A blog about a tree

On the eve of Mother’s day, I took some time off – for myself. I took a cup of coffee and walked out to the back deck. I did not have my phone. I did not have a book. I just sat in the chair and looked out at the majestic oak tree in our back yard, my friend for the last fourteen years. A constant.

The blue sky was awash with sunshine, dotted with wispy clouds. The green around me had the sheen of youth. It is that young, lustrous green, not yet the deep green of mid summer. The stillness around me was peaceful, sometimes broken by a strange birdsong.

We fell in love with that tree when we came to see the house many moons ago. It was fuller then. We had to trim some of its limbs due to decay and storm. And although it looks somewhat lopsided, it is still awe inspiring. The tree, over the years, has been many things to me – an object to admire, a yardstick for changing season, a home to quarreling squirrels, magnificent birds and a witness to our daily life. It has also been a symbol of hope after a long, cold bare winter. It has embodied resurgence of life after death.

The tree has witnessed a significant part of my children’s childhood. Before Ryan was born, Sahana played under it, looking for ladybugs, getting used to the open space after moving in from New Delhi while I sat on the deck and watched her. She raised her head from time to time to make sure mama was there. It watched laughter and quarrels of the two of them as they grew. It has seen Ryan take his baby steps as he ran after his sister. It has seen the exuberance of puppy Sage being chased by his human siblings. It has withstood Sahana and Ryan’s crude attempts to build a tree house with their friends. It has seen them wrestle. It has provided them leaves every fall to rake and jump in leaf piles. They have climbed it, they have cried under it, Sahana has read books in its shade and wrote some of her poems, we have played Holi beneath it. It has seen Ryan throw baseball farther and farther as he grew. It has seen Sahana kick a soccer ball when she played soccer. In a way, the tree has been a constant in their childhood and in their coming of age. Somewhat like me, their mother. A witness.

On this day, it felt just right to look up from book/phone to sit there and think and to commune with the tree – another nurturer.

“Oh no! That was a library book!”

When I was little, if our feet ever touched a book (or paper, or a musical instrument) we apologized to goddess Saraswati by touching our hand to our heads – a gesture of pranam. Goddess Saraswati was the keeper of education and all forms arts, and the paraphernalia of objects associated with arts were sacrosanct, especially books. We were taught to take care of books so as not to anger the goddess and get bad grades in school. I was very religious and always loved Saraswati with all my heart. Therefore, I was extra cautious about my actions when it came to taking care of reading or writing material. Who wants the wrath of the goddess of learning upon themselves? That could result in bad grades and that meant the wrath of my mother! Before exams, I always prayed hard to her to score brownie points. I would stand in front of her idol, eyes closed, hands folded in front of me – a picture of utter devotion. I took very good care of all my books and papers, partly out of fear but mostly out of love for this beautiful, serene, white saree clad goddess. My mother, who was not remotely religious, continued with the story of goddess and books to nurture my good habit. Whatever works, right?

By the time Saraswati ceased to be real for me, an innate respect for books and good maintenance of them had been well cultivated within me. To this day, I have a soft corner for this particular goddess of learning who is constantly overshadowed by her sister Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. And in a strange way, I feel I chose her in my life by finding a job at the library. Let’s face it, I am never getting rich working there. And I say rich in a materialistic sense, of course. Lakshmi figured out my partiality to her sister and turned her face away.

I have tried my best to cultivate a healthy respect for books in my two children. Books are important and maintaining them well is necessary. I borrowed library books for them since they were very little. We came home, counted the books each had and placed them on a shelf where only library books could stay. Pages were not to be dog eared, they could not be upended, drinks and food had to be carefully consumed near library books and they had to be returned on time. The rules were clear. If they lost a book, they were responsible for paying for it. Needless to say, not one book has been lost so far.

When Ryan was around 4 years old, a dear friend came to visit us. Ryan instantly took a liking to him and stuck to him like glue. After playing baseball, after bonking our friend on the head with an accidental wild throw, after running around in the yard, after talking incessantly, Ryan brought him a book to read aloud. I forget what book it was, but I remember it had a dragon in it who was causing all sorts of trouble. As each page was read, Ryan got more and more involved in the story – eyes wide, mouth open. After several misdeeds, the dragon lastly breathed fire and made a hole in the page. The story ended. And Ryan cried out:

Oh no! He made a whole in the page??? BUT THAT WAS A LIBRARY BOOK!!!!!!

The language of music

I was sent to an English medium school because my mother thought the language will give me a boost to move ahead in life. Both my parents were schooled in our vernacular – Bengali. They had enough English to get by but they were not, by any means, fluent. Since I was very little, I was exposed to Bengali music, Bengali stories, Hindi music, Bengali plays on the radio with a few English nursery rhymes thrown in. I have very fond memories of sitting around our transistor radio on a mat on our terrace under a star lit sky with both my parents, listening to a murder mystery in the mesmerizing voice of Gautam Chakraborty. It was summer, we had regular power cuts but in those days cool breeze from the Ganges cooled down the scorching city in the evenings. Those were pre television , pre sky scrapers, pre KFC, pre Barista days. Those were the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Bottom line, I had no exposure to English music, plays, literature. When I went to school, I learned English alphabets before I learned to read and write in Bengali. Being a lover of books, I picked up both languages quickly and devoured, I mean, read anything I could get my hands on. But when it came to music, I stuck to my loves – Bengali, Hindi. As I got older, peers introduced me to Western music. I tried to listen to a few and did not understand the lyrics – at all. Not at all. The instrumentals sounded like noise. I went back to what brought solace, music that I understood, music that soothed my soul.

The man I fell in love with happened to come from a English speaking country. When we first started seeing each other as friends, we exchanged our music. He sang along with the tapes he played for me. I sang and translated Rabindra sangeet for him, sitting in front of the magic fountains in Victoria Memorial.

I learned to love certain artists and their songs in English although I still strained to understand the lyrics. My partner made it easier to follow by singing along. I tried to translate some of my favorite songs for him but a lot was lost in translation. Through the exchange of music we conveyed our culture, our feelings. Exchange of our music was also exchange of our hearts.

I listened and loved some songs that Sean sang for me – Peter, Paul and Mary, Kenny Rogers, Don Mclean, Billy Joel, Pink Floyd, R.E.M, Simon and Garfunkel and several others. But I still did not listen to them on my own. After our marriage, I brought my music and he brought his to our lives. He jived to some Bollywood numbers and I slow danced to “You look wonderful tonight” with him.

Then we saw Sting in Varanasi one year in a small bed and breakfast. When my husband wondered that he looked like Sting, I said, Who’s Sting?” And thought, what an odd name. The rest is history.

If you have not read my blog on Who’s Sting, this may be a good time. 🙂

The Namesake

Recently we discussed Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake in our book club. For some of the participants, the characters were not quite real. They felt good that they read the book but the characters were not authentic enough. For those who are not familiar with the book, here is a brief synopsis. The story explores the lives of a young couple, recently married, who come to the United States in the 1960’s from Kolkata. The husband is a researcher in a university in New England and the young bride accompanies him to build a life together. The marriage was arranged by their parents so they get to know each other, and fall in love in a completely new country, far away from parents and relatives. They make this country their home, raise their two children here, develop friendships yet suffer from a sense of displacement. They cherish the opportunity that America gives them, yet they pine for the loved ones they left behind. The later part of the story follows the life of their oldest child – a boy, who they name Gogol after Nikolai Gogol. You have to read the book to find out the reason for this unusual name. As Gogol grows up, he has issues with his name so he changes it to Nikhil in college not realizing the sentimental reason behind this name. The book talks about Gogol’s self realization as first generation American and the dichotomy of balancing his roots and his birthplace.

Gogol’s life interested me somewhat since I have two biracial children and one of them is trying to figure out where she belongs. But I completely and utterly related to Ashima, the young bride who came to bitter cold New England right after her marriage. Her desperate attempt to understand a new country and her efforts to replicate the experiences of home, here. The book has a description of Ashima trying to make jhal muri (a very delectable roadside snack in Kolkata) with puffed rice and Planter’s nuts but something is missing. Something is always missing when I make the traditional Musur dal, bati chocchori, alu kopi – a very simple Bengali meal, in this country. Is it the oil? Is it the taste of the vegetable? I am still not sure. When I fry the spices in hot oil, the aroma reminds me of home but not quite, not quite. Something is missing.

The sense of displacement grows faint with each passing year as I deepen my roots in the soil of this country. I understand it more, I start to feel like, yes I belong. I nurture sustaining friendships that make me feel loved but what I find missing is the shared history. I long for those who will share the memory when “Abhi na jao chodke ke dil abhi bhara nahi” plays in Pandora. It is not simply a song. It encompasses a part of my life. It is the memory of my dad crooning it as he tied his shoe laces when he got ready for work. It is the memory of loudspeakers during Durga pujo. It is the memory of coming of age and stealing glances at the boy I liked. It is the memory of the lobby of our university. It is the memory of people I sang this song with, it is the emotions that evoked in all of us as we sang it together.

It is the immigrant experience, never belonging fully and belonging to more than one.

Monday blues

Before I write more, let me say I am not overweight, my BMI is within the normal range for my height and I feel great. Having said that, I weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life. Everytime I see a photo of myself, I think in my head, “Ok, that’s it. I am giving up sugar. From next Monday. ”

I was a skinny child, truly skin and bones. I was a skinny young adult, then a skinny young woman. My husband lovingly called me ‘slender’. He wrote love poems, describing me as ‘lissom’. Nope, I was skinny and not at all graceful. I had the confidence that skinny people have, that no matter what, I will never gain weight. Well, WRONG! Don’t believe it. Metabolism does slow down with age, and skinny body gets lost in small rolls of fat.

Ideally,I would like to lose 6 pounds. That is not a lot and I keep telling myself, I can do it. Easy! All I have to do is give up sugar. Reduce carbohydrate. Spend little longer on the machines at the gym. I will get strong. I will do it all – from next Monday. Mondays, for me, have become the day of failed resolution and eternal hope. In the middle of the week, I pop in that one last piece of chocolate thinking, “Monday! I will not touch sugar from Monday.” Or, “I will surely go to gym from next Monday on.” And when Monday comes, well….

Sometimes, I do start things – good, disciplined things, on Mondays. Like eating more salads and lean meat, cutting out dessert and working out at the gym. I stay with it for a couple of weeks. The weighing machine starts being my friend again. As soon as I see I have dropped a couple of pounds, I get cocky and munch on M & M’s again. I pop in a dessert or two and my body says, “Woman, you will pay for it.” And I do. The whole cycle starts again.

Mondays have become my “New years”. A new day, new possibilities, new me. As Monday rolls on to Tuesday, Wednesday I roll on to my undisciplined self and as I do so, I make the resolution, “No more. From next Monday, I will……”

I will turn over a new leaf. I will! On Monday…

And a love story..

My parents hardly ever agree on anything. They are two very different people with vastly different outlook on issues in life. However, they vociferously agree that within 2 hours of Sahana’s birth they saw her lift her head up. I have tried, over the course of eighteen years, to reason with them, “Newborns can not raise their heads. You must have been mistaken somehow in your excitement of seeing your first grandchild!” At that point, one of them seek approbation from the other:
“Tulechilo. Dekhechi. Bolo? Matha tulechilo na?”
(Yes, she lifted her head. We saw. Tell her did she not lift her head?)
The partner supports this observation. When it comes to the super ability of their grandchildren, they stand united. No amount of arguing, teasing, laughing can move the solid conviction that their grandchildren are extra-ordinary, unique, special, born to serve a greater purpose, brilliant, beautiful……

Eighteen years ago, when I was working hard to bring my first child to earth, I had my husband in the room holding my hand, coaching me to breathe in New Delhi, India. And my parents were pacing nervously near the delivery room, their ears perking up at any sound, any swish of the door. Finally when Sahana was born, she was cleaned and swaddled and I was taken care of, I saw my mother flash me a victory sign and my father crying tears of joy as they wheeled me away from the delivery room to private room. And since that day a love story began. Story of little Sahana and didiya, dadai.

Baby Sahana spent a lot of time in the arms of her grandmother, while grandfather sat nearby spending hours adoring her various facial expressions or simply lying next to her as she slept on their bed. When she got a little older, didiya told her stories, plenty of stories. Stories of Mahabharat, Ramayan, Krishna, Thakurma r jhuli. Dadai introduced her to animals, plenty of animals. When we visited Kolkata, dadai held her little hand and took her out to meet the numerous stray dogs and stray cats in our neighborhood, that he took care of. They taught her to be kind to creatures, big and small. They bought her toys, books, anything she wanted and spoiled her rotten but they never interfered when I felt the need to discipline her when she misbehaved. For that, I am grateful. After our move to United States, the physical distance multiplied but the bond between this little girl and her grandparents remained as strong as ever. The yearning increased and when the yearly rendezvous happened between the two, the love was palpable. Ten year old Sahana welcomed them at the airport with tight hugs, brought them home and said to didiya, “Golpo bolo.” (tell me a story).

Teenage Sahana confided in her grandmother her teenage angst. Story teller didiya became her confidante and dadai became someone to debate with. Dadai would say something outrageous and know-it-all grand daughter would try her best to prove him wrong. Dadai, often egged her on to get a raise out of her.

When Sahana was fifteen, she went to Kolkata alone for six weeks and stayed with her grand parents. The three of them talked, visited family, ate delicious food, went to the mall and movies and when all the talk was done, they just sat with each other, hooked electronically to their respective devices. For her grandparents, her presence was enough. For her, being with them in the same room in companionable silence was gratifying.

She is off to college now and sometimes she feels the urge to leave everything and go back to Kolkata, to didiya and dadai. She skypes with them sometimes, planning the best time to visit before she launches into her life as a young adult.

Little girls don’t stay little for long. They grow up, they change. The bond of story telling, animal loving, hand feeding, cuddling remains strong though. No matter what she does, her grand parents think the world of her still. In their eyes, she is extra-ordinary, unique, special, born to serve a greater purpose, brilliant, beautiful…… She is that special one who lifted her head within few hours of being born – an insurmountable feat. No one can convince them otherwise. Nobody tries 🙂 !

Infallible falls

Ryan hero worships his father. He always has since he was a baby. Seeing dad’s face brought about a goofy grin when he learned to recognize faces. As he got older, he became Sean’s shadow. Sean would work around the yard with a tiny human following him every step of the way. When Ryan started playing sports, Sean helped him by throwing the ball or shooting hoops or correcting his strokes. They would compete against each other in the pool or shooting baskets or scoring goals and inevitably Sean won. That was the norm.

Well the norm broke a few days ago in the swimming pool. At the ripe old age of 12, Ryan beat his dad in a 100 yard IM in the pool. That night at the dinner table, Sean mentioned to me with quiet pride that Ryan actually beat him in swimming. I looked at my son excitedly, “Wow! You finally beat dad! That is fantastic!

Ryan said, with an small smile, “I did. But it did not feel good. It just didn’t feel right, you know?”

“Why? I think that is fantastic! You should be proud!”

“No! He raced after a hard work out. He did a 400 IM, then a 200 IM and then he raced. So he was tired. And he killed me in the breast stroke.”

He was giving excuses for his father, I realized. In his heart of heart, he does not want his hero, his father to be defeated, that too, by him. In his eyes, dad is still infallible. He is not ready to accept glory over his father.

I looked at Sean who sat there smiling quietly at his son. Perhaps he was wondering when does the harsh truth dawn on your child? The truth about one’s parents not being infallible.

Resurrection

I have written before, I find faith beautiful. I find it very peaceful to see a community coming together and performing a ritual that is meaningful to them. Today, I accompanied my husband and son to an Easter service at their church. As we walked in, we were greeted with joyful music and different shades of pastel. Women wore Easter dresses with flowery prints, many men were in button down shirts. Children and babies were well dressed in ties and dresses, complete with bonnets, little white sweaters. There were toys, board books, pacifiers, grand moms, grand dads, adoring aunts, uncles, cousins galore. There were extended families picking up children, holding family babies, taking them to bathrooms. A grand mom in front of me was having the time of her life picking up toys that her toddler grand daughter dropped, wiping down drops of milk that spilled from yet another grand kid’s sippy cup. The priest gave the homily but I did not listen. I was focused on the human interactions around me. The extended family sitting next to us were clearly thrilled to be together. A pregnant woman let her hand rest lightly on her husband’s back. A brother (I assumed) rubbed another brother’s shoulder as they shared a joke. There were three babies that were kissed and adored and passed around. Next to me sat a young family from some country in Africa. A handsome young dad, a very pregnant mother in traditional outfit, resplendent in her pregnancy and a baby about 18 months. I spent a lot of the homily smiling at the young family, at their joy of being together and getting ready to welcome a new life.

At one point, I put my face in my hands and took some time to reflect. Why did I feel the Easter service was more joyous than a Christmas service? Is being reborn more joyful than being born? Does the idea of resurrection give people hope that death is not the end?

I don’t know the answer. But I felt joy. I felt hopeful. I felt happy. I wanted to write again.

The first day at Yosemite

We got an early start from the hotel. The driving distance from Sacramento to Yosemite National park is close to 3 hours and I slept at least half of that time. I sometimes feel guilty falling asleep on the passenger seat as Sean drives but not guilty enough to keep myself awake. When I woke up and looked around, the scenery around me had changed. All around me were lush green and gentle hills. And in the distance, shimmering in icy blue were peaks of Sierra Nevada. While my family got excited and chirpy that the destination was near, I got silent. My mind was cluttered with concerns over health of my loved ones, deadlines and schedules but I had decided to put all my worries and stress in the farthest corner of my mind as I submerged myself in the joys of being with those I love the most within the splendor of natural beauty. I hoped to soak myself in the beauty around me and hopefully, emerge rejuvenated, restored. As I watched in silence, Merced river flew by one side of the road with first, a gentle murmur and then a roar. As we came close to the park, the water raged next to us while the hills rose on the other side with occasional signs warning travelers of falling rocks. Slowly, everyone in the car fell silent as we took in the verdant countryside and powerful river. What else lay in store for us? Soon enough we spotted our first waterfall and although during the course of 3 days in the park we will see plenty of waterfalls, they never lost their charm for us. Each time we saw one we would stop each other and exclaim, “Look, there is a waterfall!” And we would pause or retrace our steps to catch a glimpse.

The line to enter the National park was long. Ryan got impatient and got out of the car to walk along the parapet next to us. We crawled towards the entryway to get our 7 day pass and enter paradise. Slowly the line of cars moved and we crossed the threshold.

The first stop was Yosemite Valley Visitor Center. On the way to it, we saw several cars parked on the side of the road and its occupants out on the road with their cameras held high, clicking away the magnificent Yosemite falls. We saw it while we drove on and Ryan urged Sean to ‘have fun but not too much fun and keep his eyes on the road ahead.’

We parked and walked to take in the incredibly beautiful and powerful Yosemite Falls before walking over to the Visitor Center.

The sheer force of nature amazed us and also made us aware of our insignificance in the grand scheme of things.

My chat with the ranger at the visitor center was very productive and rewarding. He said all the trails are open, however the folks who try to summit Half Dome come prepared with lots of snow gear and ice picks since the trail up there still has considerable, knee deep snow. I looked at my over achiever husband and said, “So, NO!” The ranger looked at me and said, “We can not say a forceful NO like that to hikers but yes, if I could I would say the same with the same emphasis!”

Now that the prospect of losing my husband to Half Dome was out, we looked at different trails for the following day. But we decided to climb the Yosemite falls to see how far we could go up and discover the view from up top. So we retraced our steps back to the falls and went in search of the trail head. With a deep breath and deeper resolution we started the trail with our young Ryan leading the way. The rangers urge the hikers not to stray from the trail so as not to trample the local flora that grow in abundance in the park. Within a few minutes, I was completely out of breath. I urged the family to move on while I panted. I said I will catch up but Sean just hung out with me, pretending to take in the view. No matter how many times I said I did not want to hold him back, I will be up soon, he stayed, just looking out without saying a word. He was also our mule carrying water, coats and other climbing paraphernalia. Sahana had the camera, Ryan had another water carrier and I carried my own self. Once I got into a rhythm, the steep climb became somewhat easier and I could climb at a steady pace. Fortunately, there were enough instances where we all stopped in wide eyed wonder at the visual feast ahead of us. As we got closer to the top of the falls, the panoramic view of the Yosemite valley and the gushing waterfall provided an incredible view. What an experience!

Midway through the climb, Half Dome exposed itself to us against the back drop of bright azure sky. The vast expanse of nature around us was breathtaking and incredulous.

The Yosemite Falls is North America’s tallest waterfall, which rises 2,425 feet (739 m) above the Valley floor. National Park Services website says:

If you make the one-mile, 1,000 foot climb (via dozens of switchbacks) to Columbia Rock, you will be rewarded with spectacular views of Yosemite Valley, Half Dome, and Sentinel Rock. From there, it is worth the time and energy to hike another 0.5 miles (0.8 km) (some of which is actually downhill!) to get a stunning view of Upper Yosemite Fall. Depending on the season, you may even feel the mist from the fall, which may be welcome respite after the tough climb.

And that is exactly what we did. When we climbed up to view the Upper Yosemite Fall we met with some hikers who were on their way down. We still had some fuel in our tank and the desire to see the view from the absolute top so we asked the hikers how the trail was. They all said there was considerable ice. A couple of young hikers had turned around because they did not want to tackle the ice. That put a damper to our spirits. We were not sure we wanted to navigate steep, icy terrains in the fading light of the evening. So the consensus was to turn around.

We reached our car when the sun was almost down. As we drove back to get to our hotel in Mariposa (a 45 minute drive) from the park we got to glimpse yet another hue of the green mountains in the dying light of the sun. It was truly mesmerizing. Merced river, swollen and raging, guided us back as we drove by it.

By the time we reached Mariposa and decided to stop for dinner, Sahana was feeling unwell. She opted out from eating anything while we stopped at a Subway to pick up sandwiches, checked into our hotel, cleaned up and hit the hay. The next day was going to be a full day of hiking so we needed the rest. My unused muscles were reminding me painfully that I was extremely out of shape but my rejuvenated mind told me I was up for the challenge. The following day we planned to hike up the Vernal Falls and then further up – Nevada Falls. Now for some sleep…..

Yosemite: Let’s go

The week before our departure to Sacramento, I was very mindful of my cuticle. You probably clicked on this blog to read about the wonders of Yosemite and you are, most likely, puzzled a bit about my mention of cuticles as I begin my travel blog. Yes, I would be puzzled too. If you have read my blog on our Mexico trip, you would know. I bit my cuticle right before our trip and I spent most of our vacation in considerable pain, till Sean lanced my hugely swollen, infected finger in a dark bathroom in a little hotel in Playa Del Carmen. So when I felt that annoying piece of skin irritating me to no end, I reached for the nail clipper.

We first decided to go to Tanzania for our spring break, then it was Peru and finally Yosemite. Neither Sean (the world traveler) nor I had seen the splendors of Yosemite but we had heard about it from those who had visited the National Park. They all proclaimed Yosemite ranks high in terms of natural beauty, grandeur and the sheer force of nature. So Yosemite it was. The time leading up to the trip was as usual – hectic. Sean traveled far and wide, Sahana stayed lost in her euphoria in getting into college and making new friends virtually, Ryan juggled grades, baseball, music and little bit of swimming while I tried to balance full-time work and home. I checked out a few books on Yosemite but did not touch them. We had 8 hours on the plane, we decided to make good use of the time and plan our activities then while we flew over clouds on our way to see glorious mountains and gushing waterfalls.

The flight was uneventful except for the fact that we did not find seats next to each other because we were late in checking in. Ryan sat next to two strangers who were very kind to him, offered him chocolates and window seat. The kind folks also asked me if I were his sister when I went to check on him. Wait, it gets better! When I said I was his mother, they laughed and said he had told them he had a seventeen year old sister so they assumed I was the sister. I thanked them for their kindness and beamed all the way to my seat next to Sean and relayed the story. He probably rolled his eyes, I don’t know. He was finally reading the book on Yosemite and making ambitious plans of tackling the celebrated Half Dome and for those of you wondering what is the big deal, why am I being snarky about it, here is some information from trusted source – Wikipedia.

Half Dome is a granite dome at the eastern end of Yosemite Valley in Yosemite National Park, California. It is a well-known rock formation in the park, named for its distinct shape. One side is a sheer face while the other three sides are smooth and round, making it appear like a dome cut in half. The granite crest rises more than 4,737 ft (1,444 m) above the valley floor.

My husband likes challenges and urges the family to do something daring. Thankfully, he knows me well and when I said I am NOT even thinking of setting my foot on that Half Dome, he knew not to push. I wanted to see Half Dome and I was willing to oooh aah over it, but from far! While I read The Fair Fight by Anna Freeman on the flight, Sean mapped out some trails that he thought will be fun and somewhat challenging for us all. I kept reminding him, without looking away from my book, to keep my physical abilities in mind and he kept reassuring me, without looking away from his book that I will be fine. I am stronger than I think I am. Cliches like that.

We landed in Sacramento quite late in the evening, went to get our rental car and drove towards our hotel. The road was dark, it was between large expanses of fields and we were somewhat disoriented. After we checked in to the hotel, the three of us, myself and my two children, discovered we were ravenous and needed food. We got back in our car and ended up in a McDonald half a block away. Sad but true, McDonald’s was our first food in the West Coast. It could only get better. The food was the same as any other McDonald but you must believe me when I say, the water was delicious. Yes, the water! So fresh and tasty! All I remember from that meal is the taste of water. Sean refused to eat food from McDonald so he went to bed hungry. The plan was to wake up, eat breakfast and then hit the road to our next destination – Yosemite National Park. Stay with me!