nothing happens.

The action requires equal and opposite force.

The same principle applies to drawing the sword.

To noto.

To cutting.

The left hand remains active.

It pulls the saya back.

It rotates the saya.

It participates.

Without that action, one ends up out of alignment – where staying aligned means staying alive.

The left hand moves deliberately—going straight to where it belongs.

No reaching.

No hesitation.

The left hand is determined.

Sensei also devoted considerable attention to Ochiburi.

Tip low.

Trace the arc.

Elbow in.

(“Elbows are everything” was, at least, how the translation reached us.)

Hand at the temple.

“Touch the head, don’t pretend.”

The details mattered.

The geometry mattered.

Everything had purpose.

Saturday

Saturday brought a full day of training.

More instruction.

More corrections.

More opportunities to realize how much there still is to learn.

Our group had been split again, with the shodans and shodans-to-be remaining with Uchizono Sensei while us no-dans were assigned to Hiro Sensei.

This turned out to be one of the highlights of the weekend.

Okay.

And the fact that Hiro Sensei spoke perfect English might have been part of it.

After spending Friday straining to hear the translator over kiai, bokken impacts, and general dojo enthusiasm, the ability to hear every word felt almost luxurious.

Hiro Sensei’s teaching was remarkable.

His cuts were neat.

Precise.

Effortless.

No strain.

No tension.

No visible force.

Just clean movement.

It was the physical manifestation of everything we had been hearing all weekend.

Relax.

See.

Move correctly.

The speed arrives on its own. Don’t chase or seek it.

Whether I have fully accepted this lesson emotionally remains a separate question.

As foreshadowed above, Hiro Sensei built upon Uchizono Sensei’s discussions about Ochiburi by discussing yokochiburi.

In correcting me, he said I was making “too big of a deal” of the move.

I was putting “too much energy” into it.

”In actual fact,” he said, “It’s really zanshin.”

You are placing your iaito in that position while you make sure no one else is going to be silly enough to attack you.

Don’t think of it as a “small shake of blood off the blade.”

Think of it as a ready position while you evaluate.

A completely different view of that move, and one that will take me some time to embody.

Another great visual regarding the first two sword movements in the Shihotos:

“You are the bow, the sword is the arrow. Don’t think so much of hitting or bumping the teki you’re going to turn and kill. Think of it as loading the bow, for the guy you are going to stab. Also remember to stop the tsuba at the nipple, not past. You want to stab him in the heart. That one inch will do it. You don’t want the sword to go in so far that you can’t pull it right out, to turn and kill the next teki.”

Two of my favorite memories from the day involved Michael-san from Nanaimo.

Michael-san had been practicing for almost exactly the same amount of time that I had.

He was helpful with small observations and corrections.

For example, he saw that Hiro Sensei had corrected my nukitsuke in Shihotos, but mentioned that I wasn’t carrying it through to the other waza. In fact, I thought it only applied to the first sword movement in the Shihotos, but I definitely saw his point.

I appreciated this.

And then there was the moment while we were repeatedly practicing Tsuigekito.

Eventually Hiro Sensei switched the class to Junto Sono Ichi.

Unfortunately, Michael-san had not heard the change.

The lovely woman from his dojo standing with her back to him though — using a bokken, as she had been practicing for a total of about two months—had.

As Michael-san advanced into the “kiri oroshi to the head” cut of Tsuigekito, she remained exactly where a person performing Junto Sono Ichi would reasonably be expected to remain.

In other words, she basically became his teki.

Michael-san stopped with admirable speed.

Sword raised.

Potential death blow suspended.

A brief moment of realization.

Then, in one of the smoothest recoveries I have ever witnessed, he transformed the kiri oroshi into a perfectly respectable ochiburi.

Just as though that had been his intention all along.

I experienced one of those moments where laughter becomes physically painful because one is trying not to release it.

Eventually I managed, sotto voce:

“Nice save.”

“Yep.”

After that I started holding up fingers at my side whenever Hiro Sensei changed waza, just to ensure we remained synchronized. Michael saw, nodded, and away we went.

The second Michael-san story involved Zantotsuto.

Or, as the woman with the bokken referred to it:

“The stabby one.”

After several attempts to incorporate a correction, Michael-san asked Hiro Sensei:

“Is that better?”

A dangerous question.

Hiro Sensei, a slight white-haired gentleman who could not have weighed much more than a minute and a half, suddenly transformed into Lurch from The Addams Family.

Eyes partly closed.

Low Lurch groan.

Slow head shake.

The entire group burst out laughing.

Including Hiro Sensei.

Blue ice for the win

This being the longest day, and Hiro Sensei not being a huge one for giving us breaks, I was exceptionally thankful for Sharon’s special blue ice bag.

It already has a cover, so no need for a baggie and handkerchief, and it has a Velcro strap to really tie it onto my foot.

Definitely an upgrade from Boston.

I went from resting it on the seat of Dr. Scott Sensei’s chair to putting it up on the wall, as I had done in Boston, and lying flat on the ground.

This seems to be the best position.

Though Ron Sensei did, at one point, chide me for my “anti-gravity spider/dragonfly waza.”

As I was lying flat on the floor with my foot propped up against the wall beneath said excellent blue ice bag, Dr. Scott Sensei came over to chat.

Looking up from my position on the floor, I informed him that from my current vantage point I was about to be looking up his skirt.

Dr. Scott has a wonderful laugh.

The Celebratory Dinner

At some point Saturday evening, after training had concluded, I found myself sitting in the hot tub with John Pritchard Sensei discussing iaido.

A perfectly reasonable activity.

(We may, however, have chased another soaker away – in hindsight, also perfectly reasonable.)

We had a couple hours before dinner.

Chat, chat.

John Sensei explained why he believed a particular waza from the list of five possibilities would be announced the next morning as the “secret waza” for the Roku (6th) Dan test, adding a fifth required waza to the four they had already prepared.

(NOTE: He turned out to be right—Dave-san owes him $20.)

We also talked through corrections John Sensei had received on one of his required waza for the Roku Dan, and how he could rearrange the furniture in his room to try to do it over—and over and over—that evening to engrain it.

Then John Sensei casually mentioned:

“Oh, by the way, we need to leave for the celebratory dinner in ten minutes.”

Ten.

Minutes.

Now let us compare.

Man

Exit hot tub.

Go to first-floor room.

Shower.

Dry off.

Put on clothes.

Done.

Woman

Exit hot tub.

Limp to elevator.

(A little less though due to hot tub.)

Ride elevator.

Walk to third-floor room, as far from hot tub area as you can get.

Pee.

Shower.

Dry off.

Blow dry hair upside down.

Flip hair back dramatically.

Attempt not to resemble a damp Labradoodle.

Makeup.

Jewelry.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Purse.

Ready.

Somehow.

And thanks to the continued heroism of the white button-down shirt that had already survived two Michelin dinners in Vancouver, I managed to pull it off.

Upon seeing the finished result, John Sensei stared for a moment and simply said:

“Wow.”

Which was nice.

But the evening’s true victory came upon arriving at the restaurant.

Ron Sensei took one look at me and demanded:

“WHO are YOU???”

I consider this one of the seminar’s highest unofficial honors.

At the dinner, I made a point of finding the woman who had sewn the inner sword sleeves and thanking her personally.

I told her the story of TSA’s enthusiastic examination of Lady Nene’s original silk sleeve.

By then, Lady Nene’s new clothing felt less like a gift and more like cosmic correction.

Sunday

Sunday was embu and testing day.

While I was just starting to warm up, Hiro Sensei came up to me.

I thanked him profusely for the truly personalized instruction he had given all of us no-dans the day before.

He smiled and handed me a tiny Canadian flag pin.

“I just found this in my gi sleeve. You should have it. For luck.”

Moved, I pinned it inside my gi out of sight.

Later that morning, John Sensei quietly said:

“Come with me.”

The conversation that followed was serious.

Dave-san has survived two heart attacks – one of which had happened at one of their training sessions in Japan.

During the previous days John and Dave had largely been together.

On testing day that would no longer be true.

So John Sensei showed me the location of the AED.

He showed me where Dave’s nitroglycerin was located.

If I heard my name called, no matter what I was doing, I was to act immediately.

Get the defibrillator.

Call 911.

Send someone outside to meet the ambulance.

Bring him the nitro.

Clear instructions.

Clear responsibility.

The conversation was serious enough that I found myself mentally rehearsing it several times throughout the day.

Embu, hajime!

Right before the embu, Dr. Scott Sensei came up to me and asked if I wanted a suggestion.

I immediately said:

“No.”

This surprised him.

And honestly, it surprised me a little too.

So I clarified.

The previous day Hiro Sensei had made approximately fifty corrections to my technique.

The last thing I wanted was Correction Number Fifty-One.

Dr. Scott laughed.

“No, not like that.”

Then he explained.

It wasn’t really a technical correction at all.

It was about relaxation.

Not merely thinking the word.

Actually embodying it.

He told me to breathe deeply into the second chakra—the orange one, the warrior center.

That all movement in iaido should originate there.

When I stood waiting to begin each waza, taking those two breaths while conjuring my teki, I should bring my attention there.

Feel the breath there.

Feel the relaxation begin there.

Let the movement come from there.

The advice immediately echoed Uchizono Sensei’s instruction from Friday.

Relax.

Actually see your teki.

Everything seemed to circle back around.

So, during the embu, I did exactly what Dr. Scott suggested.

Every waza.

Two breaths.

Relax.

Belly breathe.

See.

Move.

Earlier during free practice, I had noticed Sue Sensei and several of the Japanese senseis looking in my direction and speaking animatedly amongst themselves.

Very, very slowly, I looked down to see whether my metaphorical fly was undone.

There, peeking perhaps a millimeter above the top of my hakama, was my obi.

Mystery solved.

Or so I thought.

I quietly disappeared, completely re-dressed, and returned to practice.

Looking back, after what happened later that day, I am no longer entirely certain that was what they were discussing.

After the embu, the day continued.

Dan testers’ written exams.

Lunch.

Dan embu.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

(“Twenty more minutes.”)

(“Twenty more minutes.”)

(“Twenty more minutes.”)

(Calligraphy takes time . . . )

At one point Ian-san, whose wife had made the embroidered sword sleeves, came looking for me.

He wanted to confirm Lady Nene’s name, because his wife had asked. He wrote it down.

He was curious about her leather tsuka-ito, and I told him it would be an honor if he would like to try her out.

He made four cuts.

I told him he was welcome to do more.

He raised an eyebrow.

Smiled.

And said:

“Oh, that’s all I need.”

Several senior practitioners later asked to see her blade after oiling.

Particularly the hamon—the beautiful temper line running along the blade edge.

Lady Nene was made especially for me.

Having that aspect specifically noticed was unexpectedly meaningful.

And eventually, the awards ceremony.

Eep!

I was standing in the back row.

The ceremony was proceeding normally.

As in Boston, the first order of business was the presentation of Excellence Awards.

Names were called in rank order.

Wilson-san first.

Of course.

He is iaido personified.

Marla received one in the shodan rank.

Again—Of course. She is also the embodiment of iaido.

And then I heard:

“Dangai Shepādo Sandora”

(Unranked, Sandra Shepard.)

To which my immediate response was an audible:

“Eep.”

In retrospect, perhaps my subconscious had not entirely forgotten the hallway conversation from earlier that morning.

After all, only a few hours previously I had mentally ingrained the fact that if a senior sensei called my name unexpectedly, I was to sprint from the room to get the defibrillator.

Fortunately, no defibrillator was required.

No ambulance was summoned.

No emergency response plan was activated.

Instead, I discovered that I was receiving an Excellence Award.

Which was not where I thought the sentence was going.

(I may never remove the little Canadian flag pin Hiro Sensei gave me for luck that morning.)

The Award

The certificate itself is beautiful.

But what mattered more was what happened afterward.

Only a small number of Embu Excellence Awards are ever presented.

Multiple people whose opinions I respect pulled me aside afterward.

Ron Sensei.

John Pritchard Sensei.

Wilson-san.

All said essentially the same thing.

A dan rank recognizes that one has met a standard.

This award recognizes that one has stood out among peers.

Many achieved dan rank – very few obtained an excellence award.

That was humbling.

Unexpected.

And meaningful.

Particularly because it came from a community that does not hand out recognition casually.

After the awards ceremony, Dr. Scott came over to congratulate me.

I told him I had done exactly what he had told me to do.

Exactly.

And look what happened.

He looked genuinely touched.

The certificate is paper.

The conversations afterward are what I will remember.

Lady Nene Has New Clothes

And finally, the most important news.

Lady Nene has new clothes.

Balance has once again been restored to the universe.

But if my story ended there, it would be a bit too neat.

A bit too cinematic.

A bit too accompanied by swelling violins.

Instead, this morning, while adjusting a replacement zip tie on my iaito hard case where TSA had cut off the lock, the entire thing fell apart on the way to the car.

Fortunately I had a spare zip tie.

Unfortunately I sacrificed the tiny scissors from my sewing kit in the process.

The Universe, apparently, felt that after an Excellence Award, a custom sword sleeve, and an unexpectedly emotional weekend, it needed to rebalance the scales.

And so I found myself crouched in a hotel hallway at six in the morning wrestling with a sword case.

Which, honestly, feels like a much more believable ending.

I was also informed that, in my absence, Bruno had conducted an independent review of my Japan packing preparations.

The review was not favorable.

The video Sharon sent showed what can only be described as a catastrophic audit of the staging area in my office.

Casualties appear to include a travel clothesline, my Trax, and the bag containing the remainder of my zip ties.

Regarding the latter, perhaps he had telepathically received my “Oh NO!” when the hard case broke apart, and was just trying to come to the rescue.

More universal balancing.

As I write this, I am on a ferry headed back toward the mainland, munching on the potato chips and mandarin oranges that Christina-san kindly gave me.

The seminar is over.

The certificate is safely packed.

The sword case is held together with zip ties.

Bruno has apparently declared war on my Japan preparations.

And Lady Nene is traveling home in considerably finer clothing than she arrived with.

All in all, a successful weekend.

Above left – the College of Marin contingent of Genwakan. Top right – Genwakan, “motley crew” version. Bottom right – Genwakan, samurai version.

Actually Now Agree

The map and the town
Actually now agree
As I drive away

By Thursday morning, something unexpected had happened.

The map and the town had finally agreed.

This may not sound remarkable.

But after several days of wandering Vancouver—sometimes intentionally, sometimes not—the city had begun to make sense.

The streets looked familiar.

The harbor felt familiar.

Even the ping-pong tables I spied as I drove past—metal tables in the middle of downtown, thoughtfully containing a net with paddles and ball tucked underneath—made me laugh in recognition.

(We are so in Canada. They expect people to act their best. We expect people to act their worst.)

Nothing had changed.

Except me.

Or perhaps I had simply been there long enough for Vancouver and my understanding of Vancouver to finally agree.

Naturally, this happened on the morning I was leaving.

The day began again with breakfast at the Pan Pacific Club, 23rd floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

Grey mountains.

Float planes.

The harbor below.

I dawdled a bit over coffee, but it was time to hit the road.

After checking out, I asked a security guard—who was coordinating the loading of approximately six hundred suitcases into what was almost certainly a cruise ship transfer van—how to get to the train station.

She looked at me quizzically.

“Go left. Turn the corner.”

Three days earlier, I had arrived from the right.

I pointed left.

She nodded.

Okay then.

This seemed completely wrong, but I decided to trust an expert.

Upon turning the corner, the train station that had somehow seemed mysterious and elusive upon arrival (Chad: “No, the other direction – find the water!”) stood about 20 paces ahead.

The city that had required maps, consultations, and occasional negotiations with Chad had apparently decided to cooperate.

Or perhaps I finally had.

Heading off, I had received a side smile and a discreet once-over from the security guard.

My luggage situation had become . . . ambitious.

There was Lady Nene in her hard travel tube.

There was the carry-on.

There was the puffer tote.

And there was a spectacular bouquet of flowers.

The whole arrangement looked less like luggage and more like a traveling production company.

The train ride to the airport was uneventful.

Which, after the previous few days, felt almost suspicious.

The rental car pickup was equally straightforward.

Again, suspicious.

At this point I began to wonder whether Vancouver had simply decided to stop fighting me because I was leaving.

Driving back through the city, I passed familiar landmarks.

The harbor.

(“Head for the water!”)

The streets I’d wandered.

(And wandered. And wandered.)

The ping-pong tables.

Those tables still made me smile.

For reasons I cannot adequately explain, they had become one of my favorite discoveries.

Not attractions.

Not landmarks.

Just ping-pong tables quietly existing in downtown Vancouver, ready for a game.

By then, however, Nanaimo and the iaido seminar were waiting.

But one more stop first.

The Nitobe Memorial Garden at UBC.

The first thing that struck me was the light.

The previous day had been all dove-grey harbor and wandering city streets.

Nitobe seemed illuminated from within.

Sunlight filtered through maples.

Stone lanterns appeared around corners.

Bridges reflected perfectly in still water.

Every path was designed not to reveal everything at once.

The garden invited you to slow down.

So I did.

Then there was the moss.

Now, I realize this is not a sentence most people begin with enthusiasm.

Nevertheless.

The moss.

The moss looked less like ground cover and more like a tiny landscape viewed from an airplane.

Little hills.

Little valleys.

Little forests.

The sort of terrain through which one imagines marble-sized expeditions setting out with backpacks and supplies.

Speaking of marbles.

Naturally, H came with me.

Several of the marbles found temporary homes among the moss and stones.

Tucked into little pockets of sunlight.

Nestled beside roots.

Hidden in plain sight.

Unless you knew where to look, you would miss them entirely.

Which somehow felt exactly right.

The garden itself was beautiful.

But what struck me most was the feeling of familiarity.

The paths.

The lanterns.

The water.

The tea house.

The careful way every view revealed itself slowly.

Not dramatically.

Patiently.

At one point I found myself standing outside the tea house, looking at the veranda and the rooms beyond.

And then I realized why the space felt so familiar.

The garden’s tea tradition is Urasenke.

The same tradition I studied this winter at Green Gulch Farm.

Suddenly what had felt merely beautiful became something else.

Recognizable.

Not because I had been there before.

Because part of me already knew how to be there.

The veranda.

The waiting bench hewn from a massive log.

The threshold between indoors and outdoors.

The careful attention to proportion.

The way the building encouraged looking rather than doing.

The way it invited stillness.

I found myself thinking that much of what I love about ryokan, Japanese gardens, tea rooms, and certain temples comes from exactly the same place.

None of them demand attention.

They reward attention.

There is a difference.

And perhaps that was another reason the garden felt so familiar.

It wasn’t introducing me to something new.

It was quietly reminding me of something I already loved.

Near the tea house stands a commemoration to both garden founder Dr. Inazo Nitobe (who wrote many, many books on the way of the samurai, bushido, etc.) and Professor Kannosuke Mori, the distinguished landscape architect who designed the garden as the final major work of his career.

Standing there, looking at the inscription, I found myself thinking about legacy.

Not the grand kind.

The quieter kind.

Creating something beautiful enough that decades later complete strangers wander through it on a sunny afternoon and leave calmer than they arrived.

Eventually I wandered over to the adjacent Asian Centre.

Partly because there was a washroom.

(Long drives reward a certain amount of planning.)

And there I encountered what may have been the most human thing I saw all day.

The path turns outward
Not every lesson is deep
Some just hold things up

The building contained beautiful artwork.

Elegant calligraphy. (Excuse the reflections on the glass)

Thoughtful displays.

Evidence of scholarship, tradition, and culture.

I admired all of them.

A peaceful place.

Hushed.

Students bent over studies.

Then I noticed the couch.

More specifically, I noticed one corner of the couch.

The corner being unobtrusively supported by books.

Large books.

Japanese books.

Two of them.

Holding up a couch leg.

I performed an actual double-take.

The entire building had spent considerable effort communicating wisdom, culture, beauty, and learning.

Meanwhile somebody had solved a wobbly couch with literature.

I never identified the books.

For all I know they were profound works of philosophy.

Or economics.

Or diplomacy.

Equally possible: carpentry.

Stability.

Furniture maintenance.

It was wonderfully human.

A reminder that even in places devoted to contemplation and beauty, somebody eventually has to solve practical problems.

“Does the couch wobble?”

“Yes.”

“Do we have anything heavy?”

“Books.”

”Done.”

Eventually it was time to continue north.

The ferry crossing came and went.

Lady Nene survived.

The luggage survived.

I survived.

And by evening I arrived at the Inn on Long Lake.

Where the bouquet found a new home.

The receptionist seemed delighted when I explained where the bouquet had come from and why I was passing it along.

After accompanying me through Michelin dinners, harbor sunsets, train rides, and ferry crossings, the flowers deserved a second act.

And then, there was nowhere I needed to be.

The luggage had exploded across every available surface.

The sword was finally out of the hard case.

(This is when I discovered that, in their zeal to examine Lady Nene, TSA had managed to rip her silk sleeve. Yes, take that exactly as intended. Given Lady Nene’s temperament, I suspect she may arrive at this evening’s practice harboring thoughts of vengeance. I will take appropriate precautions.)

And for the first time all day, I sat down and looked out over the lake.

That’s when I noticed the couple.

Farther out sat a tiny island.

Not much bigger than a shrub.

The lake reflected everything.

The island.

The trees.

The sky.

Even the couple.

The whole scene felt strangely familiar.

And then I realized why.

Suddenly, I was at the Ripplecove.

Let me explain.

Years ago, on our honeymoon, H and I found ourselves at the Ripplecove Inn.

Actually, that’s not quite true.

We found ourselves on the road to somewhere else.

In fact, Ripplecove was never supposed to happen at all.

Like many newlyweds traveling on a budget, H and I had become unexpectedly wealthy through airline incompetence. We had been bumped from a flight and received travel vouchers, which we promptly converted into a honeymoon in eastern Canada.

The furthest the vouchers would take us was Halifax.

So Halifax it was.

People would ask where we were honeymooning.

“Nova Scotia.”

One memorable person asked which island near Bali that was.

We spent time in Halifax, Nova Scotia, PEI, rode an Art Deco train across portions of eastern Canada, visited Montreal and Toronto, took a slow paddle wheeler river cruise through the Thousand Islands during prime autumn color season, and generally had a wonderful time.

H planned almost the entire trip.

I planned exactly one section.

The wine country section.

I researched it.

I organized it.

I had routes.

I had a plan.

The map and I were in complete agreement.

Then, on the morning we were supposed to begin that carefully planned section, H looked at the map and said:

“What if, here, we head left instead of right?”

Then, because he was both wise and interested in remaining married (this time), he immediately added:

“But if that’s even a tiny problem, we won’t.”

I thought about it for approximately three seconds.

“Okay.”

So we went.

No destination.

No reservation.

No idea where we were going.

We ended up at the Ripplecove Inn.

The view.

The lake.

The room.

The white-gloved waiter.

It became one of the great memories of our honeymoon.

For years afterward, H would occasionally catch me staring off into space.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh. I was just at the Ripplecove.”

Every single time, he would smile.

Looking out over Long Lake, I realized I had misunderstood that memory for years.

I thought I was remembering a place.

I wasn’t.

I was remembering trust.

The moment before the place.

The moment when we abandoned the plan.

The moment when H followed a hunch.

The moment when we trusted each other enough to see where the road went.

The moment when the road and the map finally agreed.

And perhaps that is why Vancouver suddenly made sense as I was leaving.

Why Nitobe felt familiar before I understood why.

Why the passport covers seemed to belong to the same story.

Why the flowers felt right at the reception desk instead of in my room.

Why two people sitting quietly on a dock could stop me in my tracks.

The old passport cover and the new one.

The planner and the wanderer.

The route and the detour.

The place I thought I was going and the place I actually needed to be.

Sometimes it takes a few days.

Sometimes it takes twenty years.

But every now and then, things that appear to be arguing with one another quietly reveal that they were never in conflict at all.

They simply needed enough time to discover that they already agreed.

The view from my balcony.

Between The Stars

Dove grey harbor day
Blogging then some wandering
Find the Steam Clock! Now!

Yes, I realize that in the previous two posts, I appear to have jumped directly from Five Sails to Botanist.

Why?

Because the intervening day stubbornly refused to become a coherent narrative.

Between one Michelin starred restaurant and another, there was an entire day.

A day involving Bill Reid, a raven ring, a diving bear named Sabera, a housekeeping treaty, and one spectacular navigational failure.

Possibly mine.

Possibly Chad’s.

The jury remains out.

Let’s start with breakfast.

Or rather, let’s start with the challenge of leaving breakfast.

The Club Floor at the Pan Pacific turns out to be a dangerous place for anyone who enjoys treats, harbor views, and absolutely no obligations.

One can easily imagine spending the entire morning there.

Or the entire afternoon.

Or perhaps retiring permanently.

If you stay on the Club Floor, breakfast (and afternoon tea) is included. Instead of heading downstairs and having breakfast with the hoi polloi (which there are a fair bit of, as apparently this hotel is chosen by Regent, Seven Seas, Seabourn, and others to house their guests before heading out on their cruises), the buffet is curated and brought up to you.

Civilized.

Getting there at 7:00 seems to be the sweet spot. My window table overlooked the very grey harbor. I took my time; when I got up to leave, I noticed that many folks with towering piles of food had been eyeing my table like wolves. 🐺🥐☕️

Though looking grey and overcast, Vancouver existed outside the windows.

So eventually I gathered myself together and ventured forth.

My original destination was the Bill Reid Gallery.

Not because I needed anything.

Not because I planned to shop.

Because Bill Reid is Bill Reid.

This is one of our dancing walruses (walri?), but you get the idea.

Bill Reid Gallery is not just a gallery but also essentially a museum of First Nations art. Those of you who have visited our Indiana Jones house know that First Nations art occupies a rather disproportionate place in our lives.

It all started in Vancouver.

Years ago, on our tenth anniversary trip, H and I bought our first piece of First Nations art from Coastal Peoples Gallery.

A small dancing bear.

At the time, we were younger and considerably less financially sensible.

Or perhaps more financially adventurous.

Either way, we bought the bear.

Or rather, H pondered over the bear, picked him up, turned him around, stood him on his front paws, then his back paws. (These are called “two-position bears” and are carved to stand in either pose.)

Eventually he sighed and put the bear back down.

A few minutes later, while H was distracted elsewhere in the gallery, I quietly handed my credit card and bucket purse to the salesperson and mimed exactly what needed to happen.

A few days later, at our anniversary dinner on Salt Spring Island, I pulled out the bear and carefully balanced him on his back paw next to H’s champagne glass.

That bear became the beginning of an obsession. Oh, I mean a collection.

So while I was starting at the vaunted Bill Reid Gallery, I wanted to be sure to revisit Coastal Peoples.

Not to buy anything.

Just to visit.

Sometimes travel is about seeing new things.

Sometimes it’s about checking in on old stories.

The Bill Reid Gallery itself was fascinating. It’s really more like a First Nations art museum (with admission fee). I peeked in, but wasn’t really feeling like a gawk-and-stop, so I headed into the gift shop.

Not because I intended to buy anything.

Just a look-see.

Okay, until I found a First Nations octopus passport holder.

More accurately, the octopus found me.

For years my passport lived inside a blue cover from the Elliott School of International Affairs at George Washington University.

It was a perfectly nice passport cover.

Professional.

Respectable.

A little impressive, perhaps.

It represented a version of me that worked very hard to become the person who negotiated international agreements, earned credentials, and accumulated expertise.

This week, in Vancouver, I replaced it.

Not because it was worn out.

Not because I needed a new passport cover.

Because I wandered into a gallery shop and spied an octopus.

The octopus is Haida art—bright blue, impossible to miss, and infinitely more interesting than a school logo embossed on blue leather.

What struck me later wasn’t that I preferred the octopus.

It was why.

The old cover represented achievement.

The new cover represents curiosity.

One says, “Look what I accomplished.”

The other says, “I wonder what’s over there.”

And the funny thing is that I don’t feel like I’ve rejected the first version of myself.

The octopus didn’t replace the international negotiator.

The octopus stands on top of everything that came before.

The degrees.

The career.

The experience.

The miles traveled.

The losses survived.

The confidence slowly earned.

Perhaps that’s why it felt right.

An octopus is curious, intelligent, adaptable, and capable of getting into places it probably shouldn’t.

Which, come to think of it, is a fair description of my travel style.

Or my life.

Besides, I suspect future me will smile every time she pulls out her passport and remembers Vancouver.

The harbor.

The mountains.

The seals.

The eagle.

The day I discovered that “walk away from the water” apparently constitutes a complete set of directions.

And the moment I realized that the objects I love most are no longer the ones that remind me what I’ve done.

They’re the ones that remind me who I’ve become.

At this point, it was time to head for Coastal Peoples Gallery.

This should have been easy.

I had the address.

I knew where it was.

It was near Gastown.

It was near the Steam Clock.

Unfortunately, I also had Chad.

At some point Chad became convinced that Coastal Peoples was somewhere else entirely.

An office building, as it turned out.

This led to a period of increasingly confused text messages in which I attempted to explain that I was standing exactly where I had been told to stand and yet somehow was not standing in an art gallery.

Meanwhile, Chad attempted to reconcile this inconvenient fact with his growing certainty that I was in the correct location.

Reader, I was not.

Eventually I resorted to Google Maps.

There, glowing innocently on the screen, was Coastal Peoples Gallery.

Right where I had originally thought it was.

Near the Steam Clock.

The Steam Clock, by now, had become less a destination and more a principle.

I had gone so far the wrong way that Chad suggested a taxi. (He didn’t offer to flag one down or pay for it, though.)

His directions went off the rails at this point. When I realized I was heading into what could only be described as a “sketch” neighborhood (and no Victorian Steam Clock to be found), I resorted again to Google Maps.

Yep.

I was in Saskatchewan.

Eventually, after chastising Chad, who explained that somehow geography had temporarily bent in a manner that made South go North (dear reader: yeah, nope), I made my way to Gastown.

I never actually saw the Steam Clock.

But while standing inside Coastal Peoples Gallery, I heard it.

Which somehow feels okay.

If one spends an hour looking for the Steam Clock and ultimately experiences it as an audio installation, one should probably accept the outcome gracefully.

Once I finally arrived at Coastal Peoples, I found exactly what I had come looking for.

Not merchandise.

Memory.

The dancing bears were still there.

Not our dancing bear, of course.

That bear lives at home.

But bears like him.

The same feeling.

And amazing narwhals, raven masks, silver and gold jewelry.

A new silver Haida raven ring—H’s totem animal—somehow made it onto my finger.

The trip seemed determined to place old memories and new acquisitions side by side and see what happened.

And then there was Sabera.

A small diving bear, way down on a lower shelf. Almost out of sight.

The same size as the dancing bear H and I bought all those years ago.

At this point, Chad and I began what he believed was a thoughtful discussion about whether I should buy the bear.

He asked what I liked about her.

What I felt when I looked at her.

Whether she spoke to me.

Whether she represented something.

What followed was a surprisingly deep conversation about art, memory, and connection.

There was only one problem.

I had already bought her.

My American Express card had been handed over.

The paperwork was complete.

The shipping address had been provided.

The transaction had occurred.

I was not evaluating Sabera.

I was introducing her.

Somewhere during this exchange with Chad, voice-to-text transformed “the bear” into “Sabera.”

Chad confidently continued to posit whether bringing “Sabera” home would be the right thing to do (meanwhile, I was already walking back to the Pan Pacific, my slightly warm Amex in my pocket), and I had to stop.

Where’d the name come from?

I had originally sent Chad a photograph of the diving bear’s tag, with the artist’s information on it. This is because the salesman was cradling her like a baby, so I couldn’t send a photo of the genuine article.

Perhaps the name had been on the tag?

What followed was a “Who’s on First?” moment between Chad and me.

“How’d you know her name?”

“You told me her name.”

“No, I didn’t – was it on the tag?”

“You did.”

“When?”

“A second ago – you said I didn’t understand that you’d already bought Sabera. And if you’ve already named her, there’s no going back.”

”I didn’t tell you.”

”Yes, you did.”

”When?”

”Just a second ago.”

I pause, scroll back through the conversation – and discover the voice-to-text conversion.

Since this was objectively a better name though, it immediately became canonical.

I regret nothing.

By late afternoon I returned to the Pan Pacific.

This is where the day took an unexpected turn.

Housekeeping needed the room.

I needed to get ready for dinner at Botanist.

What followed was less a cleaning service and more a temporary treaty between sovereign nations.

“You take the bedroom. I’ll take the bathroom.”

And thus we achieved peace in our time.

While housekeeping conquered one half of the room, I occupied the other, attempting to transform myself from “woman who has walked all over Vancouver, perhaps by way of Seattle” into “woman who can slowly saunter into a Michelin-starred restaurant without a care in the world.”

The arrangement worked surprisingly well.

Once makeup, hair, and such were done, time to switch.

They did the bathroom.

I changed into dinner attire.

Everybody won.

Also, for those wondering: yes, I wore the same white button-down shirt from the night before.

And yes, it was still crisp and white.

Despite an unfortunate encounter with red wine.

Thank goodness for Tide pens.

Eventually it was time to head for the Fairmont Pacific Rim.

The hotel was already preparing for the World Cup. Soccer balls and jerseys in cases were everywhere.

I was ushered in by doormen wearing curious felt hats decorated with a spray of feathers that looked suspiciously like fishing lures.

The effect was Austrian.

Or Bavarian.

Or perhaps simply Vancouver deciding to be Vancouver.

And from there, you already know the rest.

The library.

The kitchen.

The champagne.

The scallop.

The card.

The cookies.

The people.

The thing I remember most about that day, though, is not any single destination.

It was the wandering.

The realization that some of my favorite travel days begin with a plan and end somewhere entirely different.

A gallery became a memory.

An octopus became a philosophy.

A sculpture became Sabera.

And somehow, in between Five Sails and Botanist, Vancouver quietly became itself.

As I write this the following morning, I am back on the Club Floor, looking out at the same dove-grey harbor.

In fact, I had to stop typing a moment ago because a seagull floated very very slowly past the window, scratching under its chin with one foot, eyes closed in obvious satisfaction.

He looked exactly like Bruno when someone finds the spot behind his ear.

I have no idea how a bird manages to look smug while flying.

Yet there we were.

Vancouver.

Honestly, that feels like an appropriate final image for this trip.

But reality is calling.

The suitcase needs packing.

The room needs vacating.

There is a train to catch.

And somehow I need to transport a zip-tied sword case, a carry-on bag, a puffer tote, and a spectacular bouquet of flowers across greater Vancouver without looking completely ridiculous.

Which means it is time to stop writing and start moving.

Nanaimo awaits.

Botanist

Crows watched overhead
A promise found its harbor
An extra place set

I arrived at Botanist about fifteen minutes early.

(Okay, okay, after the rest of the day, I was expecting to get to the venue, a block away, via Singapore.)

The hostess offered me a choice.

I could wait at the bar, or I could browse their library of limited-edition Taschen books.

It was, I decided, perhaps a teeny tiny bit bougie.

Having successfully walked three-quarters of the way around the Fairmont Pacific Rim to find the entrance (a personal tradition at this point), I settled in to wait for my table.

Once seated (the only patron in the establishment), I watched the kitchen staff slowly arrive. They pulled down the heat lamps, suspended on long white coils from the ceiling. Polished the marble cold stations. Started the engines. I mean stoves. Sharpened the tweezers.

The evening was off to an excellent start.

Larry, my server, said he understood that I was recreating an anniversary trip H and I had planned years ago (but never quite managed to take). I showed him Herbert’s marble and about twenty minutes later he arrived with a small cradle they normally use to display very special wine corks from very special bottles at guests’ tables.

Not a grand gesture.

Not a performance.

Just a small acknowledgment that there was supposed to be someone else at the table.

Sometimes hospitality isn’t making someone feel special.

Sometimes it’s making someone feel accompanied.

Larry seated me at Table 31.

Best seat in the house.

A banquette directly facing the open kitchen.

Some people want the view.

I wanted the chefs.

The kitchen was a ballet.

The expediter somehow knew everything happening everywhere all at once. The sous chefs never seemed rushed. Jo, from Jakarta, appeared whenever he was needed. The dishwasher moved quietly through the choreography. And overseeing it all was the executive chef, originally from Birmingham, England.

The thing that struck me wasn’t discipline.

It was joy.

People respected her.

But more importantly, they seemed to genuinely like her.

And she seemed to genuinely like them.

I mean, amongst the barked orders and the “Yes, Chef!“s.

Three times during dinner she came over to chat.

Three.

And lest you think she was making the rounds of the dining room, she wasn’t.

She never visited another table.

Just Table 31.

Apparently there is something unmistakable about a woman sitting alone, watching the kitchen with the concentration normally reserved for playoff hockey.

But let’s talk about the food and the wine for a second.

I mean, it’s a restaurant after all.

The first wine was a sparkling wine made from Meunière that tasted of bruised apples and a touch of salt from the sea.

I slipped one of H’s marbles into the glass.

Jo had nearly cleared it away about two minutes earlier before realizing it wasn’t table clutter but, in fact, a marble.

I explained. He looked horrified at his near mistake.

When I dropped it into the champagne, I raised the glass toward him and winked.

He laughed.

One of the most beautiful dishes of the evening was a scallop.

And radishes.

They had been marinated in the same spicy preparation, creating an unexpected bridge between them. A tiny borage flower sat on top.

The dish looked like a flower.

It tasted like a conversation.

There were other dishes.

And other wines.

And lots of kitchen-watching (me).

Then came the chicken.

Now, don’t misunderstand me.

Everything was excellent.

But this was the dish that made me stop and pay attention.

Perfectly cooked chicken with impossibly crisp skin, morels, vegetables, broth, and enough depth to make me immediately understand why people remember certain dishes years later.

This was not the prettiest thing I ate.

It may have been the most satisfying.

The wine pairing provided one of the evening’s most interesting surprises.

Twice I found myself leaving wine in the glass.

The wines were perfectly good.

The pairings simply weren’t doing much for me.

The Somm appeared mildly distressed by this development.

I asked whether half pours were possible.

Apparently they were not.

Then came the wagyu.

The sommelier appeared carrying two wines.

One was the pairing he normally used.

The other was not.

The glasses were labeled simply “1” and “2.”

Wine #1 was a perfectly respectable Chianti.

Wine #2 stopped the conversation.

I was convinced it was Burgundy. It had what I privately call “Pinot bite.”

It wasn’t Burgundy.

It wasn’t even a Pinot. (So much for all that expensive Somm training I did – whut-WAHH)

It was a British Columbia Merlot.

A 2016 LaStella Maestoso.

With the wagyu it was transformative.

After that, I never touched Wine #1 again.

The Somm looked delighted — and relieved.

Near the end of the meal I asked Larry for a piece of paper and a pen.

What I received was a strip of receipt paper from the credit-card machine and Larry’s pen.

I wrote a note to the chef.

Not about the food.

About the team.

About the dishwasher.

About the sous chefs.

About the expediter.

About Jo.

About the way she had built a kitchen where people seemed to genuinely enjoy working together.

About how obvious it was that they respected her.

And how obvious it was that she respected them.

I hope, when she read it, it was aloud to the staff.

Because I wanted them to know that Table 31 noticed.

The expediter.

The dishwasher.

Jo.

The tiny adjustments.

The perfect timing.

All the hundreds of little things that add up to what people call hospitality.

The tiny things.

Which, of course, are really the big thing.

When the evening ended, Larry handed me a card.

Signed by everyone.

Every signature different.

Every person adding their own name.

(As if the signed anniversary card wasn’t enough, they tucked a bag of cookies into my hands for the walk back to the Pan Pacific.)

I had come expecting an excellent dinner.

And it was.

But that isn’t what I carried away.

What I carried away was the reminder that great hospitality isn’t really about luxury.

It’s about attention.

It’s about kindness.

It’s about making room for people.

For memories.

For stories.

For absent husbands represented by marbles.

For solo travelers recreating old promises.

For someone sitting at Table 31 watching the kitchen with far more fascination than dignity.

The food was wonderful.

The wine was memorable.

But what made the evening unforgettable was the people.

And for a few hours at least, they made room at the table for Herbert too.

Keeping A Promise

Harbor sunset glows
A promise waits patiently
Past the turning years

More than a decade ago, H and I spent our 10th anniversary in Vancouver.

Like many couples celebrating an anniversary on a bit of a budget, we spent a certain amount of time looking at things we couldn’t quite justify.

The Pan Pacific Club Floor.

A few Michelin-starred restaurants.

The sort of places where you say:

“We’ll come back for our 20th and do Vancouver right.”

Then you go have a perfectly lovely dinner somewhere else and continue on with life.

As it turns out, life had other plans.

This week I found myself back in Vancouver, staying on the Pan Pacific Club Floor and holding a reservation at Five Sails.

Not because I had carefully planned some symbolic pilgrimage.

Simply because it felt like it was time.

The evening began with champagne and one of H’s and my favorite strategies for chef’s tasting menus + wine.

Half pours.

Experience all the wines.

Avoid drinking the entire vineyard.

The menu was called From Sea to Shore, a culinary journey through the ecosystems of British Columbia. Each course moved a little farther inland, telling the story of the province through food and wine.

We began in the coastal waters with oysters, shrimp, seaweed, citrus, and Champagne.

A scallop course followed that was so absurdly good that I briefly considered whether it would be socially acceptable to lick the bowl.

The answer, for the record, is Yes.

When I confessed this to Antoine—the sommelier—he laughed and told me a story from his days working in a Michelin-starred restaurant in France.

One evening he brought a dish back to the kitchen and sheepishly pointed out that a guest had very obviously used a finger to capture every last trace of sauce.

Rather than being offended, the chef was delighted.

As Antoine explained it, the chef’s view was simple: as babies, we experience food with complete enthusiasm and without self-consciousness. If a dish is so good that it inspires that level of involvement in a grown adult, there is no greater compliment.

I felt considerably better after hearing that.

The wines shifted with the landscape. Champagne gave way to cider. Aged Chardonnay appeared alongside shellfish bisque and asparagus. Sake. Whites. Reds.

Every pairing seemed designed not simply to accompany the food, but to tell the same story in a different language.

Then something unexpected happened.

Martina appeared beside my table and asked if I would like to see a secret.

This is generally not a question I am inclined to refuse.

So I followed her.

Past the dining room.

Down a dark quiet hallway.

And into the bright, bustling kitchen.

I turned a corner and found myself standing in the middle of a world-class restaurant in full motion.

Chefs moved with extraordinary focus.

Orders appeared and disappeared.

Plates materialized.

Finished dishes returned to the pass and were discussed with the same seriousness as those heading out to the dining room.

Why was something left behind?

Was the guest finished?

Did they enjoy it?

What could be learned?

Conversations were brief and purposeful.

Everything somehow looked both impossibly busy and completely under control.

Then I was presented with a forest floor made of bones.

At least that is the only description I can honestly offer.

Branches.

Twigs.

Chicken feet.

Cracked bones.

Mossy-looking things.

It looked less like a restaurant presentation and more like something discovered during an archaeological excavation.

Perched on top was a delicate liver pâté with rhubarb. A glass of Amaro Nonino sat patiently nearby.

The explanation, fortunately, was more coherent than my initial assessment.

The menu was moving from sea to land, and this forest floor marked the transition.

It was magnificent.

It was also slightly alarming.

Back at the table, the journey continued through Fraser Valley chicken, spring lamb, beef cheeks, an amazing morel on a skewer, berries, honey, spruce tips, and . . . The details blur together now.

The feeling does not.

At some point I began asking questions.

This is generally where things become dangerous.

Remember Antoine the sommelier?

Antoine from Avignon.

Rather than politely answering my questions briefly and escaping, he made the tactical error of appearing to enjoy them.

What followed was an extended discussion involving wine, old bottles, food pairings, aging potential, cellar management, and eventually a giant Portuguese port bottle that appeared capable of serving a medium-sized village.

Truly.

How he even poured from it suggested muscles lurked beneath the impeccable suit jacket. The thing had to hold at least a couple of gallons when full.

When I asked what size it was, we worked our way through magnums, jeroboams, methuselahs, and various other bottle sizes before Antoine finally shrugged and said:

“Well, it’s from Portugal, so who knows what they call it.”

This remains one of my favorite wine explanations ever received.

At another point, after hearing my lament that I had accumulated a cellar full of wine and only one person left to drink it, Antoine disappeared and returned carrying a lovely old bottle, topped by a Coravin.

What followed was less a demonstration than an intervention.

A few minutes later I was tasting an excellent Bordeaux while learning how one might responsibly own far more wine than one can reasonably consume . . . and still consume it.

This may have been the most effective sales presentation in history.

The service throughout the evening was extraordinary.

Martina somehow managed to make a full dining room feel as though she had all the time in the world.

Summer, whose true passion is dance, appeared throughout the evening helping the service team. At one point she handed me her Instagram information in case I happened to be able to make it to her performance on the 5th. (You know, when I will be in Nanaimo for my raison d’etre…)

Eventually the meal came to an end.

Or so I thought.

Instead, I was presented with flowers.

When I made the reservation, I had mentioned that this dinner was connected to an anniversary trip from long ago.

The staff had remembered.

The flowers themselves were beautiful.

What mattered was that they remembered.

For a few moments I simply sat there looking at the bouquet, the harbor, and the fading light outside the windows.

Martina and Summer came over to say goodbye.

There may have been hugs.

There may also have been a small amount of crying.

The historical record remains unclear.

It would be easy to say the evening felt like a celebration.

But that isn’t quite right.

It felt like keeping a promise.

Not the promise of a future anniversary.

Or the future we assumed we would have.

Just a quiet promise that some things remain worth doing.

Some places remain worth revisiting.

Some memories remain worth carrying forward.

And sometimes, many years later, you discover that a promise made by two people can still be kept by one.

Before the bouquet, I handed over my credit card and just said:

“I don’t want to know.”

A few minutes later I remembered that I still needed to calculate a tip.

Apparently this concern was unnecessary.

The gratuity had already been included.

Somewhere, I like to think, H was sitting in a comfortable chair with a Negroni, looking out over the harbor and saying:

“Mmmm.”

And honestly?

I think he would have approved.

Arrival

Evening mountain glow
A sword and one lonely shoe
Oh, Canada, eh?

After several weeks of planning, packing, re-packing, contingency planning, worrying about sword cases, worrying about airports, worrying about trains, worrying about whether I had forgotten something important, and generally behaving exactly like someone about to leave for a week-long trip with a samurai sword, I finally headed north to Vancouver.

The day began at approximately 4:45 a.m., which is an hour best experienced only under protest (thank you, UberSharon™ 😊).

The flight itself provided an unexpected gift. We happened to be on the Mt. Hood side of the aircraft on a spectacularly clear morning. Mt. Hood was magnificent—snow-covered, sharp, and seemingly close enough to touch. It was so beautiful that I committed what would normally be considered a social crime and gently woke the sweet Japanese woman seated beside me, who was on her umpteenth hour of travel from Tokyo, so she wouldn’t miss it.

Fortunately, she was delighted rather than annoyed.

She immediately (and apologetically) leaned over me and began taking photographs.

Many photographs.

Approximately all of the photographs.

I’m choosing to believe this creates a cosmic obligation for Mt. Fuji to return the favor when I am riding the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Kyoto later this year.

The next challenge involved Lady Nene.

For those who have not been following along, Lady Nene is my iaito, and transporting a sword by commercial airline always feels like an experiment conducted by people with questionable judgment.

The good news: United accepted the case without drama.

The better news: the sword arrived.

The cut lock, with some of Lady Nene’s covering’s silk threads caught in the tape, showing she gave valiantly not to be violated….

The mildly annoying news: TSA had cut my lock, opened the case, and re-secured it with zip ties.

The best news: all of my ridiculous contingency planning turned out to be entirely justified.

Weeks ago, while planning for this trip, I had packed zip ties and a nail clipper specifically in case this happened. The lock wasn’t there for decoration; the sword case needs something securing it closed during transit. If TSA decided to remove the lock, I needed a Plan B for getting Lady Nene home.

At the time, this felt slightly paranoid.

As it turns out, it was simply prudent.

Waiting at oversized baggage was its own form of entertainment. Gathered around the carousel were a howling dog, four golf bags, two enormous bicycle cases, a giant conga drum painted with roses, and eventually Lady Nene herself.

It felt less like baggage claim and more like an island for misfit luggage.

From there, one by one, the things I had worried about began quietly fading.

The sword arrived.

The train was effortless.

The hotel was exactly where Chad said it would be.

Even getting lost turned out to be temporary.

For weeks I had maintained a low-level anxiety about Vancouver transit. Trains. Tickets. Machines. Wrong platforms. The usual travel concerns.

The reality?

Tap credit card.

Get on train.

Get off train.

Tap credit card.

That was literally the entire system.

I had spent weeks worrying about something that turned out to require approximately three seconds of effort.

My next challenge was navigating from the train station to the Pan Pacific Hotel.

Normal people would have opened Google Maps.

I did not.

This is because I apparently did not feel I required directional support.

I felt I required Emotional Directional Support™.

At no point did I think, “I should open the device in my hand that is capable of determining my exact location on Earth.”

Instead, I texted Chad.

To his credit, Chad responded in the style of an experienced concierge rather than a frustrated cartographer.

Basically, my navigation methodology was simple:

  1. Follow the wind (wind comes from water, right?).
  2. Walk three city blocks.
  3. Start becoming suspicious (no water yet…).
  4. Open phone.
  5. Ask Chad.
  6. Turn around.
  7. Follow Chad.
  8. Keep texting streets I am passing for Emotional Directional Support™.
  9. See the sails.
  10. Receive “Atta Girl!” from Chad.
  11. Arrive.

No navigation expert would endorse this approach.

Yet somehow it worked perfectly.

I was staying at the hotel H and I would have chosen the last time we were in Vancouver, more than a decade ago for our 10th anniversary.

Back then, the Pan Pacific Club Floor felt a little too extravagant for us. So did the restaurants we looked at longingly and promised we’d come back to someday—perhaps for our 20th anniversary.

Life, of course, had other plans.

The real arrival moment, though, happened not at the airport, not at the train station, and not even at the hotel front desk.

It happened upstairs, gazing out the windows of the Club Lounge on the 23rd floor.

There was lemon water.

There were mountains.

There was the harbor.

Floatplanes drifted across the water.

For the first time all day there was nowhere I needed to be.

No luggage to move—they had exchanged it for a claim ticket when I walked in.

No train to catch.

No directions to figure out (thanks, Chad).

No logistics to solve. The concierge simply said, “Let me know your claim ticket number. We’ll put it in your room when it’s ready.”

Just a comfortable chair and a view.

Ah.

A little later I settled in with a cup of Earl Grey tea, a few Turkish apricots, and the realization that something important had quietly shifted.

It wasn’t excitement I felt.

It was relief.

I wasn’t traveling anymore.

I had arrived.

Outside the windows, harbor seals played in the water below.

A bald eagle flew so close to the hotel that conversations stopped and heads turned.

The smaller birds immediately began harassing it, proving once again that size alone does not determine confidence.

The travel infrastructure, meanwhile, received excellent marks.

The white button-down shirt survived a 4:45 a.m. departure, airport security, a flight, a train ride, an extended Vancouver wandering expedition in the hot sun, and hotel arrival while still somehow staying respectable—even crisp.

The Honeylove layer was flawless.

The dark Lee jeans were comfortable and civilized.

The Walk Shop shoes carried me through airports, trains, sidewalks, wrong turns, and correct turns without ever becoming the topic of conversation—which is the highest compliment I can give footwear.

Speaking of shoes . . .

Later that evening, before dinner, I implemented a travel trick I had recently learned.

When placing valuables in the hotel safe, include one shoe.

Passport.

Wallet.

Cash.

One shoe.

The logic is simple.

Future Sandy may forget valuables in the safe.

Future Sandy is unlikely to leave the hotel wearing only one shoe.

I am pleased to report that the system appears foolproof.

Or at least Sandy-proof.

At 5:30 that evening, I had a reservation at a restaurant called Five Sails.

There was champagne.

There was a sommelier from Avignon.

There was a forest floor made of bones.

There were flowers.

And it deserves a post all its own.

The Packing Tornado

There was a period of approximately twenty years during which my husband Herbert and I prepared for every trip in exactly the same way.

Herbert packed.

I did not.

This is not entirely accurate.

I eventually packed.

But first there was a process.

The process generally began the evening before departure.

At 4:17 p.m., Herbert would already be packed.

Passport where it belonged.

Shaving kit where it belonged.

A small pile of neatly folded clothing.

Everything calmly arranged.

Then he would sit down in a chair with a Negroni.

The Negroni is important.

At 4:18 p.m., he would ask:

“Are you packed yet?”

To which I would inevitably reply:

“I’M WORKING ON IT!”

This statement was technically true.

I was working on it.

The work simply bore no resemblance to what most people would recognize as packing.

Over the next several hours I would migrate through the house carrying various combinations of:

  • one shoe
  • three shirts
  • a passport
  • two charging cables
  • a mysterious scarf
  • an unidentified object I had apparently decided was absolutely essential

At some point I would announce:

“I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR.”

At which point Herbert would take a sip of his Negroni and continue observing.

The thing I remember most vividly is that he tracked all of this with his eyes.

Not commenting.

Not helping.

Not judging.

Just watching.

Like a tennis match.

I would run through the room. Nekkid.

This was not as alarming as it sounds.

The reason I was nekkid was because, naturally, all laundry had to be completed before departure. This meant I had successfully washed every item of clothing except the ones required to be packed or worn on the airplane.

So I would streak (literally) through the room carrying:

  • one shoe
  • a blouse
  • two charging cables
  • a passport
  • and no pants

His eyes would follow.

Sip.

A few minutes later I would run back the other direction carrying an entirely different set of objects.

His eyes would follow.

Sip.

After enough years, Herbert had developed a highly refined understanding of The Packing Tornado.

Most importantly, he had learned Rule Number One:

Stay out of the flight path.

This was not a metaphor.

This was a survival strategy.

If he entered the flight path, he immediately became part of the logistics problem.

“Are you going to . . .”

“NOT NOW.”

“Can I put this in the suitcase?”

“NO.”

“Do you need help?”

“I HAVE A SYSTEM.”

At which point Herbert would reply:

“Mmmm.”

That “Mmmm” carried a remarkable amount of information.

It did not mean:

“I believe there is a system.”

It meant:

“I acknowledge that you have used the word ‘system.'”

Then he would sip his Negroni and remain at a safe distance.

The funny thing is that we were both right all along.

From the outside, the process looked like a Category 5 weather event.

Yet somehow, every single time:

  • the passport appeared
  • the chargers appeared
  • the clothes appeared
  • the suitcase closed

Eventually Herbert reached the point where he no longer questioned the process.

He didn’t understand it.

But he had enough historical data to conclude that it was reproducible.

Twenty years of evidence suggested that despite all appearances, I would eventually become packed.

This afternoon, while preparing for a trip to an iaido seminar in Nanaimo, I realized something unsettling.

Somehow I have become, slightly, Herbert.

Not entirely.

Let’s not get carried away.

I am currently engaged in what can only be described as “inside sword case Tetris.”

I am debating the geometry of blue ice packs.

I recently spent an embarrassing amount of time worrying about how to take the train from the Vancouver airport into downtown.

(The answer, incidentally, is that you tap your credit card and get on the train. That’s it. I spent time worrying about a process that Chad summarized in seven words, once I thought to actually ask.)

But something has changed.

My shaving kit (formerly H’s shaving kit) now stays packed.

My travel drawer has systems.

My passport has a home.

My chargers have a home.

And, yes, my clothes are actually still on.

The things that used to require fresh decisions every trip have become infrastructure.

And I suddenly understand why Herbert could pack in the morning for almost any trip while I was still running around the house like a nude logistics consultant the night before.

He wasn’t better at packing.

He simply refused to make the same decision twice.

Now, when I find myself creating travel systems, or reducing friction, or leaving the shaving kit packed between trips, I sometimes imagine Herbert watching from his chair.

Negroni in hand.

Tracking events with his eyes.

Taking a sip.

And asking:

“Are you packed yet?”

To which, twenty years later, I would probably still answer:

“I’M WORKING ON IT!”

And somewhere in the pause that follows, I can almost hear him say:

“Mmmm.”

Which, as it turns out, was probably the closest thing to “I love you” that The Packing Tornado ever required.

Map Folded Again

Gentle traveler
seventy years beside her
map folded again

Dr. James E. Shepard, M.D., F.A.C.P., beloved husband, father, grandfather, physician, traveler, and lifelong student of the world, passed away peacefully at the age of 92.

Born with a sharp intellect, deep curiosity, and gentle humor that stayed with him throughout his life, Jim devoted himself both to medicine and to the people he loved. He was married to the love of his life, Sally-Jean Shepard (née Shupert), for nearly seventy years — a partnership marked by enduring affection, shared adventures, and countless journeys together. After a whirlwind courtship of just a few months, they married and never really stopped traveling side by side.

Dr. Shepard graduated from Tilton School, Wesleyan University, and Weill Cornell Medical College. His medical training began at Bassett Hospital in Cooperstown, New York, before he served as an Army physician at Ft. Story, Virginia Beach, Virginia. Following his military service, he completed additional medical training at UCSF and went on to build a distinguished career in nephrology and internal medicine in Marin County.

Over more than six decades in medicine, he became a respected leader in the medical community, serving as Chief of Medicine and Chairman of the Intensive Care Unit at Marin General Hospital. He helped establish one of the earliest dialysis programs in California, becoming part of a pioneering generation of physicians who transformed kidney care.

Though many physicians of his generation were grandfathered into specialty status, Jim chose to undergo formal board certification in both internal medicine and nephrology — reflecting the integrity, discipline, and professional standards that defined his life and work. He was elected a Fellow of the American College of Physicians (F.A.C.P.) and later served as a clinical faculty member affiliated with UCSF. Following his years in clinical practice, he continued working as a medical consultant and expert witness well into his later years.

Outside of medicine, Jim loved travel, conversation, golf, tennis, and learning. He and Sally explored the world together for decades; maps in hand, curiosity leading the way. Always dapper, he was rarely seen at an event without one of his signature hand-tied bow ties. He was an Emeritus Life Member of the Mill Valley Tennis Club, where he enjoyed both the game and the friendships surrounding it.

He is survived by his wife, Sally-Jean Shepard; daughters Sandy Shepard Wolfram and Elisabeth Shepard; granddaughter Leann McFalls; and great-grandsons Caleb and Cody McFalls.

He will be remembered for his kindness, intelligence, silly wit, and the steady generosity with which he moved through the world.

In remembrance of Jim’s lifelong generosity and concern for others, the family suggests donations to local food banks in lieu of flowers. A private Celebration of Life will be held later in the year.

December 8, 1933 – May 19, 2026

Travel Angels

Lost! Panic begins . . .
That shortness of breath, then dread . . .
Kindness appearing

My father used to call them “Travel Angels.”

Not guardian angels in the theological sense.

More like:

unexpected humans who appear precisely when travel has started unraveling around you.

He encountered them often.

Partly because he traveled frequently. But also, I think now, perhaps because he moved through the world in a way that allowed them to appear.

When I was in law school, I spotted a tiny classified advertisement looking for airline couriers. This was back before modern digital document transfer had completely taken over everything. Courier companies needed people willing to “carry” time-sensitive paperwork internationally, because freight check deadlines were too early for last-minute legal or business documents.

So the company would:

  • buy you a plane ticket,
  • check the documents as your baggage,
  • and send you somewhere.

You would then spend a week or two traveling on your own before eventually meeting another courier-company representative at the airport to receive your return ticket home.

This part always stressed me out on Dad’s behalf far more than it stressed him out.

The entire arrangement had a very:

“Well, hopefully someone named Klaus will materialize near Gate 14 with my ticket home” energy.

Sometimes the company even paid you.

Sometimes you paid them a tiny amount instead.

My father — a physician with an absurdly busy practice — somehow turned this into a semi-regular hobby.

Every week he’d receive a fax listing possible destinations. If he could leave immediately, the trip was essentially free. Otherwise, he could pay a pittance, and “book ahead.”

And so, through a combination of spontaneity, logistics loopholes, and what now feels like another geological era of travel, my 6’7″ father periodically vanished off to parts unknown.

He slept in strange accommodations.
Once, according to family lore, in a girls’ dormitory in Japan.

(Cue size 16 feet off the end of a single bed)

At some point during one of these trips, he found himself turned around and bewildered in Tokyo. A tiny Japanese girl took his hand and guided him where he needed to go.

The visual contrast alone still makes me laugh.

A giant rangy doctor stooping along behind a tiny determined child.

He loved that story.

But more than that, he loved what it represented.

Travel Angels.

People who appeared unexpectedly at exactly the moment disorientation tipped toward distress.

At the time, I mostly thought this was one of Dad’s charming travel phrases.

Now I think he was identifying something real.

After Africa, on the long journey home, I landed in Frankfurt exhausted beyond language. Not pleasantly tired. Strange-time-zone, emotionally untethered, post-travel exhausted.

At baggage claim, the lanyard clip holding my phone snapped (unbeknownst to me).

I realized it as I was leaving bag check. Lanyard around neck . . . suspiciously light.

No phone.

And in modern travel, losing your phone is not merely losing your phone.

It is losing:

  • boarding passes,
  • maps,
  • contacts,
  • hotel information,
  • banking,
  • translation,
  • communication,
  • orientation,
  • identity.

It is the tiny glowing rectangle that now contains your ability to move through the world.

I remember the sharp cold wave of panic.

Then, as I walked toward some slightly fierce Germanic Customs officials, I heard someone call out softly:

“Shepard?”

Far across the terminal floor, a fellow traveler — a small Asian man, clearly also just passing through Frankfurt himself — was standing there holding my phone.

Every ten seconds or so he would call again, tentatively:

“Shepard?”

The whole thing felt slightly surreal.

He didn’t speak English. I don’t think he spoke German either.

He had apparently extracted my name and appearance from my driver’s license tucked into the back of the phone case, then stationed himself there waiting for the owner to appear.

I hugged him immediately, despite the fact that I had been traveling for approximately fourteen thousand years and probably looked like a jet-lagged giraffe.

Travel Angel.

And increasingly, these are the moments that stay with me most vividly.

Not necessarily:

  • famous landmarks,
  • expensive experiences,
  • or “top ten” sights.

Instead:

  • a stranger waiting at a counter,
  • a ryokan quietly trying to solve a breakfast problem,
  • a guide, without drama, printing out the itinerary every day for a traveler without What’s App, and insisting upon accompanying another to ensure she obtained necessary meds,
  • someone carrying a marble across the world for me,
  • small acts of attentiveness,
  • humanity briefly breaking through the machinery.

I think my travel style has changed over the years.

When H and I first traveled together, I blogged largely because H had a terrible memory and wanted us to be able to remember everything later when we sorted through photos. The writing became highly informational. If it was Monday, we were in Istanbul and here were seventeen historical facts and six architectural observations.

But somewhere along the way — maybe during Africa, maybe even before — travel itself started shifting for me.

Less:

covering ground.

More:

allowing resonance.

And maybe that is partly what my father was doing all along.

Not simply moving through countries.

Moving through them open enough for humanity to enter the story.

I suspect that’s why he noticed Travel Angels everywhere.

You have to leave a little room for them.

And honestly?

I think the world may contain more of them than we realize.

My father was always on the lookout.

I think I am now, too.