I Made It

The Girls are Ready to Party
in Costumes from Aunt Betsy

To quote Casablanca, I am shocked, shocked...I am 70 years old today. How did this happen? I know it’s trite, and every person before me, if they are lucky enough to live to 70, says exactly the same thing. Still, it is flabbergasting.

I am also grateful and amazed. I know I have good genes and a great environment. I work to take care of myself. Most of all, I’ve been lucky.

I haven't had the courage to read my mother's diaries because I don't know if I have the strength to know what she wrote when I was born, and my twin brother died. (At first I wrote, "my twin brother didn't live.") It wasn't a subject we ever talked about, so maybe it never happened. Maybe he didn't even exist, yet my birth certificate says he did.

Mom With Baby Shower Gifts  

Did my mother know she was carrying twins? Were they so enraptured with one baby (me) that the lost of an unexpected second one (him) just was a vague idea to be dismissed and forgotten?

To complicate matters, boys carry on family names. Until he died, my mother's father bemoaned his lack of a son to keep the family name alive. Now her only son didn't survive to bear his father's name. I never felt my father, an only child, cared that he was the last of his lineage, but it was a point of stress for my mother. Perhaps my father was less interested, because his father had changed his last name (Why he did is another mystery not talked about. We were already in America, so it wasn't a reaching-the-new-country renaming. Some intra-family feud?), so there are only eight of us in the family with it: grandpa and grandma, my dad and mother, my step-mother, my two sisters, and me.

I considered all this when I divorced. Married in 1969, of course I dropped my middle name and stuck on my husband's last name. Just a little too early and conservative to either keep my own name or have ours hyphenated, the latter becoming a royal pain for women at the beginning of the computer era when no one knew how to enter hyphenated names. After 14 years of being Mrs. S, but no longer married to Mr. S, I had to decide what my name would be. Should I return to my childhood name?

Pamela Jean Coe
December 20, 1955

But I wasn't that girl any more. Take a last name from one of my grandfathers and keep that lineage alive? But what about my grandmothers' last names? Do men always get to have the last word?

Another thought would be to make up a name like Judy Chicago and my friend Elaine Elle, who each decided on a last name she wanted for herself. I was enamored of this concept but not creative enough to choose one for myself. I ended up being Ms S, because my young daughter was Miss S. Who would think that, when she married, she would take her husband's name? She did, both times, and I am now the only S in my family. I've kept family names alive by using last names for my sons' first and middle names. I wonder what my mother would think.

A Sour Jdid at Rick’s Cafe
in Casablanca

In any case, I am lucky, lucky. We went out to eat at a local restaurant, and I proposed a toast to me. I know there aren't seventy more years, but as Grant said, "Here's looking at you, kid.

A Place For Us?

Clara and Me Now  

Our first time needing two cars because I was driving to Orlando for Grandparents Day, and Grant was heading to Fort Lauderdale to facilitate the men’s group. I rented from an allegedly low cost rental company, but with extra charges, it was not. Still much cheaper than having two cars. A story for another day.

Grandparents Day ended up being only a couple of hours so I had plenty of time to scout out the area of Windermere. The little downtown doesn’t have much of any stores, but it does have bike trails/sidewalks for miles. I could ride all the way from some new development to the library or several different parks. Lots of huge old oaks; nice landscaping, birds.

Clara and Me Then 

The main street is narrow and brick-paved with roundabouts. Side streets are natural sand. All this is deliberate to discourage thru traffic heading to I-4 and Disney.  Because there are lakes on both sides of this narrow corridor, old Windermere cannot grow any larger. Very Key Biscayne. I like it. And like KB, pricey houses.

I really like that we would be so close to Clara. Being able to stop by her volleyball games, not driving four hours up the turnpike. Priceless. Maybe we should take her up on her offer to come and live with her when our lease runs out.

Music Class  

Another Worry

Tour Guide Hicham with 107-Year-Old Man 

MCI, Minor Cognitive Impairment, is my latest worry. As we age, our brains shrink and work less well. Perhaps we even become demented. MCI is a measure that a brain is aging faster than its body. I don't think either Grant or I have it, but then, would we know?

Of course, the suggested actions to prevent, slow down, maybe even reverse MCI are the war horses of eat less, exercise more. Why can't it ever be sit on the couch and eat potato chips?

We met a man in Morocco who claimed he was 107 years old. Each day he walks with his donkey up the mountain trail to sell herbs to tourists and locals. He was in great shape and sharp of mind. I have my doubts about his claim of being born in 1912, but could be true. He's not worried about MCI.

Since we aren't likely to follow in his footsteps, it's back on the diet and bike riding program. We came home at peak weight, and I am resisting ordering XL pants to replace my lost ones. All my clothes fit better if I'm about 10 pounds lighter. And now it seems my brain would benefit too. Rats.

Moroccan Cooked Veg Salad 

The suggestion is the MIND diet, a blend of Mediterranean and Dash diets, with emphasis on whole grains, berries, green leafy veggies, olive oil, poultry, and fish. That all sounds good. Not as much fun is the lack of sugar, fat, and alcohol.

Grant has been trying Moroccan cooking, and many of the dishes actually meet the MIND requirements, so maybe we will enjoy living to an old age with our brains intact.

Disoriented

Marrakech Medina 

We both still startle awake and momentarily don't know where we are. I think partially because of remnants of time-zone mismatch and some because the images of Morocco are floating through our minds. Such a strange, beautiful, foreign place. I am dealing with winnowing the hundreds of pictures we took down to a manageable few. First all uploaded to the cloud, then narrowed down to a slide show and coffee-table book.

Earrings My Sister Betsy Gave Me  

I am also dealing with claims for my lost luggage. Trip insurance, credit card benefit and airline responsibility all potentially going to reimburse me. Getting the paperwork done is tedious. Iberia Airlines does not seem to have an online claim form, so I filed a request for assistance from them, to which they emailed that they would analyse my request and respond in 21 business days or less. Until then, I'm trying to remember what I had in my suitcase. Thank goodness I didn't throw in my kiwi earrings at the last minute like I had intended.

When I packed, I thought about taking a picture of the suitcase and its contents. Thought, didn't do. I also thought about sharing our clothes between our two suitcases, just in case one got lost. Also thought, didn't do. One would think a person of my age could learn from other travelers' tips.

Perhaps just having enough to fit in a carry-on bag is the answer. I certainly did fine with the few clothes I had. And always tuck extra underwear in my purse.

Everything Costs Something

Al Haour On The Way to Marrakesh 

 As I understand it, traditional Moroccan life centers literally and figuratively around a mosque. Five times a day, the call to prayer is broadcast from the minaret. The men stop what they are doing and gather at the mosque to pray. That boggled my mind. Five times a day, the men got together. That builds community. The women are more separated, however they use communal ovens to bake bread, and our guide Hicham told us that every village had a spot where they met daily to sit and chat.

Village Near Ouarzazate  

Pre-electricity, back when the muezzin actually had to climb to the top of the of the minaret and shout out the call to prayer, villages had a natural radius of how far the human voice can carry. Once that limit was met, a site for the next mosque was chosen, and a new village grew around it. Repeat, repeat, and the country is covered in small villages with a minaret sticking up in the center. Hicham said each village was about 200 homes.

Now the calls are amplified, with no particular concern of the aesthetics of black loudspeakers attached to ancient tiled minarets. Easier on the muezzin I guess, but fairly jarring when we were in larger towns with mosques every few blocks. Competing voices slightly out of sync.

Outside of Casablanca  

Can this small village model translate into modern life? As we drove from Casablanca, I saw groups of high-rise apartments, bedroom communities for city workers. Built by companies speculating on growth, there are still central mosques, but not communal ovens for women to gather at, not groups of men who meet five times a day.

How do you build community in condos? In my experience, horizontal communities lend themselves to meeting neighbors; vertical ones do not. Walking around a neighborhood, with or without a dog, gives us chances to interact. Elevator rides encourage silence. With the exception of the condo president, I do not know the name of anyone in our building. Even the members' meetings are handled by video calls.

On the other hand, living in our little apartment has been easier than dealing with a house and yard and perhaps more economical. Our monthly electric bill is averaging $55.00 ($29.52 while we were traveling!), and since we are renting, no internet, garbage, or water bills. Ditto property tax, and our property insurance was $800 rather than $1,800, which didn't even include wind or flood coverage. The monetary downside is that we are paying $2,250/month rent and not building equity. Now that I have 6 months of expenses, I think I can figure the monetary cost/benefit of renting versus buying. We have until December 31, 2020 to claim our homestead exemption and the portability of our low house valuation.

Should we look at small villages of about 200 homes? A couple on our Moroccan trip live in one in Oregon that was designed especially to facilitate community. Perhaps we can find something like that in Florida. Not at the Villages, which currently has 122,460 people living there, but maybe a townhouse community within a larger town. There wouldn't be a central mosque, but with a pool that calls to me.

We Are Home

My Chopper and Bowl  

Oh, my goodness, the mildew. After the dryness of the desert, we came home to my beloved humidity and our apartment covered in mildew. Every surface was green. Shoes, toilet seats, counter tops, knife block, all covered in mildew. Our clean pillowcases were spotted with mildew; the pillows inside them ruined and now in the dumpster. What a mess.

We had left the balcony doors open so Annie could enjoy the sunshine. I guess even though the bedrooms' windows were open, there wasn't enough cross-ventilation.

I found some decent pillows, and we crashed. I'll deal with the rest tomorrow.

Madrid Again

In the Cellar at Sobrino de Botín  

On line, the only reservations I could get at Sobrino de Botín was for late lunch on the day we flew back from Morocco. I booked it, but knew not a prayer of our making that, so while we were in Madrid, we walked over to the restaurant to ask about possibly changing times. “Sí, señora”, if we could come at the early time of 8:00 PM, right when the restaurant opens for the dinner meal. Absolutely. And as long as I was pushing my good luck, could we possible sit in the cellar, which Anna’s brother Jose said was the most fun. Another “Sí”, and we were set. 

 Botín, founded in 1725, claims to be the oldest restaurant in the world in continuous operation. At least the Guinness World Book of Records has awarded it that title. Goya worked as a waiter there, Ernest Hemingway ate there. A must do while in Madrid. 

Suckling Pig with Brussel Sprouts 

We were one of the first tables seated, but the restaurant filled quickly, with locals and tourists.  Of course we had its famous suckling pig and a bottle of their house wine. Absolutely delicious. 

The stairs to the cellar were so treacherous, we didn’t dare an after dinner drink. And of course the tiny bathroom was on the second floor. I tried to celebrate that my Merle boots gave me good support, rather than miss my black heels I’d packed for special occasions like this. 

We caught the subway back to our hotel near the airport. Splendid evening, splendid trip. 

Good, Bad, Ugly

Secluded Garden  

The good of our Moroccan trip was our terrific OAT guide Hicham, who showed us his country with deserved pride, the lovely people we met because of OAT, the amazing food, and the varied scenery.

The bad was my suitcase never arriving from Madrid, so I had to buy clothes, which is trying in the best of times, much less in a Muslim country where, although fairly liberal, women wear long sleeves, no matter the temperature. Definitely not my style, nor the weight of clothes I need at home. I'm tall so the pants looked like capris, and the stores in the mall were full of the latest winter wear. I managed to find a pair of polyester pants and a long sweater, just in case the desert was cold. Those, plus a probably unauthorized AC/DC 1981 tour T-shirt I bought at a teen store, another T-shirt from the modern art museum in Rabat, and some underwear, rounded out my clothes. The frump-o-meter was spinning. I definitely learned I can travel with a lot fewer clothes than I had packed. I donated the unworn sweater to a women’s association in Marrakesh. The rest plus the skirt and blouse I had on when we flew to Morocco may be ritually burned when I get home.

One of My 2 Outfits 

The ugly was getting pink eye in not just one, but both eyes, half way through the trip. I couldn’t be satisfied with a bad cold and sore throat. No, I added pink eye. By the last day, two more tour members had caught it, and several more were looking possible. Fortunately, in Morocco, I could go to the nearby pharmacy and get OTC antibiotic eye drops without a prescription. Easy, peasy. I speak no French, and the pharmacist spoke no English, but after taking one look at my weeping right eye, she immediately knew what I needed. Back at the hotel, I consulted with the three doctors in our group about using the drops. Interestingly, the two internists were more cautious than the oncologist. I wonder if that's from the type of patient they saw in their practices. After waiting 24 hours at the suggestion of the internists, and my natural inclination, with my left eye now crusty, I began using the drops. I didn't dare ask what else could go wrong and temp the fates to answer.