Ten things to love about this December

I've been away from the blog for a while, not because I'm done with writing it, but because its been such a different month from the previously blogged ones that I've not had time nor known where to start. And once you get a bit behind, its hard to play catch-up. So, to commemorate my return to the blog, I'll summarize, in order of events and appearance, the past several weeks in a very non-media-like list of headlines, capturing the essence of the month's highlights for me (yes, a very conscious use of the lingo, my dear ISA friends):

1.December starts with a flight to Cuba after three days of rest on a Bahamian beach; the Jamboree is securely parked at the Charlotte aiport back in North Carolina.
2.Five days in Havana is like dipping your littlest toenail into the Atlantic Ocean and saying you know what it feels like to swim in it; luckily a change of flights allowed two weeks and a little more exploration around Cuba, maybe enough to equal swishing a foot in the lapping coastal waves.
3.Swapping the spacious Jamboree for the old, familiar backpack to carry stuff down the road travelled.
4.18 km hike straight up and down a mountain in the sweltering Sierra Maestra leads to the well-preserved remains of Fidel and Che's HQ from 1957-58, and to the baffeled hikers who find themselves standing in Fidel's house.
5.Driving in a '56 Chevy to the beach; sipping Havana rum between attempts at salsa dancing; walking through villages, towns, cities all left to carry on in the chasm of time; peso pizza; barely scratching the surface of Cuba, trying to understand it while falling under its spell.
6.2-day reunion with the Jamboree on the last stretch of I95 south from Charlotte, North Carolina, to Miami, Florida, where it is once again parked in an airport lot.
7.Camille, Lily, Elaine, Tara, Ingrid, Job, Marlies and Jacky.
8.My skin reminds me how it loves the daily Vitamin D doses, while I consciously remind myself that it is Christmas in the heat and tropical surroundings.
9.Discovering the cycle route across the bridge from Miami to Key Biscayne.
10.A Miami Christmas with Lily's family.

The photo album included here is, like the words written above, a sampling of the highlights from the past several weeks. Its enough to give a taste, but I didn't include them all to avoid infecting my followers with overload.

December: Bahamas, Cuba, Miami

Myrtle Beach

With a name like “Myrtle Beach”, one might expect a “beach” experience. Alas this impression can't be counted on. Mid-November is apparently a time of the year that weather can be warm and sunny one week and cloudy and rainy and cool the next.

Unfortunately for dad and I, up until the day before we left, we experienced the latter. At least we had one glorious day of sunshine.

Some things to be unhappy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

Besides the aforementioned weather,
The wireless internet in the condo facility was down for the duration of our entire stay.

Some things to be happy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

I had dad almost to myself for an entire week.

My friend Petrina joined for a few days.

There was a very small exercise room, a laundry room and a jaccuzzi in the condo facility at which I respectively sweated, cleaned clothes, and then soaked and drank beer nearly every day.

A short drive away, we found charming modern Georgetown, with a curious southern past, about which I shall spew at the bottom of this post.

We found really yummy seafood. Really. Yummy.

After debating the origins of the name "Myrtle" - ranging from the name of a woman to that of a tree - a google search at the local internet cafe revealed that a Myrtle is a type of flowering plant that is common in this coastal part of South Carolina. I love etymology, of words and of names of places.

Friendly people asking “how y'all doin'?”. Every person asked. In elevators. In shops, bars and restaurants. On the streets. Literally every person we saw. After which we would always engage in what felt like a genuine conversation. My first real taste of Southern Hospitality.

It was quiet. Not crammed with tourists (until the weekend bringing American Thanksgiving hit, that is, at which point the population of Myrtle Beach quadrupled, according to my rudimentary estimates. And as far as my first American Thanksgiving in America goes, I spent it realizing that everything was closed and we had forgotten to shop the day before, so, guided by my most trusty cookbook, concocted a souffle/quiche dinner with whatever was left in the fridge - cauliflower, carrots, eggs, thanks Petrina - and we drank the remaining beer. Not quite a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but I already had mine over a month ago in Canada, and we felt like we got to experience the turmoil of it all via CNN's more than regular updates anyway.)

Walking along the beach, along a coastline, feeling those enduring waves is therapeutic even when the skies are grey.

Getting caught up on news according to CNN, and James Bond flicks.

Starting to pick up that southern influence on the English language.

I got to know Garmin (the GPS with a – for the moment – woman's voice. I'm calling him “He”, though, because the factory name is Garmin – I know, how original – and because I intend to find a sexy male voice to guide me through the streets of the remaining North American cities and countryside over the coming months). I'll keep Garmin around at least until he sends me on another wild goose chase through quiet country backroads, scenic but way off the beaten track routes, instead of on the interstates and main county highways, in order to reach my destination; if he tries that again, he'll find himself flung out the window. Or at best, tucked into an unused corner of the Jamboree and forgotten. Based on his performance in getting us to the Charlotte airport, though, I'm feeling more optimistic, so I won't be rash and will give him future chances. While I am, admittedly, rather good (read: lucky) at finding my destinations the “old fashioned way” with maps and intuition, I admit Garmin might be a useful addition to my growing Jamboree family.

An aside-show, random thought: while I am imbued with the very gracious Southern hospitality bug, I'd like to make the comment that I'm very aware that through this blog, I am engaging in a bit of navel-gazing. And so for any of you out there (who aren't my parents) and aren't rolling their eyes at my sometimes obvious, sometimes trivial, sometimes blatantly optimistic observations, I extend you a nod that screams “bear with me” during my blogging/writing attempts. Its surprisingly tiring work out here on the road, on the go, all the time, and I don't really always have the time or conditions available to do the things I'd like to do, like writing or reading or cycling, well. I'll get there yet.

And finally...

..so I'm left now leaving you with some of my promised impressions about Georgetown, South Carolina. A quaint town with significant waterways built for shipping designed by Dutch engineers, surrounded by gorgeous houses and a lovely town center.

We toured the Rice Museum in which I was given first-hand examples as to how to use language to sway things your way.

After upteen displays and pieces of evidence about how prosperous Georgetown and the outlaying area once was in producing and exporting rice, their official claim is that They Suffered after the American civil war because the result of it meant that they “lost their workforce” and so could “no longer compete” and as a result, their “industry declined”. The sweet old-lady guide said to us, twice, that she didn't wonder that “the North envied them their culture and wealth so of course they waged a war against them”.

I admit, as a Canadian, I naturally side a bit with the Northern perspective on things.

The use of language made it sound as if they – the plantation owners - were the ones who were hard done by. Who suffered most. Fair enough to them; it must have been a shock. Before emancipation, they were ridiculously wealthy and they had a prospering, thriving economy. On the backs of people who were not free in the “land of the free”, where there was an average of 1000 people (I dare anyone to show me a picture of a slave from this time and part of the world who wasn't black), who were not technically “people”, working under each “person” (ie/ most likely white plantation owner). I can't continue to call To Kill A Mockingbird one of the more important pieces of relatively modern literature that everyone should read and not conclude for myself, at least, that there's some sort of skewed perspective here.

At least, from my perspective.

I know that there's no need for me to dreg up that old argument again. So I'll say nothing further. Except, that it kind of surprised me to hear that perspective justified. And I am really glad that I live in a world in which cultural and racial diversity is respected and valued rather than taken advantage of. At least, from my perspective.

Myrtle Beach

Presidential near misses and soft southern countrysides

Driving on the interstate from Dulles airport to a campsite north of Washington DC to spend a day in the US capital. Dad in the Jamboree with me. 10 lanes of traffic, we in the middle express lanes, not much company. A glance in the rearview mirror at the flashing blue and red lights from the official motorcycle coming up behind me. Surely I'm not speeding, in the Jamboree? No. He whizzes past, to our left, ignoring us. We wonder what or who he's chasing; there's no one ahead of us. Then a second set of lights comes up from behind, identical to the first, but this one pulls slightly ahead of us, in the left passing lane, and indicates with his arm for me to pull over, move over and make room, get the Jamboree into the shoulder. I do. The next glance in the rearview reveals an official train of cars zooming along, closing in on us, flying past, all manner of lights flashing, police escorting, somberly official and expensive looking, American-flag flapping. As they whiz past us, dad says “I heard on the news that President Obama landed this morning”.

I wave excitedly at them, just in case.

I'm sticking to my story. President Obama drove past the Jamboree. How can I not like DC now, after this?

A day in DC. Walking up Pennsylvania Avenue. Posing for pictures in front of the fence on the opposite end of the lawn in front of the White House. If you squint you can see it. So much security. A visit to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. To escape the rain; to see Dorothy's red shoes and Kermit and C3PO; to walk through the story of the United States.

Interesting story.

Dinner. Too much wine.

Two more days of driving, now continuing south on the I95. New GPS system on hand to guide us through Viriginia, North Carolina, South Carolina.

Glimpses of cottonfields, me unable to stop singing that song “in them olllddd cottonfields back home... it was down in Louisiana, just about a mile from TexArcana...”. Even though we aren't there, we are in the Carolinas. Visits to civil war battlefields turned into outdoor museums. A lot of history in these parts.

A bit of a wayward route, Garmin the GPS takes us off the I95 too early, we traverse fields and small towns and see the southern houses of my imagination; rocking chairs on every veranda, big verandas on every house. I like the drive off the beaten path but it takes a long time, and I think I could have found a better route the old-fashioned way, with my maps.

Washington DC