I am caught in a time warp. This strange, little town from which I hail seems to have grasped onto the 80s and never let go. Hair styles, clothing, and the background music in all the area businesses point to this fact. It’s a place where everything is different but nothing has changed.
It’s been a peculiar experience to spend an extended period of time here and to view the behaviors and attitudes I’d left behind some 20 years ago.
First, there is the food.
I have been astounded by the growth of the population here, and I’m not talking about numbers, but size. While I’ve read articles about the obesity epidemic in America, and New Mexico is certainly not without her share, it seems that the majority of the population here is unhealthily, sadly overweight. It’s no wonder when one realizes what the normal diet is. The dining choices in this town of about 6,000 souls consist of no less than five pizza joints (who do not serve up thin-crusted Italian pizza but heavily-cheesed, greasy behemoths with crusts as thick as a shoebox, the resulting taste somewhat like the contents of a shoebox but greasier and less nourishing). The other options are primarily deep-fried, barbecue, and fast food junk. Fresh perch, pulled from nearby Lake Erie would be a healthful choice, but in these parts it can be served only by breading and deep-frying it (I think there must be a State law governing that presentation); your choice is, “do you want it on a bun or on a plate?” Globs of tartar sauce are to be anticipated with either choice.
The grocery stores are not much better. Most of the produce is pre-wrapped and seems a couple minutes away from rotting. The emphasis is heavily weighted toward packaged and canned and frozen…er, stuff (I hesitate to call it food). Nary a whole grain is to be found in the tri-county area. Organics are frowned upon. And don’t even think about finding ethnic ingredients, the mere mention of which will bring about a diatribe about illegal immigration.
And so, to go grocery shopping we must make the trip to Cleveland, an hour distant. There we revel in the West Side Market experience and find a better selection of meats and some organic produce. We found a small locally-owned health food market on the west side of the city, as well as a Trader Joe’s. There we indulge in restaurants serving Japanese or Lebanese or Thai fare. But it’s the idea…an hour to find edible food? Something that can be truly called food, to give nutrition and taste? In the heart of America’s farm country?! What gives?
And then there is the matter of exercise. One is extremely careful to not move one’s limbs in a manner that might exert oneself in any form. Walking elicits bold-faced stares, as we’ve discovered when we have (gasp!) walked from my parent’s loft on Main Street three whole blocks to the (so-called) grocery store. Oh the folly! The local inhabitants will sit in their cars at the drive-thru window of the ice cream joint rather than park and walk about 15 feet to the building, though service is faster at the walk-up window. When Bryan was out running yesterday morning, some good ol' boys driving by leaned out the window and mocked him, yelling, "Run Forrest, run!"
Then there is the ambiance. Many of the storefronts on Main Street are empty, given up in favor of the mall, strip centers, and big box stores in Sandusky, a half-hour away. Main Street has been largely given over to the semi-trucks that rumble down it on the US route bisecting the town. People don’t seem to take any interest in civic life, in maintaining a sense of community, or fostering local businesses. My parents, God love them, are endeavoring to drum up some type of downtown renaissance, and I wish them well though I fear they face an arduous, uphill battle and will be none too appreciated for their efforts. Apathy runs rampant here, but at least someone is trying. It's sad; many of the old brick and stone buildings are historical and pretty, and downtown could be quaint. Instead, it's practically deserted of life and devoid of charm.
Another problem about hanging around here is anonymity, or lack thereof. It’s a small place and everyone immediately knew of our presence about 10 minutes after our arrival. The two main gossip hubs – the coffee shop and the barber shop – are located downstairs from my parents’ loft. The occupants of these establishments quickly disseminated the news about out-of-staters taking up residence upstairs. And not only does everyone know we’re here, but everyone knows my mom. Everyone. This was a major crimp on my life when I was a teenager. I could get away with virtually nothing. Any activity or attempted misdeeds on my part would reach my mother’s ears before I’d even arrived home for the night. Nothing has changed. Everyone still knows my mom, and everyone still sees and hears about everything that goes on here.
We lived in a village in New Mexico with roughly the same population as this town, and the contrast is striking. It is also depressing. The delay in our dream has us temporarily stranded in this strange little place where everyday feels like a Twilight Zone episode. I can hear Rod Sterling: “A couple arrives in a dingy, small Midwestern town where time stands still. Can they escape?”
The wheels of bureaucracy are turning slowly, inching us closer to Italy. I know we’ll get there. We are motivated; we really, really want to live in Italy. And we really, really don’t want to stay here much longer.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Mean People
After a tedious drive across the country, all I wanted to do was relax and visit with family. We arrived near Chicago at my sister-in-law's home to a warm welcome and the promise of a massage for my car-confined aching muscles. Then the dreadful news. After several calls to the Los Angeles Consulate to check the status of our visa application, we were hit the stomach-dropping blow...our application was being returned. We were shocked. The pencil-pusher on the phone would give no additional details but seemed to delight in telling us we'd have to wait for the packet to arrive with the letter explaining the denial. Days and more miles passed.
With legalese, the letter stated that we submitted an incorrect form, thus not proving "adequate" evidence of housing arrangements. We had also included details of our enrollment in a three-week langage course (following the advice and format of a letter on an expatriates website, and also the recommendation of the vice-counsel with whom we'd had contact). This was, apparently a no-no. Yes, showing that we'd make effort to become part of society was forbidden by the government representative who reviewed our application, as it confused her into thinking we would be vagabonds, without proper housing, drifting from place to place.
We are stuck in bureacratic purgatory.
Phone calls to said government consular agent were not only unfruitful, they were downright discouraging. She told us we'd have to start all over again. She told us that "maybe" we could try again and "take your chances" at being approved. She was rude; she was glad to be glum. She was a dream-quelcher.
Unanswered emails. Unanswered phone calls. Questions abounding, frustrations darkening our dream. What to do? We drove to a nearby (read, 2 hours drive) consulate to inquire specifically about their application process, for while each consulate represents the Italian government, each has its own requirements instead of one, uniform policy. Rather than dealing with the Evil Woman in Los Angeles, we figure if we're entering a crap-shoot, we'll take our chances with other, hopefully nicer, people.
The intial impression wasn't too encouraging. The woman behind the glass had a grown man shaking and stammering. She cut off his questions and answered curtly. She grabbed papers through the little window, ticking off requirements and what he still needed, then pushed the papers back through the hole and sent him packing. She asked, "Who's next for the visa department?" and we quivered, as it was our turn.
We swallowed hard, tried to look confident in the face of obvious authority, and squeaked, "we're next". She eyed us calmly, then asked if we were Italian citizens. Alright, I admit to being flattered as it meant that 1) she'd not looked at the Germanic-sounding name on the sign-in sheet and 2) she'd sized us up and thought we were one of her. Not a bad start. We said no, that we'd researched citizenship through my grandmother's family but that we wouldn't qualify, and, kind lady if you please, we have some questions. Then we produced our list. She was tolerant for the first four inquiries, answering them evenly and without the edginess she'd displayed to the man before us. But after the fourth question, she was obviously becoming impatient with us and tried to wrap it up by saying, "alright then" firmly. We pressed on with a couple more questions until it became evident she was done with us, so we fled a bit breathlessly for the elevator. She did at least answer in a straightforward and fairly tolerant manner. Much more so than Evil Woman or her minions in L.A., and that alone felt like a welcome change, so we'd rather work through this kinder, gentler consulate.
But this entire ordeal has made me wonder...what is it about bureacracies that they always seem to produce that type of behavior? Are those impatient and almost-inhumane government workers born that way and thus recruited because of their callous attitudes, or are they normal, everyday people who must undergo extensive meanness training before being let loose to intimidate the public they are supposed to serve? I can understand becoming frustrated if you're having a bad day and seemingly ignorant people inundate you with seemingly inane questions. But to consistantly behave in a rude and malevolent manner, to delight in dashing people's dreams, to joyfully and sadistically make well-functioning, college-educated adults feel hopelessly inept seems to be their goal in life. They seem to enjoy plunging you down to the depths of a bureacratic abyss from which you must fight and claw your way out. Rather like Dante's Purgatory. I guess Dante could concoct such an image of Purgatory so adeptly because he had been in intimate contact with Italian bureacracy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
With legalese, the letter stated that we submitted an incorrect form, thus not proving "adequate" evidence of housing arrangements. We had also included details of our enrollment in a three-week langage course (following the advice and format of a letter on an expatriates website, and also the recommendation of the vice-counsel with whom we'd had contact). This was, apparently a no-no. Yes, showing that we'd make effort to become part of society was forbidden by the government representative who reviewed our application, as it confused her into thinking we would be vagabonds, without proper housing, drifting from place to place.
We are stuck in bureacratic purgatory.
Phone calls to said government consular agent were not only unfruitful, they were downright discouraging. She told us we'd have to start all over again. She told us that "maybe" we could try again and "take your chances" at being approved. She was rude; she was glad to be glum. She was a dream-quelcher.
Unanswered emails. Unanswered phone calls. Questions abounding, frustrations darkening our dream. What to do? We drove to a nearby (read, 2 hours drive) consulate to inquire specifically about their application process, for while each consulate represents the Italian government, each has its own requirements instead of one, uniform policy. Rather than dealing with the Evil Woman in Los Angeles, we figure if we're entering a crap-shoot, we'll take our chances with other, hopefully nicer, people.
The intial impression wasn't too encouraging. The woman behind the glass had a grown man shaking and stammering. She cut off his questions and answered curtly. She grabbed papers through the little window, ticking off requirements and what he still needed, then pushed the papers back through the hole and sent him packing. She asked, "Who's next for the visa department?" and we quivered, as it was our turn.
We swallowed hard, tried to look confident in the face of obvious authority, and squeaked, "we're next". She eyed us calmly, then asked if we were Italian citizens. Alright, I admit to being flattered as it meant that 1) she'd not looked at the Germanic-sounding name on the sign-in sheet and 2) she'd sized us up and thought we were one of her. Not a bad start. We said no, that we'd researched citizenship through my grandmother's family but that we wouldn't qualify, and, kind lady if you please, we have some questions. Then we produced our list. She was tolerant for the first four inquiries, answering them evenly and without the edginess she'd displayed to the man before us. But after the fourth question, she was obviously becoming impatient with us and tried to wrap it up by saying, "alright then" firmly. We pressed on with a couple more questions until it became evident she was done with us, so we fled a bit breathlessly for the elevator. She did at least answer in a straightforward and fairly tolerant manner. Much more so than Evil Woman or her minions in L.A., and that alone felt like a welcome change, so we'd rather work through this kinder, gentler consulate.
But this entire ordeal has made me wonder...what is it about bureacracies that they always seem to produce that type of behavior? Are those impatient and almost-inhumane government workers born that way and thus recruited because of their callous attitudes, or are they normal, everyday people who must undergo extensive meanness training before being let loose to intimidate the public they are supposed to serve? I can understand becoming frustrated if you're having a bad day and seemingly ignorant people inundate you with seemingly inane questions. But to consistantly behave in a rude and malevolent manner, to delight in dashing people's dreams, to joyfully and sadistically make well-functioning, college-educated adults feel hopelessly inept seems to be their goal in life. They seem to enjoy plunging you down to the depths of a bureacratic abyss from which you must fight and claw your way out. Rather like Dante's Purgatory. I guess Dante could concoct such an image of Purgatory so adeptly because he had been in intimate contact with Italian bureacracy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Vaya con Dios, An Ode to New Mexico
We depart in less than a week and saying goodbye has been an emotional experience. Packing stress has set in. Laughs and tears intermingle as we reflect on our years here. In the midst of planning and packing and parties, we have also had to bid adios to the land which has become so familiar and comforting. After nearly two decades in New Mexico we are bidding farewell to this place that we have called home.
I have spent most of adult life here. While I grew up in Ohio, it was here that I matured. That was the land of my childhood; this has been the land of my womanhood. Here I learned to adapt, accept, embrace. Here I have experienced joys, trials, love. There is something indescribable about the atmosphere; the high desert, where you can easily see for sixty miles, can offer such clarity to life.
Albuquerque has changed in so many ways during our residence. It has exploded in population and sprawl and traffic and insipid chains and strip malls. It has become so much more homogenized than it had been, often driving out the elements that had made it so attractive and charming to us. I guess this is the trend of life in America and we were lucky that so much was unique for so long. It grieves us to see it change. We had seen it "before" and admired its multi-culturalism.
And yet, outside the city the landscapes are infinite...we have such a love for the landscapes. Turquoise blue skies, juniper-studded hills, pine-carpeted forests, red sandstone mesas. Time-weathered Indian lands with beautiful, resilient people and their beautiful artistic traditions still being passed down to the next generation to carry the torch of their cultural heritage. In New Mexico's vast and varied landscape, beauty is everywhere and becomes a part of daily life, a part of one's being.
The wide-open spaces still astound and awe me. Uncluttered, unpolluted expanses of land. Land and sky so intensely brilliant with sunlight and moonlight and high altitude air. In this land the desert burns shimmery-gold and the mountains turn glittery-pink. Half a lifetime ago we came here. We chose to live here, and it chose to endow us with its treasures.
New Mexico is often called the "Land of Enchantment". But I will also call it "Home."
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
I have spent most of adult life here. While I grew up in Ohio, it was here that I matured. That was the land of my childhood; this has been the land of my womanhood. Here I learned to adapt, accept, embrace. Here I have experienced joys, trials, love. There is something indescribable about the atmosphere; the high desert, where you can easily see for sixty miles, can offer such clarity to life.
Albuquerque has changed in so many ways during our residence. It has exploded in population and sprawl and traffic and insipid chains and strip malls. It has become so much more homogenized than it had been, often driving out the elements that had made it so attractive and charming to us. I guess this is the trend of life in America and we were lucky that so much was unique for so long. It grieves us to see it change. We had seen it "before" and admired its multi-culturalism.
And yet, outside the city the landscapes are infinite...we have such a love for the landscapes. Turquoise blue skies, juniper-studded hills, pine-carpeted forests, red sandstone mesas. Time-weathered Indian lands with beautiful, resilient people and their beautiful artistic traditions still being passed down to the next generation to carry the torch of their cultural heritage. In New Mexico's vast and varied landscape, beauty is everywhere and becomes a part of daily life, a part of one's being.
The wide-open spaces still astound and awe me. Uncluttered, unpolluted expanses of land. Land and sky so intensely brilliant with sunlight and moonlight and high altitude air. In this land the desert burns shimmery-gold and the mountains turn glittery-pink. Half a lifetime ago we came here. We chose to live here, and it chose to endow us with its treasures.
New Mexico is often called the "Land of Enchantment". But I will also call it "Home."
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Time is running quickly through the hourglass. Our departure from New Mexico is drawing near and we are beginning the rounds of parties and dinners and meetings to say goodbye to our friends who have in so many ways become a part of our family here. So much of Albuquerque's population is transitory - they come with the Air Force, the national laboratory, the university, and then move on after a few years. But we have lived in this area for nineteen years...long enough to be considered "honorary natives" by a local radio personality. We have accumulated a houseful of stuff and a heartful of precious friends. Saying goodbye is indeed bittersweet and difficult.
We came here in 1987 with our little Ford Escort hatchback crammed with our clothes and a tiny U-Haul trailer tailing behind, its meager contents constituting the entirety of our earthly possessions. Without jobs, without friends or family, without even having visited before, we arrived with a few belongings, great hopes and a healthy dose of youthful ignorance.
Nineteen years later we leave with more "stuff", a circle of friends and a lot of memories. The Land of Enchantment has been truly an enchanting place to live. We have become a part of the culture and the very air and beauty of this place has become a part of us. We take the High Desert with us.
Saying goodbye to the landscape and to our dear friends is difficult. As it gets ever closer, I get ever more melancholy. Though filled with excitement for the future, the present is filled with wistfulness. I don't like farewells. Each party and gathering makes me realize how important all these people are to us, and us to them. It is both heartening and sad.
Parting really is such sweet sorrow.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
We came here in 1987 with our little Ford Escort hatchback crammed with our clothes and a tiny U-Haul trailer tailing behind, its meager contents constituting the entirety of our earthly possessions. Without jobs, without friends or family, without even having visited before, we arrived with a few belongings, great hopes and a healthy dose of youthful ignorance.
Nineteen years later we leave with more "stuff", a circle of friends and a lot of memories. The Land of Enchantment has been truly an enchanting place to live. We have become a part of the culture and the very air and beauty of this place has become a part of us. We take the High Desert with us.
Saying goodbye to the landscape and to our dear friends is difficult. As it gets ever closer, I get ever more melancholy. Though filled with excitement for the future, the present is filled with wistfulness. I don't like farewells. Each party and gathering makes me realize how important all these people are to us, and us to them. It is both heartening and sad.
Parting really is such sweet sorrow.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Doing the Dump
While we're planning furiously for our Italian adventure, my sister is, coincidentally, planning a move as well. She will be off for the exotic lakeside city of Cleveland. Her house also sold in just three days. Her garage, however, needed a good cleaning-out since her spring kitchen remodel project left assorted remnants of junk.
Friend Sue graciously offered the use of her time and truck to haul away the offal, so last week the three of us loaded it up and set off for the landfill. Once in the truck the discussion confirmed that none of us had ever before been to the dump. This would be an experience; we wondered how badly it would stink and whether we'd see rats.
Driving in as ignorants we were stopped at the gate and the truck was weighed. A price of $7.40 was quoted for the haul and the others began to blame my weight contribution -as the 'unnecessary occupant' - for the high price. I'm sure they would have saved maybe a buck if I hadn't gone along.
A map should have been provided, as we meandered along the dirt road looking for the actual dump site. We passed broken-down garbage trucks left for dead along the way, and further along, a flotilla of huge empty dumpsters lined up like barracks. The road wound around a mountain of bare earth, then turned downhill and finally, in the foothills of the Great Trash Mound we found the parking area and the open dump.
Sue backed up the truck and our suspicions were immediately realized - we significantly raised the estrogen levels at that locale as all the other patrons were quite burly-looking men who glanced at us with raised eyebrows and smirks. The stench wasn't as bad as we'd imagined. And no rats, thank God! We began to unload the junk rather carefully at first, but quickly discovered that we all derived much more satisfaction by scrambling up into the truck bed and heaving the pieces into the pile. In turn, we tossed with vigor and flexed our muscles and whooped as we played shot-put with the trash. It was actually quite a liberating, empowering, five minutes. We felt strong! We were women! We could heft trash! Woo-hoo!
As we scrambled back into the truck, Sue summed up the experience drily: "And that's how chicks do the dump." She quickly added, "...and now we do lunch."
Yes, lunch. We may be liberated but we're still girls.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Friend Sue graciously offered the use of her time and truck to haul away the offal, so last week the three of us loaded it up and set off for the landfill. Once in the truck the discussion confirmed that none of us had ever before been to the dump. This would be an experience; we wondered how badly it would stink and whether we'd see rats.
Driving in as ignorants we were stopped at the gate and the truck was weighed. A price of $7.40 was quoted for the haul and the others began to blame my weight contribution -as the 'unnecessary occupant' - for the high price. I'm sure they would have saved maybe a buck if I hadn't gone along.
A map should have been provided, as we meandered along the dirt road looking for the actual dump site. We passed broken-down garbage trucks left for dead along the way, and further along, a flotilla of huge empty dumpsters lined up like barracks. The road wound around a mountain of bare earth, then turned downhill and finally, in the foothills of the Great Trash Mound we found the parking area and the open dump.
Sue backed up the truck and our suspicions were immediately realized - we significantly raised the estrogen levels at that locale as all the other patrons were quite burly-looking men who glanced at us with raised eyebrows and smirks. The stench wasn't as bad as we'd imagined. And no rats, thank God! We began to unload the junk rather carefully at first, but quickly discovered that we all derived much more satisfaction by scrambling up into the truck bed and heaving the pieces into the pile. In turn, we tossed with vigor and flexed our muscles and whooped as we played shot-put with the trash. It was actually quite a liberating, empowering, five minutes. We felt strong! We were women! We could heft trash! Woo-hoo!
As we scrambled back into the truck, Sue summed up the experience drily: "And that's how chicks do the dump." She quickly added, "...and now we do lunch."
Yes, lunch. We may be liberated but we're still girls.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Monday, January 23, 2006
I dream of dreaming in Italian!
It has been oft-repeated, as I endeavor and sometimes struggle to learn Italian, that I'll know I've reached a level of proficiency when I begin to dream in Italian. Needless to say, I'm still waiting for that day, er...night, to come.
I try reading Italian books in the evening, hoping that somehow the words will be infused into my subconciousness while I sleep. Instead, I dream of wandering Italy with stunted, confusing phrases emitting from my mouth while Bryan stands mutely behind me. Mostly I still have those annoying "channel changing" types of dreams. You know the kind...you dream that you're standing on a street talking to people and you're in your underwear feeling uncomfortable but nobody seems to notice your state of undress. And then the channel changes and you're in your childhood home, but you're in your current age and life situation and yet things are like they were when you were a kid. And just when you start to think, well that's odd, then the channel changes again. Or maybe it's just me. Strange dreams. In English.
Reading Italian stories and books is a good exercise, albeit one that consumes my time and my brain cells. I can usually complete about two pages a night, because I sit there with my dizionario and my book, looking up far too many words for timely progress. When I do hit a page that I can understand without reference material, I am elated. Dare I make it through an entire story, I jump from the chair exclaiming, YESSSS!!! Brava!!!, while tears of joy spring to my eyes. And then I feel exhausted from the brain strain.
And despite these efforts, still no dreams occuring in Italian. I have tried the CDs; the verb exercises; the Listen and Learn method, all for naught. I wish there was an Osmosis Method of learning a language, whereby I would sit in a yoga position with my eyes closed and the grammatical concepts and vocabulary would be poured into my brain. Alas, I'll have to continue with the Work Hard- Study Hard- Practice Method. This is a problem because I tend to remember a vocabulary word for about twenty seconds. Then I'll encounter the same word on the next page, grab the dictionary and look it up all over again. Bryan's memory skills are even worse. I'm contemplating whether Gingko may help with memory retention.
At least my Wednesday morning conversational class has resumed and I get to enjoy the company of others laboriously learning this language alongside me. There is some progress. Since I began this class last year I've learned two past tenses and am pretty well on my way to profiency in the future tense. This has opened up a whole new world of conversational possibilities!
But I still dream of dreaming in Italian. Someday.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
I try reading Italian books in the evening, hoping that somehow the words will be infused into my subconciousness while I sleep. Instead, I dream of wandering Italy with stunted, confusing phrases emitting from my mouth while Bryan stands mutely behind me. Mostly I still have those annoying "channel changing" types of dreams. You know the kind...you dream that you're standing on a street talking to people and you're in your underwear feeling uncomfortable but nobody seems to notice your state of undress. And then the channel changes and you're in your childhood home, but you're in your current age and life situation and yet things are like they were when you were a kid. And just when you start to think, well that's odd, then the channel changes again. Or maybe it's just me. Strange dreams. In English.
Reading Italian stories and books is a good exercise, albeit one that consumes my time and my brain cells. I can usually complete about two pages a night, because I sit there with my dizionario and my book, looking up far too many words for timely progress. When I do hit a page that I can understand without reference material, I am elated. Dare I make it through an entire story, I jump from the chair exclaiming, YESSSS!!! Brava!!!, while tears of joy spring to my eyes. And then I feel exhausted from the brain strain.
And despite these efforts, still no dreams occuring in Italian. I have tried the CDs; the verb exercises; the Listen and Learn method, all for naught. I wish there was an Osmosis Method of learning a language, whereby I would sit in a yoga position with my eyes closed and the grammatical concepts and vocabulary would be poured into my brain. Alas, I'll have to continue with the Work Hard- Study Hard- Practice Method. This is a problem because I tend to remember a vocabulary word for about twenty seconds. Then I'll encounter the same word on the next page, grab the dictionary and look it up all over again. Bryan's memory skills are even worse. I'm contemplating whether Gingko may help with memory retention.
At least my Wednesday morning conversational class has resumed and I get to enjoy the company of others laboriously learning this language alongside me. There is some progress. Since I began this class last year I've learned two past tenses and am pretty well on my way to profiency in the future tense. This has opened up a whole new world of conversational possibilities!
But I still dream of dreaming in Italian. Someday.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, January 14, 2006
A Brief Interlude
The week started off promising enough. It was shaping up to be a pretty exciting and busy week, with work to do; Italian class starting again; physical therapy; a contest drawing to assist with...among other things. Yes, I was looking forward to many activities. And then it fell in the crapper when I came down with the nasty flu or cold thing -I'm never sure how to tell if it's a cold or a flu - that has been devastating New Mexico. Nary a citizen in the state hasn't been affected. Everyone has a sister/husband/child/self who has been afflicted with the virulent bug. I'm no exception; I'm one of the statistics.
Today's headline:
N.M. flu activity still ‘widespread’
"New Mexico is again one of seven states reporting widespread flu activity.
New Mexico remains on the list of the busiest states for the flu bug.
The Centers for Disease Control on Friday released the latest flu activity map. It shows seven states, including New Mexico, with “widespread” flu activity – the highest possible rating on the map. "
Great. I'm feeling, well, icky, but I won't bore (nor gross you out) with the details. Instead, I offer you this brief interlude in absence of an actual blog entry.
I entered two articles into an online contest on the Slow Travel website. One was selected as a winner and put into the prize drawing (yes, the prize drawing held today that I had looked forward to helping with.) In lieu of a blog post, I am giving you the links to my articles for your reading pleasure.
New Mexico's Indian Country (the winning entry)
Climbing the Family Tree in Basilicata's Hilltowns
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a hot toddy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Today's headline:
N.M. flu activity still ‘widespread’
"New Mexico is again one of seven states reporting widespread flu activity.
New Mexico remains on the list of the busiest states for the flu bug.
The Centers for Disease Control on Friday released the latest flu activity map. It shows seven states, including New Mexico, with “widespread” flu activity – the highest possible rating on the map. "
Great. I'm feeling, well, icky, but I won't bore (nor gross you out) with the details. Instead, I offer you this brief interlude in absence of an actual blog entry.
I entered two articles into an online contest on the Slow Travel website. One was selected as a winner and put into the prize drawing (yes, the prize drawing held today that I had looked forward to helping with.) In lieu of a blog post, I am giving you the links to my articles for your reading pleasure.
New Mexico's Indian Country (the winning entry)
Climbing the Family Tree in Basilicata's Hilltowns
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a hot toddy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
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