Places – Page 5 – BRIC-A-BRAC

The National Museum of Funeral History

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I’m a big fan of museums, especially historical museums. Best of all are quirky historical museums. Recently my husband and I found ourselves in Houston, Texas with a day of leisure. Houston has many wonderful museums to choose from, but the one we found the most intriguing was the National Museum of Funeral History (NMFH).

What? A museum of funerals? Absolutely.

It may be a bit macabre, but it’s not too surprising that we were drawn to this museum. After all, my husband sells monuments (doublespeak for tombstones), and I have several stories about a guy (Roscoe Gordon) (13 Haunting Tales) who talks to ghosts. The museum has several different exhibits including celebrity funerals, a money casket, casket making, funerals of popes and presidents and Japanese funeral customs, to name just a few.

One of my favorite exhibits is Victorian mourning customs. We learned the length of time a widow matte black in full mourning (a year and a day) and how she could add a bit of black satin to her mourning costume for the next nine months. A widow’s full mourning lasted two years, after which she might go into half-mourning, wherein she wore muted, dull colors. Men did not have such strict customs when it came to grieving, and the length of time of full mourning varied considerably for the death of parents, siblings, grandparents or children

In the 19th century, it wasn’t always easy to tell exactly when someone died. I heard before about coffin bells, which were bells placed on the coffin with a string leading inside so that if the deceased turned out to have been buried alive, he or she could ring the bell, thus calling or help. In the same vein, 19th century wake lasted three days, during which time, mourners kept a close watch on the deceased, just in case he or she woke up. In fact, this practice may be the origin of the word, “wake.”

The largest permanent exhibit is of historical hearses. From horse-drawn carriages of the 19th century to the sleek Packard Funeral Bus of 1916, this is probably one of the best collections of rare funeral vehicles. A hearse is much more than a car or wagon. Remember the gruesome kid’s song, “Whenever I see a hearse go by…” A hearse leading a funeral procession makes everyone stop and think about death. It’s like the bell in John Donne’s Meditation 17, when he says, “…never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

But lest our reflections become too somber, think about the hearse as a sometimes opulent and always powerful statement honoring the dead. When I was in Ireland several years ago for my father’s funeral, everyone we saw along the streets and lanes, stopped and removed their caps as the hearse carrying Dad passed by. I was very touched by this sign of respect, as if all these others, strangers though they were, shared in my own mourning.

In spite of its focus on death, the museum has its share of whimsy, especially in the elaborate fantasy coffins of Ghana. In Ghana, death is seen as a transition to a spiritual realm. The coffins are designed to reflect the character of the departed. They include fancy cars, animals such as a crab or chicken, a shallot, and even an outboard motor.

black hearse panel My favorite kind of history is the exploration of how people in the past dealt with the problems of living. In their fascinating displays about how other people have dealt with the problems of dying, National Museum of Funeral History earns my recommendation. And who knows…another Roscoe Gordon story could come out of our visit there.

On Being Rescued: Assateague Island Adventure

We went to Assateague Island to see the ponies, made famous by Misty of Chincoteague. This shows the salt marsh at high tide.

I know it sounds ungrateful, but really, I don’t much like being rescued. It’s not that I like having trouble or getting stuck, I’d just rather ‘do it myself’.

Of course,I am just as happy as anyone else to accept help with chores or share the work of driving or divide tasks at a campout. But there is a difference between sharing the work and being rescued. There’s a sense of failure when help is absolutely needed.

Take for instance my kayaking trip with my great-nephew to Assateague Island from Chincoteague. At eleven years old, Ian was the youngest in the group, and I was clearly the oldest. He and I shared a double kayak. Everyone else, including our guide, was twenty-something. We crossed the bay from Chincoteague to Assateague. Once there, we beached on the mud flats, then walked across the mud and sand to the edge of the salt marsh. We saw the ponies way on the other side of the tall grass, but the real drama was on the mud. At our approach a ‘herd’ of fiddler crabs scuttled sideways to scramble under the driftwood. (The collective term for crabs is ‘cast’, but these creatures resembled a galloping herd or flowing wave more than anything else.)

After returning to the kayaks, we paddled up one of the drains to get a better view of the ponies. The drain was like nothing else I’ve kayaked through. It was low tide, so we glided through the twisting canal, below the salt grass. On either side, cliff-like banks, crusted with clams and mussels, rose above us. Exposed, tangled roots of the salt grass capped the banks. Herons stalked the marshes and gulls wheeled overhead. There was an eerie remoteness to the place, an otherworldly feeling separating our silent kayaks from the bustle of civilization.

Civilization intruded, however, when our guide’s boss called and said a storm was approaching. It was time to head back.

As we emerged from the drain, we could see the dark sky looming to the west. Now, I like storms. I like the energy in them, the sense of something immense building, the moment when the rains pounds down and the wind howls. I like all of that, but I like it best from some sort of shelter. On the Assateague side of the bay, we had no shelter.

Instead, we had a bay to cross before the storm hit. The black wall of storm with its ‘comb-over’ white top filled the sky. The kayak suddenly felt quite small as the puffs of wind churned up the water Young Ian and I couldn’t keep up with others as we fought the waves. We paddled hard toward shore while the storm barreled toward us.

About 300 yards from the Chincoteague shore, the wind running ahead of the storm hit us. We stopped, dead in the water. The first splatters of rain hit the kayak and I knew at that moment, we would lose the race. No matter how hard I paddled, we wouldn’t reach land before the full force of the storm hit us.

The others had all reached the shore. Our guide saw our trouble and came back out to help us in. He hooked his kayak to ours, and with all of us paddling hard, we made it to shore just as the sky broke open and the rain poured down.

This is where it gets complicated. I really did appreciate the guide’s help, but I was embarrassed at being ‘hauled’ in. I hadn’t been afraid as the storm rolled inexorably toward us , though I admit to a surge of adrenaline. But I was keenly aware I wasn’t going to be able to get us in before we were drenched. The thought we might not get in at all didn’t occur to me. Looking back, I realize the force of the wind and rain might have capsized us, and it was a long way to swim.

So the guide’s decision to tow us was the right choice. He did what he needed to do as a responsible guide. The thing is, I’ll always wonder if I could have made it in. I’m left with a sense I wasn’t strong enough or good enough, a sense that I lost the race.

I didn’t rail or fuss at his help or tantrum like I might have done when I was two. I took what was offered, and I am grateful for his help.

But I’d still rather do it myself.

On the quest for majesty

Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

Why do people strive for majesty? In some ways, this is really the same questions as why people climb the mountain or why they strive for the gold medal. The answer to any of these questions could be ‘because we can’. But the real answer is much more complex. In his acclaimed novel, Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett provides a much richer and more nuanced set of answers, exploring our very human desire to achieve and the equally human obstacles to such glory.

Unknown-1 Pillars of the Earth is about building a cathedral in Medieval England. The story follows three generations of stone masons, and the people they love, care for, hate, and work with Follett provides clear, accurate detail of how such a magnificent structure could be built. However, the story is more than just a manual on how to build a cathedral. (For that I suggest reading the excellent book, Cathedral, by David MaCaulay.)

Follett’s story digs into the decisions, twists of fate, and accidents of that span decades of cathedral building. Even more importantly, Follett weaves a tale that explores why people are driven to build majesty. It is a story of faith and politics, which are deftly interwoven into the fabric of society today as much as they were in medieval times.

At its core, Pillars of the Earth is the story of ordinary people doing extraordinary things, of good people reaching and achieving beyond what anyone could imagine, in spite of the naysayers, preachers of doom, and obstacles of fate. The novel shows how these lives interconnect, how actions have ripples, and how people go on living their own daily lives, often unaware of the consequences. To me, this is historical fiction at its best.

As I read about Tom Builder’s arrival in the fictional medieval town of Kingsbridge, Prior Phillip’s vision for a glorious cathedral, and Jack Builders’ quest for poetry in stone, I thought of cathedrals I have seen. Each is different in style and design, yet each is a marvelous example of human aspirations. Each is intended to inspire awe, to force the visitor to look up and contemplate divinity.

20180518_104311 — St. Peters Cathedral, Regensburg, Germany

St. Sebolds Nurnberg.jpg — St. Sebold, Nürnberg, Germany

St. Matthias Budapest — Matthias Church, Budapest

St. Peters Cathedral, Regensburg, Germany

Matthias Church, Budapest

St. Sebold, Nürnberg, Germany

Pillars of the Earth is a long book, (over 1000 pages). In some ways, it is Follett’s own reach for majesty. Like the cathedrals of Europe, the temple of the sun in Machu Picchu, and the Torii Gate of Japan, the book celebrates the very human desire to approach God and touch the sky.

Hatta: Beyond the city of Dubai

A stark mountain retreat

Outside the sprawling city of Dubai lies the rest of the emirate- mostly sweeping sand dunes and scrubland. A few farms (date and camel) and villages dot the landscape. Sparse grasses grow in marginal areas and the occasional acacia or ghaf tree can be found, but for the most part the area is empty desert. About 134 miles east of the city of Dubai lies the ancient village of Hatta in the Hajar mountains. Hatta is unusual in that it is an enclave. That means that although it is part of the emirate of Dubai, it is surrounded by other political entities. The country of Oman curls around to the east and south, while the emirate of Ras al-Khaimah lies to the north, and the emirate of Ajman forms Hatta’s western border.

Hatta is a popular getaway from the city for those who want to see an quieter, more natural part of the emirate. The Hajar Mountains, a chain of sharp, jagged outcrops of red-grey and blackish rock, has periodic water holes, which make village life and mountain farms possible in the area. The small village of Hatta (50 sq. miles) is best known for two things: Hatta Dam Reservoir and Hatta Heritage village.

Hatta Dam is a beautiful reservoir with sparkling blue-green water surrounded by stunning mountains. The dam was built in the 1990’s and took two years to fill with rainwater. This makes water available year-round for the area. Previously, residents had to rely on deep wells and scattered springs. Although the mountain climate is supposedly cooler than the surrounding desert, it was 102 degrees Fahrenheit on the spring day in March when we visited. In spite of the heat, kayaking or paddle-boating on the reservoir is a great way to spend a morning.

The other major attraction in Hatta is the Hatta Heritage village. Here there are some 30 reconstructed buildings showing centuries-old styles of rural mountain desert life. The buildings are constructed of traditional materials including mud, date palm trunks, fronds, reeds and stone.

Within the Heritage Village lies Al Husan Fort. The fort was built in 1896 for both surveillance and defense. High mud-brick and mountain stone walls surround the fort, which includes a luxurious residence and a large internal courtyard. Ceilings are made of palm trunks supporting fronds and mud.

Outside the fort, stand two round watchtowers, built in the 1880’s. Each tower has a small door a bit more than 8 feet above ground level. In the old days, the guard would use a rope to climb the tower to reach the door. Once inside, the guard could use the semi-circular staircase to reach the roof.

As I scrambled up the steep, rocky path to the watchtower, I thought about why such a defensive tower was needed in such a remote place. Were they looking out for raiding tribesmen? Or perhaps, hoping for a desert caravan seeking a watering hole before reaching the Gulf of Oman? From the hilltop at the base of the tower, it’s easy to see why Hatta was important. Water is available here, a scarce commodity in such a barren part of the world. For now, the village is quiet and peaceful, Still, though the watchtowers are deserted, they remain standing, a stark reminder that the history of humanity is a story of conflict, even in the most remote places.

Dubai: Glittering City in the Desert

by Burj Khalifa To be honest, I would never have gone to Dubai if our daughter hadn’t moved there with her family. And I would have missed a gem.

Dubai is one of the seven emirates (think city-state) in the United Arab Emirates. It’s a city of superlatives, built from fantastical imagination: The tallest building. The biggest indoor ski slope. The most unique man-made islands. The world’s only 7 star hotel (Burj al Arab). Dancing fountains pierced with multi-colored laser lights. A city of glitz and glamor, meant to inspire awe in the visitor.

And it does. On my most recent trip to Dubai, I visited the newly erected Dubai Frame, billed as the world’s largest picture frame. At 150 meters high, with a glass floor, the monument offers stupendous views of both Old Dubai and New Dubai. The Frame provides the perfect context to contemplate Dubai’s history, as remarkable as the city itself.

Frame

The exhibits at the beginning of the Frame show Dubai’s transformation from a village of pearl divers and pirates to a international city of commerce.

Archeological evidence shows there were people growing date palms in the area since at least 2500 BCE- 4 ½ thousand years ago. But as the area became more desert and less mangrove swamp, population stagnated. It was an important caravan location in the 6th century, but still a small village. In the 7th century the Umayyads introduced Islam to the area and the village became known for fishing and pearl diving. By the 16th century, the village was trade center, catering to expats, with many Venetians working in the pearl industry.

In 1833, the Al Maktoum dynasty took over, and settled 800 members of the Bani Yas tribe at the mouth of the creek, though border disputes with Abu Dhabi continued for more than a century. This settlement is considered the founding of Dubai.

By the late 1800’s, the area was rife with pirates, so the British signed several treaties in an attempt to reduce piracy. In 1892, Sheikh Maktoum signed a business deal with the British, turning the area into a British protectorate which granted full tax exemption for foreign trade. Dubai became a major port of call and trading center, boasting some 20,000 residents by 1930, with ¼ of the population foreign.

When oil was discovered in 1966, Dubai’s ruler, His Highness Sheikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum, used the increased revenue to begin a frenetic building spree that continues today, developing roads, hospitals, schools, hotels, parks and attractions. In 1971-72 Dubai joined with 6 other emirates (Abu Dhabi, Sharjah, Ajman, Umm Al Quwain, Fujairah and Ras Al Khaimah) to create the United Arab Emirates, which has become one of the richest countries in the world. The current ruler of Dubai, His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is considered the inspiration for the modern, forward-thinking city. He says, “We, in the UAE, have no word as ‘impossible’; It does not exist in our lexicon.” It is his vision that has created Dubai not just as a world trade center but also an exquisite tourist destination, with a population of over two million.

For a city to grow so exponentially in less than a 100 years means there are bound to be problems underlying the surface. For all its glitz, Dubai still exists in a desert, with few natural resources other than oil. The city must rely on desalination for all of its water. A dark haze blurs the outline of the city skyscrapers, and dust settles on every surface. Green spaces are all artificial and mostly manicured so that one feels a disconnect from the natural world. And it’s hot. Too hot to spend much time outside, so the city residents rely on air-conditioning. More cars than parking spaces and limited public transportation makes going anywhere a real challenge. Hovering cranes dot the landscape and the sounds of construction vibrate from Sunday morning till Thursday night, pausing only for the weekend.

But there is another side to Dubai, beyond the glamour and the fantasy, beyond the crowds and abuse of natural resources; that is the family side. 90 percent of residents in Dubai are expats–from India, the Philippines, south Africa, Britain, Germany, the United States, and elsewhere.These people look for stores, schools, restaurants and play spaces in their own images, resulting in a curious mix of the familiar and the foreign– English with an Arab veneer (or vice versa).

McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Starbucks fill the malls, but the menus include McArabia Chicken in pita as well as chicken nuggets. Fancy modern malls and old style souks offer pashminas from India, rugs from Iran, and Dubai souvenirs made in China. In the grocery stores you can find Jello or spaghetti noodles as well as dozens of varieties of olives and dates, and open bins of spice. In the malls, the rich aromas of cardamom, rose, and za’atar spice assault the senses. Perfumes hang in the air: the heavy scent of rosewood, sandalwood, and incense. Women in black abayas, their hair covered with a shayla, stroll alongside their -t-shirt clad children. Arab men in their white dishdashas shake hands with German CEO’s in suit and tie. Tourists in shorts, jeans, or Indian saris amble through the crowds. Strains of music from European and Arabic pop stars mix by the fountains, and overall wafts the periodic call to prayer from the mosques. This is the Dubai where people live and work, not just visit. This is the Dubai our daughter calls home.

Perhaps more than anything else, Dubai offers a vision for the city of the future, a place where cultures mix, imagination soars, and anything is possible.

Irish Mysteries: The Proleek Dolman

A Megalithic Portal Tomb

cr. at Proleek Dolman

With the coming of St. Patrick’s Day, March is the perfect month to celebrate all things Irish. Though perhaps most famous for the saint that drove away the snakes, Ireland has far more ancient mysteries, including nearly 200 portal tombs, often called dolmens or stone tables. Dolmens usually have three or more standing stones with a (more or less) flat capstone resting on top. Usually two of the standing stones form a portal to the inner chamber. Some evidence suggests that the standing stones and table stone were originally covered with a cairn of smaller rocks, so what we see today is only the skeleton of the neolithic structure.

These neolithic monuments are found in Europe, Africa, and Asia. Like the more famous Stonehenge, the massive stone pillars inspire awe and wonder in the millennia since they were built. Why were they built? How were they built? Who built them? For the most part, these questions remain unanswered. No one knows for sure why the dolmens were built. Many archaeologists consider these monuments to be single-chamber, megalithic tombs, but there is insufficient evidence to be sure. A more intriguing, those less scientific explanation can be found in many legends that have been told explaining the dolmens, including stories of giants buried there, sleeping on top, or using the table stone as a griddle.

One delightful example is the Proleek Dolmen found on the grounds of Ballymascanlon House Hotel in County Louth. This dolmen was built around 3000 BCE. Its portal stones are about 3 meters high, and the capstone weighs over 35 tons. The portal faces westward, toward Slieve Gullion, so that at the summer solstice it is facing the sunset behind the mountain. 100_6095

Why it’s called the Proleek Dolmen is another mystery. References to this monument in 1895 call it the Puleek Cromleach or Puleek Dolmen. The Irish name is Dolmain Phrollig. One nickname is the Giant’s Load. According to legend, a Scottish giant called Parrah Boug MacShagean carried the stone here. Para challenged the famous Irish hero, Fionn mac Cumhaill. Always more ready to trick his opponents than fight them, Fionn poisoned the Flurry River which runs nearby. Para drank from it and died, leaving Fionn the victor. The legend claims that the Scottish giant was buried in the wedge tomb found about 80 meters from the Dolmen.

Wedge tombs were generally built 500 to 1000 years after the portal tombs and are unique to Ireland. The wedge tomb here runs west to east. The tomb is formed by two rows of large stones, decreasing in width and height to form a wedge. A single roof stone remains, capping the east end of the tomb. Though not as impressive as the portal tombs, the wedge tombs are still a marvel of neolithic engineering. They are the last of the great megalithic tombs built in Ireland.

Finding the Proleek Dolmen can be an adventure. With little fanfare and few signs to guide the visitors, this 5000 year old monument to human ingenuity sits in a small clearing on the estate grounds. I’ve been to see the Proleek Dolmen a couple of times on my visits to Ireland, since it is in the same county where my Dad lived. The most recent was a visit with my three sisters. We arrived on a rainy afternoon after a stressful encounter with Irish roads and ditches.

The Ballymascanlon House Hotel, built in the Victorian Era, sits on 130 acres of beautiful parkland. The estate’s history goes back as far as 833 A.D. and is well worth visiting.

We arranged for both tires on the rental car to be replaced, indulged in a restorative cup of tea in the hotel dining room, then ambled out through the rose courtyard, through a cattle gate, and alongside the fairway of the hotel golf course (where the intrepid tourist must beware of stray golf balls.).

The rain let up by the time we reached the dolmen in a little clearing in the Irish countryside. Legend says that whoever throws a pebble on top of table stone and gets it to stay there, will either (depending on the version) marry within a year or have good luck. Since my sisters and I are already married we hoped for the luck. All of us managed to get the rock to stay on top, though it took me three tries. Perhaps that’s enough to guarantee continued good luck.

7.1.10 Proleek Dolmen.23

Lucky or not, the dolmen is worth the visit. Touching stones lifted into place by nameless hands centuries ago gives a profound sense of awe. Did they mourn for their loved ones? Did they believe the dead would live on, perhaps in a better place? There are no answers. Those who were buried beneath the stones, those who built the tomb, those who loved and cared for the dead are all gone now, unknown and perhaps unknowable. Yet the tomb remains, a mystery and an inspiration.

On Silver Linings

Part 2: Train wrecks

Remember Pollyanna? The girl who saw the good in every bad situation? I have been accused of being too much like her. I see adventure even in adverse situations more than I see the trouble. Take for instance, my luck with train travel. I’ve had three journeys that while memorable, were not ones I would ever want to repeat.

My first bad experience with a train was in Scotland. My at-that -time fiance and I were stranded in Loch Ness on New Year’s Day, 1976. (Why we were stranded is a story for another day). The train station was closed most of the day, and we had no place to stay except the sitting room of a B & B where we had spent part of the night. (We had to check out by 10 am and there were no other rooms available.) When the train station finally opened in the late afternoon, we took the first train to Edinburgh. The train was not crowded and the compartments would have been comfortable, except there was no heat on the train. January in Scotland is cold. Very cold. Ice on the inside of the windows cold. Luckily, we traveled with a sleeping bag, under which we shivered all the way to Edinburgh.

Worse than a frigid ride are the wrecks. I’ve been in two, whIch I think far more than my lifetime allotment. (If bad things come in threes, than I’m safe, right?)

The most recent took place in 2014 in Tiffany Bottoms Wildlife Area, along the Chippewa River near Durand. This stretch of track was built in 1882 to haul lumber to the Mississippi River. For 14 miles, the rails run through a lush green corridor of marsh, wetlands, meadow, and bottomland forest. A winter derailment in 1977 caused the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific Railroad to abandoned the line. In June of 1979, NSP (now X-cel Energy) bought the track for possible future use, but didn’t actually use it. The tracks fell into disrepair, and some bridge sections collapsed. In 1995, a local group of rail enthusiasts founded the Chippewa Valley Motor Car Association to maintain and use the tracks for private interests. In an ingenuous use of resources, cars that had been used by maintenance workers were put to work hauling tourists, bird-watchers and nature lovers on 20 mile (out and back) trip through the Tiffany Bottoms, which is part of the Chippewa River Delta, the largest river delta in the Midwest.

The day Mike and I took the trip was a crisp, fall day with the sumac turning. Puffy clouds drifted across a deep blue sky. The train itself had a little gas-powered engine at each end, and open cars with back to back benches in between. We chugged along slowly on the way out, stopping frequently to take pictures and listen to the naturalist explain the history of the area. The excitement came on our return when the train hit a tree that had fallen on the tracks after our passing. Seated near the front of the second car, I saw the tree about the same time the engineer did. I also saw that we weren’t going to stop. Hand brakes, metal wheels on metal tracks, and stopping distance all combined to mean the crash was inevitable. At first I thought the train would break the fallen tree. Instead, when the engine hit, the tree bent. In a flash, I knew it would snap back with tremendous force. Instinctively I ducked. Half a second later a four inch log hit my head, skittered across Mike’s back and slammed into the people in the next car. At least two people tumbled off the train into the brush. Amid the screams of the passengers, the train screeched to a halt. Shaking, we disembarked to help the injured and assess the damage.

The conclusion? It could have been far, far worse. No one was seriously injured, though one man probably needed a few stitches in his cut lip. I had a mild headache, but no concussion, just a new story to tell.

Far worse than this mild catastrophe, was the wreck of the California Zephyr in 1982. My family (husband, and two toddlers) boarded the train in Iowa, heading toward California for my brother’s wedding. We had a sleeper berth on the upper floor and bedded down right after boarding with my husband and our 3 year old son on the top bunk, and me and our 1 year old daughter on the bottom.

Several hours later I was wakened by a tremendous crashing, a terrible lurching, and the thump of something hitting my back. As the train tilted over, I was desperately afraid I would crush my daughter. Fortunately for all of us, that didn’t happen.

We soon determined that our car was half submerged and all exits blocked, but everyone on the floor below was safely brought upstairs. For three hours we sat in semi-darkness, waiting for dawn and rescue, which eventually came in the form of a boat. We learned there had been a flash flood that washed out the bridge, causing the the derailment. As dawn broke, we saw the water swirling below our window on the tilting train car and a helicopter with a net hovering downstream, presumably to rescue anyone swept away in the flood.

So what’s good in all this? Well, I believe that any experience a writer survives is good in the long run because it provides new dimensions and new perspectives. I can write more realistically about a train crash in a flood because I’ve been in one. Less specifically, but just as important I can write about the confusion of waiting for rescue, the fear of not knowing what is going on, and the heart-warming gratitude toward strangers who remembered to bring diapers to the Red Cross shelter.

Pollyanna? Maybe, but I prefer to think of it as using the lemons to make lemonade.

Riding the rails

The Holiday Train

One of my earliest memories is riding the upper deck of a passenger train from San Bruno, California to San Francisco. I must have been about 6 or 7. Mom put me on train in San Bruno and my Aunt Betty picked me up at the end of the line in San Francisco. I don’t remember for sure, but I think one or two of my little sisters came along. I mostly remember how grown up I felt sitting in the fancy seat, and watching the hills fly by.

I still like train travel. It’s more comfortable than flying, more elegant than a bus, and more relaxing than driving. Over the years since that first experience with trains I’ve had a many memorable train trips. I have taken the bullet train in Japan, and the Train de Gran Vitesse in France, a Jacobite steam train in Scotland, and Amtrak in the United States.

It’s a good thing I like trains, because the tracks in Winona run through my backyard. When my kids were little, we made a game of watching the trains (from a safe distance). To this day, freight trains clank and screech as they park just beyond bedroom window. They shake the house and rattle the windows as they rumble past.

Trains are a part of life in Winona, a town divided by train tracks. Getting from one place to another almost always involves crossing the tracks. That makes for a good excuse for being late, but a lot of people (myself included) get annoyed when they have to wait for a train.

The one train no one minds waiting for is the Canadian-Pacific Holiday Train. For the past nineteen years, this fabulous train has criss-crossed the US and Canada bringing holiday cheer as they raise support for local food banks. Over the years, they have raised C$13 million and four million pounds of food for food banks across North America. It’s a tradition in Winona I’ve grown to love.

This year, the train was due at 4:00 on December 8. Since the weather was so nice, I decided to walk to the station, only about a mile from my house. Families lined the tracks watching for the train. Children craned their necks and (mostly) minded their parents to stay off the tracks.

At last the train, ablaze with holiday lights, roared into the station, where hundreds of Winonans had gathered, munching cookies and sipping hot chocolate. The doors of the freight car rolled open and the band began to play. The audience clapped mittened hands and stomped boots on frozen ground as we sang along to Jingle Bells, Up on a House Top and other Christmas favorites. Fog rolled from the train car-turned stage and red and green laser lights flashed. Some years the fog comes from the singers’ breath and the musicians have had to play with frozen fingers, but this year we enjoyed a balmy 34 degrees. For 15 minutes we rocked-and-rolled Minnesota style. Then the band waved goodbye, the freight doors shut and the train chugged out of town.

Volunteers gathered up the food and money donations and cleared away the hot chocolate and cookies. Slowly the crowd dispersed, the streets emptied and the dark, quiet of a December night returned.

Until the next train rolls through!

Downtown

The concept of downtown started in New York and spread across North America in the 19th century. It designated the historical core and main business area of the city, (which was called city centre in Britain and Ireland). Throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries, downtown was indeed the place to find all the people, as the song claimed,, along with the best department stores, theatres and clubs. Downtown was where all important business took place. Skyscrapers grew. and shoppers thronged the streets. Transportation in the form of street cars, buses and trains converged near downtown, where most people lived, worked and played.

However, downtown today isn’t what it used to be. By the early decades of the 20th century, decentralization began changing the downtown areas of most cities. People began moving out to the suburbs. Department stores and other shopping venues moved out to malls. Businesses moved to the outskirts where land was cheaper. And museums and other cultural institutions moved away from the historic enter for room to spread out. Many modern downtowns, especially in bigger cities, are now filled with offices for white collar workers.

In spite of all these changes, some of the glory of those vibrant downtowns of long ago remain, especially in the architecture. Winona, Minnesota is a case in point. Like most small towns in the midwest, Winona has a downtown area of several blocks which are considered the city center. In the century and a half since its founding, the area has undergone many changes, but it is still possible to find the beauty and craftsmanship of the older city. At least seventeen buildings on 2nd and 3rd streets have been listed on the National Register of Historic places.

It may be cold, but December is a great time to appreciate the downtowns of yesteryear. In Winona the holidays encourage the old-fashioned habit of window shopping. Like stores from the 19th century, many Winona store fronts decorate for Christmas, with displays ranging from the cute and whimsical to to nostalgic.

While many of the 19th and 20th century buildings have been altered at street level, the upper stories retain much of their original characteristics. Year-round, Winona’s downtown can best be appreciated by looking up. Many buildings have the date of construction and the original owner’s name written in ornate lettering.

Upper-story windows often have intricate and ornate brickwork designs. Rooflines design and decoration is another example of quality 19th century workmanship. Though fewer in number, Winona’s rooflines and decorations rival those of bigger cities in the US and Europe.

The Choate building opened in 1888 as a grand department store.

Other buildings have flowers or geometric designs for ornamentation.

The Choate building opened in 1888 as a grand department store.

I’m no singer, but like Petula Clark, I urge you to head downtown, wherever you live. Take the time to stroll along the sidewalk, put away the phone and the to-do list, and look up. Who knows what delightful surprises await?

Machu Picchu: The Mystery and the Challenge

Because it’s there.

That, of course, is the standard answer to the age old question: Why cross the unknown sea? Why brave the harsh desert? Or in this case, why climb the mountain?

The real question is why do people, myself included, challenge personal limits and seek out adventure?

There is no doubt thousands of people do just that. Witness the number of tourists to Peru each year, most of whom come to Machu Picchu.

Rest assured, any visit to Machu Picchu involves challenges on a variety of levels. Even at its easiest– taking a train to Aguas Calientes, a bus up the narrow, steep, winding one-lane road without guardrails, and walking/climbing hundreds of steps to rock-strewn terraces- getting there is daunting. The hardest way to get to Machu Picchu is walking in on the Inca Trail–four days of grueling hiking at high altitude.

I opted for the middle level challenge–the one day hike from Kilometer 104. It’s about six miles long, with 2,600 feet rise in elevation. That hike ranks as one of the hardest and most rewarding hikes I’ve ever done.

The beginning of the hike

Part-way up the mountain- we started at river level.

So, why go?

I first heard of this mysterious Inca city in grade school. The city had been swallowed by the jungle, abandoned and forgotten in the centuries following the Spanish Conquest of Peru. Sure, local farmers still knew of the ruins in the shadow of the mountain they called Machu Picchu, but the rest of the world did not. Most importantly, the Spanish conquistadors had not plundered or defaced the place. In 1911, Hiram Bingham–one of those intrepid adventurers seeking challenge– found the city in his quest for Vitcos, the last capital of the Inca state. His pictures of this mysterious city emerging from the thick vegetation intrigued me.

To get to Machu Picchu (which means old mountain) I took the train from Ollantaytambo to Kilometer 104. There isn’t really a station there, just a place where the train stops. Amid the cheers and calls for good luck from my fellow travellers who had not opted to walk in, my guide, Marcelino, and I left the train and crossed the Urubamba River.

We set off, slow and steady, walking up…and up…and up some more. The trail was rocky, narrow in places, and fairly steep. I had to stop and suck air often.

We walked on the windy side of the mountain, across the river from the train. We soon lost sight of the tracks, though we could hear its echo across the valley from time to time, and occasionally we saw another train.

The sky was clear, and so it was very hot as we walked. The tall grasses on the mountain side were dry-season brown, but it is still a tropical cloud forest. Besides the overwhelming majesty of the mountains surrounding us were smaller glories. Nestled among the craggy rocks are many beautiful orchids

For about 2 ½ or 3 hours we walked mostly uphill on a rocky, narrow path. Sometimes there were uneven steps, carved centuries ago by the Inca. Sometimes the trail was just steep. My legs burned, my breath was ragged, and we stopped often. A few minutes to slow my pounding heart and catch my breath, then on again. I thought about the drop-off edge to my right, wondering what would happen if my legs, wobbly with exhaustion, gave out, and I were to stumble.

Such thoughts made me walk closer to the cliff side of the trail.

At 11:30 I had to stop for a snack. Marcellino assured me we were close to the spot we would stop for lunch. And we were, but first we had to ascend and cross Wiñay Wayna (which means forever young- named after a local orchid.)

Looking up at this Inca agricultural marvel, I was awed by the symmetry of the terraces, by the beauty of the stone work, and by the sheer height of the ruins. Imagine looking up from the bottom of three stadiums stacked, one on top of the other. Tired as I was, I wasn’t sure I could do it.

Marcelino had no such doubts and urged me onward. We stopped at each terrace to breathe and rest my ‘spaghetti’ legs. My thighs burned as I clambered up the rugged steps.

Finally we reached the top. Cheering quietly, I sank to rest on a nearby boulder (no shortage of boulders). Looking back across Wiñay Wayna, I felt a dizzying sense of satisfaction, amazed I had made it.

We stopped for lunch shortly after that at the spot where our section of the Inca Trail meets the campsite for the third day of the 4-day trail. Here a bit of rain fell, more like mist from a low cloud, just enough to cool us off.

Refreshed by the rain, the rest, and some chicken and vegetables, Marcelino and I tackled the next bit of the trail, the flat part as Marcelino claimed. Turns out the ‘flat part’ is Inca flat, which really means rolling bumps– up ten steps, down ten steps and so on. We walked this way for another couple of hours, enjoying the parakeets whistling in the trees, bright hummingbirds flitting through the leaves, and dozens of butterflies hovering in patches of sunshine. We paused at a waterfall splashing over the rocks. The misty rain sprinkled off and on, never hard enough to really wet us. The trail here was delightful and much easier- at least on my breath, if not on my knees, one of which started twinging with each downhill step.

The final stretch of the trail was uphill again, steep and rocky, uneven steps for about 45 minutes.

And at the top: the sun gate, (Inti Punku in Quechua) where centuries ago, Inca guards controlled the main entrance to the citadel. I rounded the corner and took in my first view of the marvel of the city below. The sun came out and shone on the citadel as I looked upon Machu Picchu unfolding beneath me.

Tears filled my eyes and a smile stretched across my face. I had done it.

The ache in my legs, the pain in my knees, the exhaustion all disappeared in the satisfaction of mastering the challenge, that moment of sublime joy at reaching a difficult goal. It’s a little bit like giving birth–all the pain and difficulty forgotten in the exhilaration of the reward.

No one knows for sure why Machu Picchu was built and ultimately abandoned, but I can tell you why it’s worth the effort of visiting.

Because it’s there.

In all its sun-drenched, mist-shrouded, magical glory. It’s there.