House of glass

Our house is made of glass...and our lives are made of glass; and there is nothing we can do to protect ourselves. Joyce Carol Oates.

Well, don't pay too much attention to that; I gave up reading JCO's novels a few months ago. They are beautifully written but she is too gloomy by far. 

I've wanted to visit the Tacoma Glass Museum for several years.

Boom! Another one off the Bucket List.

We stopped in on the way to our hotel on Friday. After figuring out our free parking and the free light rail, we rode to the 19th and Pacific stop and this is what we saw.

We crossed the street between Union Station and the State History Museum...

...and walked onto the Bridge of Glass.

This was designed by Dale Chihuly, the father of modern glass art, and contains many of his works. Chihuly has an instantly recognizable style and has been a leader in the American glass art scene for decades. He learned the team approach to glass-blowing while on a Fulbright Scholarship in Venice in the 60's and subsequently adopted it as his own. Chihuly directs his assembled team in the creative aspects of the glass-blowing and makes the ultimate decision on whether or not the finished piece is a "keeper". I assume that this approach is what enables his prolific output.

This suspension bridge is off to the right. It was a grey day still, so difficult to get an inspiring photo, but it is an imposing structure.

As you walk under the covered area, your eyes are drawn upwards and you immediately start to look like a dork. You cannot look away from all the luscious colours and sensuous shapes of the Chihuly glass, which is perched tantalizingly on top of the glass ceiling.

I'm thinking, a few million dollars of glass art in this here covered bridge.

Seriously.

I could have stayed in there, walking to and fro with my head tipped back, for a long time, but, you know, Jeff was with me.

Yes, there he is, moving impatiently ahead.

Meanwhile, I'm still under cover, gazing at the ceiling.

Glorious, isn't it?

Then, on to the next section which has glass displayed in cases on each side.

There is something about glass that is very tactile. I have to touch it to get a complete sense of its beauty. These enclosed cases drove me nuts!

There are several art installations on the grounds of the museum.

This is Water Forest, by Howard Ben Tre.

Fluent Steps, by Martin Blank, contains 754 individually sculpted pieces of glass. I love the fluid motion of the sculpture as a whole and the ethereal transparency of the individual pieces.

Phew. 

There's my fancy-shmancy art review for the day.

We paid our admission for the museum.

I was less than impressed with most of it, with a couple of exceptions.

Glimmering Gone is a collaboration between two artists, one in the US and one in Sweden. It is quite gorgeous and innovative. 

The Hot Shop, which is inside the cone in the photos, was interesting. You can watch visiting artists actually blow and form glass pieces. 

No photos allowed, anywhere in the museum.

You can imagine how I felt about that!

Much of the art is very avant garde and a little too weird for my taste. 

Peculiar, even.

I prefer my art to be beautiful rather than interesting.

Plus, it really puts me off when I read artists' pseudo-intellectual comments on their own work, as if it contained answers to life's greatest questions. Phrases like "central to the human condition" and "silent internal dialogue" just leave me cold. I want to tell them to get over themselves.

Sorry if I upset anyone with that opinion. In many ways, I am too pragmatic for my own good.

My recommendation on the Glass Museum, unless you're dying to visit the Hot Shop, is to save your money and soak in the free sights outside.

Just down the terraced steps from the museum is a shop that sells works from many of the artists who are displayed in the museum. 

Like this piece.

Gorgeous.

Jeff and I decided this artist must be quite popular, because the price tag....wowee!

I would have bought at least one smaller piece of glass, but Jeff was giving me no encouragement, so out we went again. The shop is worth a visit. I preferred it to the museum.

UP the steps again, where we got the other side of Union Station. 

What a grand building.

I will leave you with this.

I don't know the name of the sculpture.

But I LOVE IT!

Had we been in a more adventurous mood, we would have checked out Union Station (where it looked like some more glass resided) and the history museum.
But it was starting to rain and we were chilly and tired.
So we went on to the next hotel.
Towne Suites, by Marriott.
Functional but uninspired.
The feather pillows, however, were to die for.

Tomorrow, a contest.

Thirty-one years and counting

I know you're all dying of anticipation, wondering what we did for our anniversary.

Thirty-one years.

Sometimes, it seems like an eternity.

Sometimes, only yesterday.

Nah, I'm kidding.

I can actually hardly remember life before Jeff, although every time I go to New Zealand it all comes back to me. In a good way.

So, here's the scoop. 

In excruciating detail.

I planned a long weekend, with the first night being spent in a luxury boutique hotel in Portland: the Hotel Monaco, which was 5th Avenue Suites Hotel until several years ago, when it was transformed into its present state. I found a half-price deal on Travelzoo, which included a continental breakfast but not, unfortunately, free parking.

Let me just say that I do not pay $33 a night for parking. Ever.

We parked in the Smart Park facility a few blocks away, which ended up being $13 for the night, which is within my comfort zone. It was a little inconvenient when we forgot to bring our toilet kit into the hotel, but Jeff just popped out in the morning to get it.

I was delighted by this fellow playing the beat buckets just outside the parking structure.

I put a couple of dollars in his tip bucket and asked him if I could take his picture.

He, in turn, was delighted by the suggestion.

The interior decor is an exotic mix of Anglo-Chinois influences.

Whatever that means.

All I know is that this bed with its soft linens and down comforter was incredibly comfortable and, more to the point, so was my pillow.

Because, wouldn't you know, I forgot mine.

But I didn't forget my camera!

One could request a goldfish for one's room.

Of course I did.

Why did you even have to ask?

His name is Gillis.

I said so.

Animal print robes are there for the wearing, but we didn't bother. 

They were stiff and unappealing.

But aren't they exotic?

Would someone tell me why these higher-end hotels feel compelled to place a nice large refreshing-looking bottle of water by the side of the bed?

With a sign on it that say "$5"?

It is one of my nightmares that one day I won't see the outrageous price tag and I'll drink it.

Ack!

And this sweet bear that was sitting on the bed, with a $35 price tag.

Oh, I forgot to mention, we watched True Grit on the way into Portland. 

Fantastic acting, but some of the gruesome scenes are etched into my brain for evermore.

And the ending was crap.

So, if you're at all impressionable, like me, give it a miss.

Jon said, What did you expect from the Coen brothers?

Friday morning after breakfast, we headed up into the West Hills to the Japanese Gardens. The gardens have been almost fifty years in the making and it shows. Every view is gorgeous.

Once again, too many photos, so hopefully you won't be bored by this slideshow. I recommend watching it on full screen, but let it preload some before pressing the play button.

It was beautiful even though the day was grey.

I love the graceful shapes of the bare tree branches.

Because it was such a dismal day, I had to boost the colour and contrast quite a bit on most of the photos. They were very flat and almost monochromatic in their raw state. I'd love any constructive comments from you awesome photographers out there. My little camera is fairly limited in its capabilities, but maybe some pointers on editing?

Tomorrow, the Chihuly Glass Museum in Tacoma.

A is for Aardvark

And this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

...is why I want one!

Well. Mebbe not quite the end.

A few remaining thoughts about Haiti.

I find myself, when people ask So. How was your trip? feeling a little conflicted.
I search my prodigious vocabulary for the appropriate adjectives.
And none come to mind, so I use a few lame, generic ones like Awesome, Amazing, Great.
And then I feel as filled with angst as I have ever been, because I spent a wonderful week in Haiti.
And then I got to come home.
While the Haitian people, who this was all about, have to stay there, with all of the poverty and hunger and ignorance and disease and corruption and crime that was there  before.
So then I am sad.

Let me tell you a few things that I learned, although I don't claim to have any answers.
The Haitian people are beaten down. Many of them are trying to better their lives, but so many factors are working against them. The earthquake and hurricanes just make a complicated situation worse.
Most Haitians see foreigners as a way to get something. I mentioned in an earlier post that any interaction with a Haitian will usually include, at some point, a request for something.
Let me tell you a story.

Late one afternoon, I decided to move the pile of topsoil that was in the vegetable garden over to a different area so that we could plant in the vacated space. I started filling up the wheelbarrow and lugging it to the other side of the yard. After a few trips, Junior, Jason's son, came over and helped me. I shoveled, he lugged. We had a lot of fun, laughing at each other and he teaching me the exact pronunciation of sa bon and a few other necessary Creole phrases. Creole is mostly a spoken language and Haitians are very picky about the pronunciation. I thought to myself How nice that he came to help.


About two thirds of the way through that pile of dirt, Junior started saying laptop and making typing actions with his fingers. I wasn't quite sure why he was saying it, so after a minute or so he gave up and we got back to work. A little while later, Lucien came over to talk to him and I asked Lucien to ask him why he was talking about a laptop. Lucien and Junior has a short conversation, in which I was not included, and that was it. I was none the wiser and we carried on and finished the job.

The next day, it dawned on me that Junior was asking me for a laptop and that Lucien probably read him the riot act for doing so. I was disappointed that there was more to Junior's kind act than met the eye. It wasn't the last time that I would be hit up for supplies by our Haitian workers, even though they live in a veritable lap of luxury compared to most people in the area.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this problem. On the one hand, I understand why they do it. Their problems seem to be insurmountable; the fact is, there is no other way for them to get certain things. The clinic has to have almost all of their supplies sent from the US. Everything is expensive, from food to conveniences like toilet paper ($2 a roll), but many needed items are just not available for sale in Haiti. On the other hand, it does no good in the long run to just give handouts, because it intensifies their dependence.

So here's what I think.
Haiti is a beautiful country, in spite of the strife that has been visited on its mountains by natives and foreigners alike. Some of the best people in the world are in Haiti. People like those who are working at MamaBabyHaiti and Mercy Corps, who have long-term strategies to help the Haitian people towards financial independence. Please read Doctor Sarah's latest blog post here. If you have loved reading about MamaBabyHaiti, would you take a few minutes and go here to donate to the cause? Mercy Corps is also doing good work in the south part of Haiti and you can donate to them here. It doesn't have to be a large amount to make a difference, if we do it together.

Also, if you blog, I would love it if you could somehow pass this along. Feel free to copy any of my content on the topic. My contribution in Haiti was tiny, but together we could become a formidable force for good.
So that, someday, all of the babies in Haiti will be as fat and happy as Carjioly.

Thank you.

And don't forget the like button.

One gigantic post. The end.

First, some housekeeping. You might notice that I've added a little "like" button at the end of the posts. That way, even if you're too idle to make a comment, you can click the little square and I can get all kinds of warm, fuzzy feelings about my readers.

Positive reinforcement.

It keeps me going.

Just sayin'.

So, Miss Lisa, who considers her powers of navigation to be far superior to mine own, led the way as we searched for the Mercado Modelo. It took a while for us to find it. Finally, two sweet little girls took pity on us and led us down the last couple of streets.

We had been told that this was the place to buy art. Dominican and Haitian art have a distinctive "look", primitive and colourful. The Mercado is a market hall, packed with vendors who sell every kind of Dominican handcraft imaginable. It was inaugurated in 1942 by the dictator Trujillo. I suspect it began as a farmers' market and has transformed into the biggest tourist trap ever. Go here to see a picture and short description. 

As we entered the market, we were accosted on all sides by vendors, all determined that we should enter their stalls. I would have been easily distracted from my purpose, but Lisa made sure that we followed only the art vendor, who lured us up some narrow stairs to his establishment. 

That girl really hates shopping, did I tell you that?

It was tough to choose from the plethora of art pieces, but I finally settled on two of them and then began the hard work. I paid a little more than I was planning, but much less than he asked, which seems to me to be the sign of a good bargaining session. There was much mi amor-ing and shaking of his head, and I had a great time mi amor-ing him back, not believing at all that I was breaking his heart. He removed the canvases from their frame and rolled them up. I insisted on his giving me my change (oh, mi amor!) and off we went, with nary a look to the left or right.

Our next destination was the Alcazar de Colon, built and occupied by Christopher's son, Diego. It houses a museum, and by golly, a museum was what we were after!

So here we go, walking down this street and that, admiring the sights.

Really old buildings and a really new Hummer.

They're everywhere, they're everywhere!

After a lot of walking down some very scary streets (Hey Lisa, Jeff would be really unhappy if he knew that I was walking in this neighbourhood) and a lot of really bad directions from people who, I think, were deliberately trying to mislead us, I spotted a handsome policeman-type dude. He was wearing a very fetching blue uniform and carrying an efficient-looking gun. He was chatting on the street when I rudely interrupted him and asked him how to get to the Alcazar. He motioned us onto the sidewalk and we conferred for several minutes over our pitiful map, which had so far done us very little good at all. He spoke fairly good English (yay!) and finally realized that his map-drawing skills and our understanding of his directions were not coming together. He smiled good-naturedly and offered to walk with us.

Well.

Walking with Victorino Amado was a completely different experience than walking on our own.

He stopped traffic for us.

He bought a coconut pudding (his favourite kind) for us at a little store.

Which we shared with him.

He shepherded us across busy roads.

We walked a lot faster.

He told us that he was a guard at the Vice President's office. 

And that his last name is the past tense of love, which he makes sure to mention to the girls.

And that he learned English at school but practises on his own because he wants to come to America some day.

We chatted and laughed and hustled all the way to the Alcazar.

Which was closed.

Sigh.

So the guard (no taking pictures of guards in the DR) took a photo of us.

It was a bit awkward after that, not quite knowing how to go our separate ways.

Lisa and I decided to walk to the road that borders the sea, so Victorino walked with us some more.

Finally, he went his own way, but not before exchanging email addresses and giving us each a heartfelt kiss on the cheek.

Hoowhee.

Memo to self: Cross that one off the bucket list.

Is Jeff reading this?

Not likely.

So we walked...

...and walked...

...and walked...

...until I thought we would never reach the ocean.

And then we did.

And then I had to have a little sit.

And then we walked along the beautiful ocean...

...you know how it goes...

...yawn...

...but wasn't it gorgeous? 

Except for the odd landmark here and there...

and the auto fumes...

and the heat...

and my tired, aching feet...

and the trash on the shore...

...and then we turned inland and walked a whole bunch more, zigging and zagging until we finally got back to the temple.

Except for the brief stop at the little ice cream store, just before we reached home, where we each had an ice cream bar and it was the best thing we had ever tasted.

That's about it. We spent most of Tuesday in temple.

I'll leave you with a few daytime pictures of it.

Hey.

Hey you!

You awake?

This coconut tree has over 60 coconuts on it.

And then we went home.

The end.

Too many over-sized pictures?

Nah!

Sunday sentiments

A deviation from the topic.

This is the flower arrangement by my talented friend, Julie, that decorated the podium at church today. It gave me something on which to ruminate while I daydreamed through some of the sermons, thinking about my own answers to prayer.

Many of you have heard this story before, but I like to tell it. 

It reaffirms the meaning of my life.

Many years ago, I was engaged to be married to the "love of my life".

And it wasn't Jeff.

He filled every corner of my heart and none of my thoughts existed without him in them.

Yet, when I prayed for confirmation of the rightness of the relationship, there was none.

I prayed.

And prayed.

With no answer.

He eventually dumped me, rather unceremoniously and with good reason, by cassette tape from the Philippines, where he was serving a mission.

I was devastated for a long time.

Years.

During which I dated quite a few worthy men and a few rascals.

And, after a while, when nothing seemed to work out, I started to pray that the Lord would let me know when I met my husband-to-be, so that I could be done with all the uncertainty.

Well, the moment I met Jeff for the second time (I know, but it's a long story) I knew we would marry.
Bells rang.
That was it.
No doubt.
He knew it too.
And it has sustained us through many a rocky stretch of this road that we call marriage.

So, this weekend, we are finally getting away for our 31st anniversary.
Every few days since the beginning of the year, Jeff has been asking When are we going away? and I feel like a bad wife.
I've been planning my Haiti trip and now a trip to New Zealand in April, so the myriad details of a weekend trip have escaped me.
So this week I buckled down and booked hotels and planned outings.

He will be a happy man.