One Consequence of Aging

Women over the age of 55 are familiar with physiological changes that have occurred.  All we have to do is look in the mirror.  I want to vent about the consequences of one of these changes.

My bladder has fallen!   In addition to my fallen boobs, uterus, forehead (see previous post on 4/10/11), and skin over my top lip (gathered into attractive creases), the bladder is the last straw.  But it fell before the rest.

My bladder fell when I had my first child by natural childbirth - a beautiful son, almost nine pounds, and twenty-four inches long!  He is now six feet three inches and does not ever want to be reminded that he caused this predicament.  My second son followed sixteen months later, also by natural childbirth.  But he was off the hook, since my bladder had already fallen.

I don't know where it went, except downward.  It causes a need to use the women's room more frequently than I'd like.  Especially during the night!

A doctor actually tested my bladder to determine whether I have spasms or a chronic condition.   I have decided against surgery and Detrol medication.  I already pop five vitamins, a soy supplement, fish oil, calcium, and a cholesterol medication in my mouth daily.

I have given up high-impact aerobics.  As long as I know where the nearest women's room is, I have no need to wear special underwear.

So I am now a good judge of efficient, attractive women's rooms.  In convenient and not-so-convenient locations!  Especially when travelling.

When we were recently in South Africa, we took a seven-hour bus trip from Johannesburg to our destination at the game preserve near Kruger Park.  I never pass up a toilet, and had been forewarned before we left that we would not be stopping for four hours.  I had no juice that morning, and only a half-cup of coffee. Our guide had told us to use a toilet (the size of a pail) in the middle of the bus, with a bi fold door, if  we felt the need.  No lady in her right mind would bend over into a pretzel to sit on that thing, surrounded by the rest of the group.  I made it to the first rest stop.  One of our ladies, nearly eighty, did not.

There are always lines outside ladies' rooms.  Women in need all know that we will plow down any man ahead of us for the men's room, if there is a line for the women's.  Another of us is always ready to stand guard.  Or not.

Charley and I drive from Massachusetts to Florida and back semi-annually.  He knows I cannot sit for more than three hours.  He no longer complains, since his prostate is at the age when he has to stop at least as frequently as I do.

Once I reach the stall, there is the problem of where to put a purse.  I no longer hang it on a door hook, if the hook is reachable over the top.  I have personally had a purse stolen when someone lurked outside the stall at a rest stop on Route 95 in Florida.  By screaming at the top of my lungs, "Someone stole my purse!" and exiting immediately to search for the culprit (holding my pants up), I was able to find my bag behind the toilet of the next stall, intact!  The best bet is to lock a purse in your vehicle and enter unadorned.

Once I make it to the toilet, I must remove a paper toilet seat cover from its container and place it on the seat.  It often falls sideways into the toilet, hanging so that only one cheek of my buttocks will be spared others' germs.  If I am in a hurry, I balance on that cheek.  Otherwise, I start over.

Then there is the matter of the toilet paper holder.  After I have sat down, I glance to my side and invariably discover there is no paper left.  So I try to slide the spare roll into position in the metal holder.  I have ended up with cut fingers attempting this.

The flush mechanism can be another problem on public toilets.  Chrome bars that stick out to the side are easiest, if you can raise your foot to that level and kick downward.  God forbid you touch the thing!  Many toilets flush automatically, but in the event they don't, you must search for a small button on the back wall.  Sometimes the button is black and obvious.  Sometimes, it's chrome and blends into the plumbing mechanism.  If you are lucky enough to locate the button, it may be recessed too far to allow your finger to press it.  Then it's time to bail out.

There have been very few times in my life when I wished I were a man.  Childbirth was one (two), and anytime I ran for the women's room was another.

The Boys Farmer's Market, Delray Beach, Florida

Prerequisites to Shop at The Boys:

1. Yoga meditation, to obtain a state of Nirvana before entering.

2. Steel-toed construction shoes (absolutely NO flip-flops or sandals) to prevent
your toes from getting crushed.

3. A large steel grocery cart (bring your own, if possible) to act as a buffer between your shins and the senior citizens (in town from N.Y. and hunting for quality for pennies) who use theirs as bumper cars. This will also allow you
to block the itsy-bitsy aisles so you won't have to try to pass the market's
mini-carts left helter-skelter wherever there is a free sample.

4. An appreciation of the martial arts, since you might catch FREE OF CHARGE a fist fight between a driver waiting for someone to back out and a newcomer who outhustles him for the same space.

5. Infinite patience with the cashiers, who have been trained in hand-to-hand combat and supercilious attitudes.

6. A translator to understand the myriad food samples the Mexican employees offer you inside.

7. A book of N.Y. slang expressions (with phonemes, if possible). If the visiting seniors TELL you to move your cart over, you will be able to understand them to give an appropriate reply.

8. An IPOD so you can disregard the previous item.

The Boys Farmer's Market is a permanent structure with year-round indoor market. It's been open since 1988, when the father from (guess where?) New York City chose the location. The sons have continued the operation, while next-door, The Girls Strawberry Patch (the daughters?) sells gifts and allows picking. At least the rows of strawberries are maneuverable there!

If you should survive the parking lot (do NOT park near the entrance!), you enter a space where 350 people are crammed into what should hold 100. It's a maze. To the right is the bakery, with mile-high cakes and pies, though no bargain! If you are tempted by a slice of their famous raisin walnut bread, you must pull your cart off to the side to sidle over to inspect. Suddenly you feel your elbow jostled and a white-haired couple wedges in front of you to shout their order to the clerk, who is still wrapping a dozen eclairs. Why are these retirees in such a rush? I'm a retired senior citizen, too! Where do they have to go but home, to reheat the prepared meals they'll pick up here - if they get through the one-way maze to the rear of the store?

BEST cheese, tomatoes, fresh-cut fruits, lamb, steaks, international foods, and killer fresh-squeezed juice!! But if there's a deal that seems too good to be true, check the expiration date. The package may expire in two days!

If you succeed, without bleeding shins, in reaching the lettuces at the far end of the maze, you begin to congratulate yourself. The golden fleece (cashier's counter) is within sight! But not so fast! You have now entered The Twilight Zone, where shoppers take on strange personalities.

At the end of each produce aisle is a five-foot open space before cashiers' counters begin. In this space, produce shoppers are making the turn to get down the next aisle. It is also the space where The Smugs (those who have finished) have taken up residence. Since there is only room for three mini-carts in each check-out line, The Smugs spill into each other, while the unfortunates still shopping must cut through them to the next aisle.

Choosing the right check-out line is crucial! You must count the number of items in both carts ahead of you and judge if the shoppers look intelligent (will pay rapidly) and can speak English. There is no retreat and no turning around!

On my last venture to The Boys (six months ago), a shopper had placed all her items on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a hand flew over her mouth. "I forgot the wine from Argentina," she said and somehow managed to wedge herself out of the line to run off.

The Smug behind her (in front of me) spewed Italian. "Santa Maria! Non e possible!" She made rapid hand gestures and got louder and louder.

I was the last of the three in the line. There was no room to turn around to join another. The line for the next register was at my hip. I smiled sweetly at the Italian and shrugged my shoulders. I prayed the Argentinian wine was in stock!

The cashier glared at the inconsiderate shopper when she returned. "You have held up my line!" she lectured. "Next time, bring a list and a pencil!"

"That won't help," I blurted out. "You'll get run over if you try to read it!"

Railroad Sleeping Compartment, NOW

I'd been forewarned about not sleeping on the Amtrak Autotrain. My parents had used it to travel to Florida after purchasing their home in Boynton Beach. They made it known that they hadn't slept a wink because of the racket of the "clickety-clack." I'd dismissed their complaint because they never fell asleep on the first night in any bed that wasn't in their own bedroom. Besides, I knew if Dad removed his hearing aides, he wouldn't hear the train's whistle, let alone the "clickety-clack."

A tennis friend of ours had described lying in the top bunk of the Autotrain as being in a tanning bed with the lid closed twelve inches over her head. Unable to sit up to get down the ladder to the toilet, she and her husband ended up buying TWO sleeper compartments. That way, they both had the wide bottom berths and could get eight hours each.

To travel north from Florida for Christmas 2011, I purchased sleeper tickets IN A PRIVATE COMPARTMENT on the Autotrain. I hoped for better results than the "couchette" on the Orient Express back in the '80's. At least I could speak the language when I got the tickets! We piled gifts for our grandchildren in the rear of the SUV.

I envisioned slithering on my belly, wormlike, into my bunk, if I were above Charley. There was always the option of buying a reclining seat. If we slept upright, I'd probably emerge in the morning bent over looking at the floor, with my already dislocated disc lodged into my hipbone.

We pulled into the Sanford, Florida, train station three hours before departure and were greeted with precise efficiency. Attendants assigned our car a number and tried to take our key. Before Charley would hand it over, however, he wanted the attendant to understand how to disable the SUV alarm system, in the event the train swayed and set it off. He had actually practiced doing this in our garage, and when he thought he was unsuccessful, he sent me hustling off to the dealer (after all, it was my car, and I should know how to do this!) for a demonstration.

The attendants were used to customers like us (over sixty, with many instructions). "No problem, sir," one assured Charley. "The car will never be locked and the driver's window will remain open. We have completely enclosed car carriers. Next vehicle, please!"

Ninety minutes before departure, a steward carried our small suitcases up the stairs on the designated car into our compartment. He slid the door aside and lo! It would be just the two of us! Nothing smelled! There was a reading chair, toilet with shower (we'd have to stand in the toilet to use it), sink, and small luggage rack. Also lots of towels, washcloths, Kleenex, soap, lotion. Tim, the steward, informed us there would be two seatings for dinner, and what time should he make our bunks up?

Well, it wasn't gourmet food, but the menu had several choices and the wine kept flowing! Yes, there were linen and silver and lots of gooey desserts. We stayed with our dinner companions till the dining room closed.

Tim had made up our bunks with sheets, blankets, and pillows. Most people brought their own pillows, but I hadn't thought of that. Not a problem - the Amtrak pillow wasn't too high or too squishy or too lumpy (hypoallergenic, I'm sure). The lower berth was about one and a half times wider than the upper. Guess who would be climbing the four-step ladder?

My biggest concern was getting down in the dark to use the toilet. There was no way I could last through the night! "Just wake me up," Charley said, "and I'll help you down the ladder." I envisioned kicking him in the face, since he wouldn't have his glasses on, couldn't see a thing without them, and the ladder was next to his pillow. My strategy would be to read as late as possible and use the facility just before I fell asleep.

I ascended and was actually able to crawl on all fours to a prone position. On the wall next to me was a pouch for my glasses, book, and a bottle of water (provided). Above our heads were reading lights. A net would prevent my rolling off. Charley and I both swallowed sleeping pills.

I only got up once during the night, aided not by Charley, but by the light of an overhead lamp we'd left on. Charley never moved - reminded me of a certain German passenger on another overnight train!

At 6:30 a.m., a loudspeaker announced there would be three early calls for continental breakfast. We would be pulling into Lorton, Virginia (our destination), about two hours early, by 7:30 a.m. The station didn't open till 8:00. De-boarding the cars would take at least forty-five minutes, depending on one's car number. Ours was high.

We were all in the lounge of the station by 8:00. Our car was one of the last of the 185 off the train at 9:30. There had been a total of 350 passengers aboard; the train itself had been three-quarters of a mile long.

Difference between a "couchette" and a private sleeping compartment? Two extra people and some obnoxious odors!

Railroad Sleeping Compartments, THEN

In the early '80's, Charley and I skied in St. Anton, Austria, then lugged our equipment by rail back to Munich. At the train station there, we decided to do something exotic - travel overnight on the original, mysterious Orient Express to Paris (originating in Istanbul).

We envisioned red velvet swags and wooden panelled hallways, as well as a dining car with linen tablecloths laden with silver. After all, we'd seen and read Murder on the Orient Express! First we had to purchase our tickets - in German!

Not understanding anything except "Ja" and "Nein," I negotiated with the ticket agent in French. Which I hadn't spoken since college. When I heard, "Couchette," I figured I'd heard enough and slid my marks under the glass to the agent. I knew it would be some kind of sleeping berths for Charley and me.

We stacked our boots and small suitcases on luggage carts and hoisted the skis and poles in their zippered cases onto our shoulders. In order to get everything up onto the proper car, we formed an assembly line. The equipment stayed on the metal landing between cars till we found our numbered compartment.

We bumped our way down the panelled hallway and with great anticipation, slid back the door to our "couchette."

"Oh my God! What is that smell?" Charley yelled. Since his nose had been broken twice in college football games, I knew it had to be bad.

A man lay snoring in the top berth. He had obviously had his fill of German beer, wursts, schnitzel, and sauerkraut, since he continued to expel gas as we stood there. We looked at the "couchette." Under our snoring mate was another berth, and opposite him were our two. So much for the fantasy romance!

Charley and I tried to pry the window open, each of us grabbing a side. "Damn! How are we going to sleep? And where are we going to put our stuff? There are no luggage racks!" I was ranting.

"Right on the floor where we're standing," my pragmatic husband answered. We got our toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and deoderant out, then slid the two small suitcases under Charley's lower bunk. Next we retrieved our skis, boots, and poles. There was no place to stand in our compartment, except on our equipment. As our mate continued snoring, we headed to the bar car. We passed the red velvet drapes and silver place settings, reserved for those with PRIVATE sleeping compartments. We sat up and drank, munching on peanuts and pretzels.

When we couldn't hold our eyes open, we made a pit stop down the hall to the toilet and sink and went back to our "couchette." I climbed the ladder and was happy I had a few drinks in me and the bunk had a net, in case I rolled off. The room still stunk and the German still snored and farted.

At the only stop during the night, a Frenchman got on to complete our foursome. Sliding back the door, he yelled, "Nom de Dieu!" and immediately headed for the window, stumbling on our skis and poles. When he, too, failed with the window, he took off. We never saw him again.

We pulled into Paris by 7 a.m. and left the German in the same position, doing the same thing! Next time I booked a sleeping compartment in a foreign country, I vowed to use a traveller's dictionary.

Home for Xmas...Even in a Hotel

I love the concept of Christmas! Without examining religious implications, I start singing Christmas music along with the radio the day after Thanksgiving. I love the energy of the season, and appreciate others' efforts to make things beautiful and meaningful.

I love the crass commercialism, too, if it means I can find perfect gifts for loved ones (besides, it helps the economy, right?). I love having a daughter-in-law text to say she can't wait to see her twin eighteen-month nephews open their inflatable, punchable football players. I love having a son call to ask advice on earrings for his wife. Everyone's trying to make someone else happy.

Since our Massachusetts home could accommodate everyone (immediate family now eleven), as well as an in-law or two, I used to leave Florida three weeks early to begin decorating, baking, and shopping. Charley begged to stay in the warm weather till two weeks later, when I needed him as a "gofer." He'd cut the holly and evergreen boughs, string outdoor lights, help me put up the tree, and "go for" anything I needed. As the former owner of an interior design company, I wouldn't miss the house tours in Providence or store windows in Boston.

Christmas Eve we'd all visit friends in R.I., where our sons grew up, and then my husband's family (an Irish clan). Christmas Day, my daughter-in-law's mother brought her recipes, which we prepared together. The holiday was exhausting but provided memories of a two-year-old granddaughter returning again and again to gaze up at the illuminated angel swinging slowly back and forth at the top of the tree; or our satiated son with his hand on his pregnant wife's belly as we all watched "The Christmas Story" together.

Several years ago, after carolling in a horse-drawn sleigh with 20-degree temperatures and a 15 mph wind, Charley declared he didn't want to return to open our home in Massachusetts for the holiday. So the family came to Florida twice; then we alternated between our sons' homes for two years. Due to time constraints for work, as well as travel with twin eighteen-month-olds and three granddaughters under seven, we decided to meet this year at a hotel between our two sons' families.

I hit the internet in August. We had a lot of requirements: a suite big enough for a small tree and gift-opening on Xmas morning; a pool for the kids to swim; rooms with sofa beds for the granddaughters (plus two cribs); decent restaurant(s) in-house or close by.

I traded in a lot of "Frequent Flier" and "Frequent Guest" points and we ended up in...

White Plains, New York!

I wasn't expecting much...

But it was PERFECT!

Eighteen-month Jeffrey laughed hysterically as he splashed me in the pool. Our youngest granddaughter, Ashley, had her first sleepover, nestled against cousin Devon. Arden and Ashley, hand-in-hand next to us, wore antler headpieces across Main Street and stopped pedestrians. The boys dressed in buttondowns with red sweater vests and the girls in embroidered or plaid dresses with ribbons in their hair for dinner and photos. Both twins ran away from Santa in different directions after grabbing small gifts from him. The hotel provided gingerbread cookies to decorate with icings and sprinkles, as well as aprons. Uncles, aunts, granny, and grandpa read The Grinch Stole Christmas for the 100th time and cuddled to watch "Barbie the Snow Princess." We stole a million kisses and hugs, and gave way too many horsey and piggy-back rides for our backs!

On Dec. 24th, granddaughter Arden said to me, "This is the bestest day ever! We get to stay in a fancy hotel, swim all morning, go to Build-A-Bear in the afternoon, and Santa comes tonight!

Wherever we all are, we are home for Christmas.

And to all, a good night... and a very healthy, happy 2012!

(Follow my next two blogs about overnight train travel.)

Our Safari Guide

Our guide every day in Thornybush Game Preserve (25,000 acres next to Kruger Park, South Africa) was Werner Pretorius. When I first heard his name, it sounded Roman to me. But we were in South Africa, so I asked him a far-fetched question. "Are you a descendant of one of the founders of Pretoria?" I didn't really anticipate his answer.

"My father and his brothers have traced their heritage back that far, yes," Werner answered in his quiet voice.

Although Orlando, our tracker, sat exposed on a small iron seat above the left headlight, Werner was THE MAN! A rifle rested securely in its open case on the dashboard in front of him, for an emergency. Werner steered our eight-person, tiered vehicle through ravines, across trees ravaged by elephants, and over twelve-foot saplings to catch glimpses of "the big five" up-close and personal. And we did - day after day! He manned the two-way radio, directing other guides in Afrikaans to rendez-vous at our locations. Then he'd switch to German to suit visitors in a passing jeep or to English for us. He had passed advanced courses as an astronomer, a naturalist, a marksman, and solo guide on foot. He was twenty-five.

Charley took a personal interest in young Werner. He peppered him with questions during our four-hour forays into the bush twice daily. Maybe it was his fatherly image - who knows? - but they bantered easily together and Werner liked Charley enough to answer.

"My father is a farmer outside Pretoria," he told us. "It's a very large farm - hundreds of thousands of acres. I hope to take it over some day."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Charley finally got around to asking.

"Yes, she's a civil servant in Pretoria. I think she's the one I'll marry some day," Werner confided.

"If you move near her, will you still be a guide? You're so good at what you do, and you certainly enjoy being in the bush."

"Probably for a while. There's a problem with my taking over the farm. My father has several brothers who also own it."

"So you're working as a guide to save some good money?"

"Right! Then I'll ask her to marry me, and maybe one day I'll have my own farm."

The next day, Charley followed up. "Have you thought about when you'll propose?"

"Yes, soon."

Werner sat with us every evening for dinner. The third evening, Charley persisted over a couple of beers. "When is soon?"

"Very soon," was Werner's only response.

Our last day on safari, Charley needed a more definitive answer. "When is 'very soon?'"

"Maybe by the end of the year. She's already decided to leave government service to train in pre-school education. She could open her own pre-school anywhere."

"Sounds as though she's making plans," Charley commented. "I guess that means you'd better pop the question. I hope you tell her you met a guy named Charley who wanted to know exactly when this blessed event is going to happen!" he added, laughing. "Maybe she'll send us an invitation and thank me in person."

Disparities in Soweto

It was embarassing! We arrived in Soweto, Johannesburg, inside a steel, air-conditioned fortress - fourteen white faces peering out the windows of a bus, while black faces peered back at us. We sat in comfort, driving past a mile of squatter camps and corrugated iron shanties (with t.v. dishes). Then we ventured into the heart of the 'hood.

"Soweto": an acronym for "South Western Townships," a cluster of townships sprawling across 20 kilometers southwest of Johannesburg. It was established in 1904 (Klipspruit - oldest township)as primary residence for black day-laborers in the City. Soweto burgeoned when migrants moved in. In the '50's it became a relocation center for blacks under apartheid, when the government reserved inner-city neighborhoods for whites. Census 2001 put Soweto's population at close to a million. That census will soon be redone in 2012. Whites will self-enumerate; census-takers will have to track down those living in rented rooms cemented onto legal residences, in tin shacks, or nowhere ("Kwerekwere" is a term for those who have immigrated illegally across national park boundaries and probably cannot be found).

Soweto: vibrant, colorful, sexist, dangerous, juxtaposing differences. Piles of garbage and pitted roads offset green fields, rustic streams, and luxurious mansions (i.e., Winnie Mandela's three-story fortress behind barbed wire, though she no longer lives there). Brown or gray four-room dwellings (the original migrant "matchbox houses") exhibited flowers along the front walk. A "shebeen" or local drinking joint neighbored Nelson Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's original residences on Vilakazi Street.

Soweto: Site of the 1976 Student Uprising, commemorated in Freedom Square. This spark ignited an entire country to overthrow the apartheid state.

We ventured out of the bus and began walking. Directly in front of us was a busy barbershop. Plastic sheets covered the sides of a 10'x10' structure. The back wall was half cement block and half iron fence. Razors hung from metal supports, with extension cords running to an unknown electric source outside. We asked permission to take a photo. No hostile faces reacted to our request - just curious ones, like us.

There were arrangements to eat lunch in a private home/restaurant there. Our hostess was a star in Soweto - a cook whose meals became so famous she won a government grant to take courses in Business. She had become a leading entrepreneur in the Soweto community and a role model for businesses in the home.

In the front room we helped ourselves to a sumptuous buffet of hot meats, vegetables, and Papa. On the walls hung the proprietor's awards and degrees, while to the side her husband stood eating on a built-in counter. Behind was the kitchen. In back of the house was an open area, then newly-constructed men's and women's toilets.

We sat in the double-length renovated garage at long tables, while uniformed family members served us drinks, cleared our plates, and brought desserts. Our table of travellers had a few beers and relaxed, while two of our group described an enrichment course they were taking together in California.

"We pick the topic for the semester ourselves, and the topic this term is 'The Popes,'" Nancy explained. "Each of us researches a Pope, writes a paper, and presents our findings to the class."

"What's been the most interesting Pope so far?" someone asked.

"It was Pope _______, who turned out to be a woman!" Myrna said.

"A woman??" we all wanted to know.

"Did they have to turn the chimney smoke from gray to pink?"

"How did they figure out he was a woman?" The jesting began.

"Well, after that they had to test each Pope to make sure," Nancy continued.

"How did they test?" my dear husband asked. "Did someone have to reach up under the robes?" Charley raised his right hand and motioned as if he were changing a light bulb!

No answer, amid the laughter.

"And who did the testing?" Charley continued. "The unlucky bastard!"

"The head Cardinal has to do it, even today," Nancy explained. By this time, we were laughing so hard, we had discontinued all eating and drinking.

When we regained our composure, we thanked our hostess outside. I snapped a photo of three local children in front of the house. One of them had severely crossed eyes. That snapped me back to reality. Still in Soweto.

We walked a couple of streets over and began a ritual that has, apparently, become protocol for tour groups in Soweto. Since the democratic government spearheaded a movement to develop parks and provide electricity and running water in the townships, its funds are depleting to do so, with 25% unemployment in the country. So tour groups help. We planted a sapling that we had brought in the bus. Two local men provided the shovels and chiseled away the rocks in the red clay, then watered with buckets. Each of us shovelled dirt onto the tree. The local children joined in, some in shoes, others barefoot.

Mrs. Kekana, the owner of the house, watched with interest. Behind her the high cement wall surrounding her dwelling was littered with drying laundry. "Did you know you had been chosen for this?" I asked her.

"Yes, someone came to the door one day and said they would like to plant a tree here! I don't know why it was me."

I asked her if the clothes that were drying were for her family. "Yes, they are for all my children and grandchildren." I suspected that she, like so many others, ran a very successful business out of her home.

We walked back and re-entered our bus. Our afternoon had been a peek - a very whitewashed peek - into a disparate lifestyle. I thought of the hardships and atrocities we hadn't seen, described by white author Steven Otter living in Khayelitsha, a black township outside CapeTown. I was grateful for the air-conditioning, among other things.