First stop, Japan, a.k.a. Tami and Arlo’s house by the pond. Arlo, Kristen, and Tami put out sandwiches and deviled eggs, and Kersten brought a plate of coconut almond macaroons. Great way to fuel up for a woodsy hike!

As Tony, Susan, Megan and I were walking down to Japan from Susan and Tony’s house (Inkberry Hill Farm), we were passed by a car peopled by men in dark suits. Our first thought was, Mormons? but it turned out a pre-party party was already going on at Japan.

Tami’s mother’s partner, George, passed a few weeks ago, and his and Anne’s families would soon be elebrating his life at The Plant. I had a whale of a good time yakking at a whole new group of people who hadn’t already heard my stories. Kudos to Tami, Arlo, and Kristen for making both parties happen!

Per Carrie’s request, we stopped at Delphi to see the gardens.

Kersten and I have grown close from years of weekly walks and hikes.

Tony led the way from Delphi to Inkberry Hill via new trails he and Susan made in the ten months since they moved into our neighborhood.

The trails lead to the green burial ground at The Sanctuary of the Burrow, were many of our beloveds rest and where Bob and I will ultimately spend our last days in earth.

Susan and Tony put out deviled eggs, pineapple, watermelon, and cheese and crackers. The temperature was pushing up towards eighty, so the watermelon was just what we all needed. Tony and Susan had new windows installed last weekend and I think Susan picked the perfect color blue to set off their yellow house.

When we were sated, we took off down the Elephant Trail.

Turning right before reaching Stinking Creek, we hiked up and over The Beeches trail. I’m not gonna lie, I was often short-winded. Every time I stopped to take a photo, I had to run to catch up. Also, I’m seventy and it was hot.

At the top of the hill stands a group of mature beeches, hence the trail’s name. Thank you, David, for taking my picture.

Another right and now we’re on the Northwest Passage, heading south towards our place. Our crawlers had stopped to discuss some point of interest, but by the time I caught up they had moved on. Eleagnus is my best guess, as eradicating it and other invasives is top of mind for all of us.

It’s pollen season and our footwear grew more yellow with every step.

Last stop, Trouts Farm, where Bob and I put out drinks coolers, a hummus and veggie plate, cheese, chips, and crackers.

Our back porch on the north side of the house is perfect for entertaining with its wood flooring and eclectic chair collection.

How nice to spend the day with friends, and even nicer to reach my favorite rocking chair and pull off my shoes and socks.

Here are links to previous Trail Crawl photo essays:

[Trail Crawl 2022] * [Trail Crawl 2019] * [Trail Crawl 2018] * [Trail Crawl 2017] * [Trail Crawl 2016] * [Trail Crawl 2015] * [Trail Crawl 2014] * [Trail Crawl 2012] * [Trail Crawl 2011]

What I know of Chicago came from movies and songs. Like High Fidelity with John and Joan Cusack, Jack Black, and Tim Robbins. Or Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago, a song that will now play in my head for this entire post. And I hear they like their pizza super doughy and cheesy.

So, when Bob proposed we spend a couple of nights in Chicago on our way home from Lake Mills last September, I said, “Why not?” I’m an open-minded sort of person, and since I hadn’t broadened my horizons in years, it was high time I checked out The Second City.

As per usual, Bob made all arrangements and accommodations. All I had to do was tag along, gaping at the sights, and I did that handily. Also, as per usual, he secured us a nice suite in The Hampton Inn, this one housed in the historic Majestic Building and located in Chicago’s Theater District, inside the Loop.

Our first morning in Chicago, I walked downs eighteen flights of stairs for coffee and muffins. Hotel stairwells are a great way to escape the air conditioning and uncramp my legs from travel-sitting. They feel like a cosy secret, an echoey haven for die-hard walkers. I rarely encounter another human in my stairwell meanderings.

What a surprise to fling open the door and find what used to be the outside wall of the Majestic! Apparently, the Hampton Inn stairwell was added onto the outside of the Majestic, probably years ago.

I felt like an archeologist as I stared at decades-old pigeon poop on brick and stone, and in that moment, my heart opened up to Chicago. I could see New York’s familiar grime and fancy architecture in this sealed-up space-time portal. I now knew something about Chicago that may not be so evident to others, and that knowing made me feel like an insider.

When I did my research for this post, I read that the Majestic was a Shubert Theatre, just like the eleven Shubert Theatres my grandpa ran in Manhattan and I wondered if he had ever been to this one in Chicago.

But enough insider stuff. It was time to get outside and act like tourists. There are plenty of parks, museums, and art in the Loop. Our first meander took us a few blocks from the hotel to Millennium Park, home to Chicago’s iconic Cloudgate which most people refer to as “The Bean.”

We had a lot of fun playing around near the 110 ton, stainless steel sculpture. It’s like a giant fun-house mirror.

Sixty-six feet long and thirty-three feet high, the Bean is made of polished stainless steel and was installed a mere twenty years ago.

Another interactive feature at Millennium Park, the Crown Fountain splash pad, involved water and two fifty-foot towers made of glass blocks projecting video of real Chicagoans.

We sat near the splash pad with gelato cones from Amorino, a busy, brick and mortar shop near the park.

As I was finishing my cone, two young men approached us and asked, “Are you happy?” Well, of course we were we said, and one of the men filmed us telling the other man all about it, and so we got ourselves on YouTube. (briefly at .08, then 5:54, and longer at the 6:26 mark)

Cities are such an odd mixture of work and play. Who keeps all of this clean? I kept asking myself. As a tourist, I focused on the bright, potted flowers and art installations, but all I had to do was look down to think about the maintenance. The street sweeping and lawn care, repairs and garbage removal. There are legions of workers making a city shine, but none know how to get rid of flattened gum. And actually, that gum sparked an affinity for Chicago, New York’s sister in grime.

We walked about eight miles on our one full day in Chicago, beginning at the southwest edge of Lake Michigan, past the many joggers and strollers.

Bob wore a blue Hempsmith tee under his button-down so that he could send Arlo a photo of his clothing line being worn in Chicago. And because Bob believes that tie-dye is always a solid fashion choice.

We couldn’t have asked for a brighter, more beautiful day, I thought, as we made our way into Grant Park.

The Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial Fountain is made of pink Georgia marble and was installed in 1927 by his sister, Kate. We had stumbled upon one of the largest fountains in the world and my respect for Chicago was growing by the minute.

The bronze, Art Deco sea horses represent the four states bordering Lake Michigan: Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan.

City parks are a refreshing distraction from the concrete jungle, a place where geese graze just like anywhere else on earth.

And Squirrels forage for whatever they can scratch up.

Back to the gum-crusted, crumb-dusted, but not poop-smeared streets. Kudos to Chicago’s pooch owners for doing a great job of cleaning up after their pets.

Birds tell us it’s okay to breathe the air. When we moved to coal-sooted Tianjin, China in 1998, I knew we were in trouble as soon as I realized there were hardly any birds.

You will know me as a tourist because I have a camera and it is pointed up.

Bob crosses a bridge alongside some mildly-disturbing art.

The Chicago River Riverwalk offers lots of places to sit and eat and there were plenty of people doing just that, but we kept on walking. When a fire boat drifted by, I thought about how cool it would be to see them suck water from the river and shoot it into the sky.

Muffins long ago digested, we stopped for some of that world-famous Chicago Pizza, a not so big one, and ate it all. It would have been wrong to come here and not eat their pizza, but I’m too old to change my allegiance to Brooklyn Pizza with its thin crust, black dough bubbles, and scant sauce and cheese.

Towards the end of the day, I was really hitting my stride, as at home as I could be.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was playing a couple of blocks from our hotel, so we decided to cap off a perfect day with a play. We were, after all, staying in Chicago’s theatre district.

It felt good to sit down after a day on our feet and we settled into our plush chairs for some first class entertainment.

Bob caught the sunrise on Monroe Street on our final morning in Chicago while I was upstairs doing yoga. I am grateful to him for my cultural adventure in the Second City.

Chicago’s Loop is a lot like New York’s Times Square without the food carts, honking cars, and pot fumes. Comfortably familiar with a few nice surprises. The next time I see Chicago’s theatre district in a movie, I can say, “I’ve been there!” I’ll think about the gum, and the birds, the fountain, the fire boats, and the secret facade hidden within a stairwell.

As Bob and I were leaving Lake Mills for Chicago, we decided to stop at Rock Lake Cemetery and pay our respects to Cousin Patty’s family. We drove in and immediately realized were never going to find Aunt Lois and Uncle Dick among twenty-five acres of markers.

So we called Patty for help. Lucky for us, she was free and willing to come over and show us around.

I listened to Patty’s stories about her parents, her younger brother, and her older sister. I was a fly on a tree with a camera, picturing myself in Patty’s shoes.

Patty’s younger brother died when she was nineteen years old. I could not get my heart around the magnitude of this tragedy. I tried and failed to imagine losing one of my precious brothers before I had found my footing in life.

I stared incomprehensibly at Patty’s sister’s tarnished white plaque, realizing that I am a lucky outlier, a seventy-year-old woman who has not lost any brothers or cousins.

Bob’s father, Bill, had two siblings, Patty’s father, Richard, and Becky’s mother, Mary. Patty’s mother, Lois, passed at the age of ninety-five in February and her father left this earth in 2010.

Both Patty and Steve told us how Lois was able to walk up the stairs to their place without holding onto the railing. They said it wasn’t until recently that she complained she was no longer able to pull on her socks while standing up. Ever since hearing that, I think of Bob’s Aunt Lois each time I’m tempted to sit down to put on my socks.

We had a second grave to find, this one on Aunt Mari’s side of the family. We spotted it right off, looming in the distance not far from the Armantrout plots.

Patty had told us that Mari’s son Scott had spared no expense on his memorial, but we were unprepared for what we found. The three of us stared at the towering black monument, stifling giggles and sighing.

Scott got cancer as a young boy but lived into his fifties, consuming every day as if it were his last. He came from money, so that helped. Bob says Scott always had the fastest motorcycle and the fastest boat on Rock Lake, so it made perfect sense that he would have commissioned the largest headstone in Rock Lake Cemetery.

Patty and Bob obligingly posed next to the polished granite, dwarfed by Scott’s legacy.

Our appetites wetted with family history, we decided to find Bob’s parents. Bob looked up his father on Find a Grave, made a phone call, and drove us the short distance to Helenville.

Zion Church Cemetery was a small, well-tended roadside park surrounded by autumn corn. The church was long gone.

Bob had no trouble locating the Armantrout markers.

Here lay his oldest brother, Rich, and his parents, Bill and Alice. It’s no secret that Bob’s family did not approve of his divorce. They were unable to accept me, and eventually Bob grew tired of hearing about it. Communication dropped off. Bob’s father called to tell Bob his mother had passed, but no one reached out to him after his father and brother died. It occurs to me that memorial stones represent the weight of a lifetime, whether short or long—all the complicated relationships and unspoken truths.

I don’t know what was going through Bob’s mind as he stood before the graves. Estrangement is hard on everyone, especially the survivors. I want to believe that he got some closure while standing near these markers on a beautiful fall day.

Bob’s Cousin Patty and her husband, Steve, came to see us on Maui in 2002 and in North Carolina last spring. It was our turn to go see them.

Steve and Patty lived in what used to be Patty’s parents house for much of their married life, but recently moved to smaller digs next door Their son, Tom, and his family have moved into the big house.

Patty and Steve’s deck comes with a brilliant view of Rock Lake. You can see their boat dock from up there, too.

I enjoyed meeting Patty and Bob’s cousin, Becky. She drove over from a nearby town to see us and hang out lakeside.

I couldn’t get over the sunsets. “This is spectacular!” I said. “They’re all great,” said Steve. I tried to imagine living in one place with such a view for forty years or so. Imagine!

The next day we put on our bathing suits. Gideon caught the football while jumping from the dock time after time, as tireless as a Labrador.

The weather was unseasonably warm. Patty couldn’t recall it ever being this nice this close to her birthday.

Aubrey was equally athletic with her leaping, twisting spins.

Bob delivered on his promise to get into the lake.

Something he had not done for at least thirty years. As children, he and his brothers would come to Lake Mills from Ghana in the summer to spend time with their cousins.

Old times, new times. Memories are made from repeating memories.

Cousin Kathy brought her little dog.

Steve, not-yet-retired, enjoying some downtime.

Tom kept us entertained with his quick jokes.

I was taken by Aubrey, such a bright light.

Sisters!

Kathy and I are nearly the same age.

Charlie stopped by after dinner to see his Uncle Bob. Patty and Steve’s third child lives on a Caribbean Island, so we did not see her.

On the way out of town, we stopped at the cemetery where Patty’s family are buried. Stay tuned for more on that story.

I’d been out and had ridden a couple of times, but wanted Bob to see where I go on Thursdays. So on a gilded Sunday morning, Bob brought his camera and we went out to the new barn.

I grabbed Sophie’s halter and we walked to her pasture.

We were basking in the day before we even got there.

I traipsed through the pasture towards the four red mares, not certain which one was Sophie.

Here she is! Even though they all have white blazes, Sophie is the only one with no white feet.

I’m as happy as a child out here. Life doesn’t get any better than this!

Horseman Bob and sweet Sophie. She is very easygoing for a thoroughbred to which I credit the steady hand of her owner who bought her when she was four and has had her for nine years.

Sophie is perhaps searching Bob’s pockets for treats. Bob’s expression says, “What treats?”

Thirty years ago, Bob bought a chestnut mare with the same shimmering coat color as Sophie.

We named her Penny because, in the right light, she shone like copper.

Not long after Bob bought Penny, we traded horses and she became mine.

As I led Sophie up to the barn, another horse expressed interest, so I encouraged her to move along by flicking the end of her lead rope towards her rear end.

When I brushed Sophie, I noticed that she was sporting a few bites (pasture buddy nibbles) between her flank and the top of her rump. I did not notice they were framed by a heart until after we got home and looked at Bob’s photos.

The sixty-something acre property includes a fishing pond and a hay field.

There are horses of all different colors, breeds, and ages on the property, including several mules. This is a cute pony who came up to tell Bob “Hello.”

A pretty grey horse ambled over as well.

This is a Haflinger, a sturdy breed known for their amicable disposition. They do not get very tall, which is super nice for older riders—easier to get on and off, not so far to fall.

I believe you can see your soul in a horse’s eye. Fun fact: horses can see in two different directions at once. Each eye works independent of the other unless they are using binocular vision to focus on something straight ahead.

This is Sophie’s eye.

If you look close, you can see photographer Bob reflected in her eye. This would be the artist in the eye of the beheld.

Bob and I have been married thirty years. Like most couples, we worked, we raised children, we did the things that keep people on their toes. We hung in there, giving each other the benefit of the doubt, sharing the pain and the glory until the dust settled, until reaching the point where we have little strife and a whole lot of ease. Best of all, we still have each other to share it all with.

Bob and I had been gone all week visiting my brother, James, in Massachusetts for his birthday. I had just turned 70 and Jamie was turning 59.

The three of us spent two nights on South Yarmouth in the wake of Hurricane Beryl. We enjoyed some refreshing barefoot beach time and James went for a short swim.

And then James drove us inland to celebrate his birthday with pizza, cake, and ice cream at his new home outside of Boston where we were joined by his stepdaughter and her family.

Christina and Lou’s seven kids bounced around Jamie’s lush lawn, taking turns on the swing between bites of pizza at the picnic table. No one threw up.

This was the best pizza I’d eaten in years. It had a thin, slightly salty, crispy, yet foldable crust, with blackened dough blisters, a spicy sauce, and not too much cheese. In other words, it was New York style pizza like we used to get on our birthdays from Freddie’s in West Long Branch, New Jersey.

No birthday is complete without cake and ice cream, so we did that, too.

~*~

Bob and I returned home to discover deer tracks in the garden. They had taken out a pepper plant and decimated the edamame. I tightened the clothesline I’d strung above the four-foot livestock fence in a lame attempt to fend off another garden attack, made dinner, and we went to bed and fell asleep wondering how we were going to solve our deer problem.

Bob found her the next morning, a lactating doe that had been hit by a Ford truck during the night. Problem solved. We didn’t take her picture out of respect for the dead. After picking the big plastic “R” and other truck parts out of the grass, we went inside and waited for the clean up crew.

Soon enough the vultures began to arrive. Lyle and Carrie had watched a breeding pair of Black vultures raise two chicks at their place half a mile away and we were pretty sure a group of four who were nearly always together were the same family. We were thrilled to have them at our place and be able to share our friends’ experience.

About three days in, the intermittent whiff of rot began spoiling our summer afternoon spa time. But it was short-lived—in this heat, roadkill decomposes at an accelerated pace—and a couple of days later we resumed our refreshing cold water (88°) soaks.

Although the family of four birds were the same size, we could tell the youngsters from their parents by the baby fluff around their heads and necks.

I confess that Black vultures are among my top three favorite birds along with Great blue herons and Carolina wrens.

Unlike other birds, vultures spend a lot of time standing around. They don’t have to flit about chasing bugs or searching for seeds, worrying about getting picked off by cats and hawks. Vultures are so big, they don’t worry about much of anything. They waddled up near the garden to watch Bob work, as interested in us as we were in them.

We learned that when vultures blink, they look like sharks.

Bob and I were struck by their affection towards each other and were reminded of our time in Massachusetts with Jamie and family.

Family is where you find it. Sometimes you might have to board an airplane to see them. Sometimes family comes to you after a deer gets hit on the Moncure Pittsboro Road. Either way, families make life more interesting by reminding us that we were all young once and that we are all hurtling through space on the same planet, doing our best to stay happy and fed.

Camille has put a lot of work, love, and intention into this garden next to our front door. It is now mostly pollinator friendly perennials – Sweet William, Miniature Dahlias, Echinaceas, Butterfly Weed, Milkweed, Gladiolus, Purple Tradescantia, and some remnant Mondo Grass.

We wandered out after dinner to have a look at what was happening in our little slice of the world.

A wheel bug nymph and carpenter bee checking each other out.

Echinaceas are great! So many colors, so dependable on their spring return. Each one is like a firework caught in time.

Retirement is great! I highly recommend it. Unless you’re a bee.

But, wouldn’t you know it, when I walked back into our house I saw them with terrible clarity and decided that something must be done. And Bob, bless his heart, gave me total support. Never mind that we’d lived with what previous tenants thought was cute for fourteen years, our walls now desperately needed a makeover.

Chaos followed. Not immediately. First we had to find a contractor because we sure as heck weren’t going to do the painting ourselves. The first guy said he’d get to us in a few months, then couldn’t. The second painter didn’t pan out either. But the third one did—I know, this is starting to sound like a fairy tale—and soon we were taking all the art off the walls and looking for places to hide the knick knacks.

As for the colors, we’d already spent months taping painted poster board samples to our walls until we picked five that worked for us. I’m not gonna lie, we went for bright knowing full well that we were bucking the current trend towards neutrals.

Our friends grasped their hands when we showed them our paint strips. Some came right out and said, “I couldn’t live with those colors,” while others wished us well before retreating to the comfort of their reasonable decor.

But we were undeterred. We wanted bright and we weren’t choosy about where we got our ideas. For example, a scene from “The Bear” inspired our blue kitchen. Never mind that it was one of Carmy’s nightmares.

We thought the deep blue “Flyway” would look great against our warm cabinets.

Our newly-hired crew of professionals patched drywall goofs and door dings, painted over the wallpaper, and were finished in two days.

No more falling asleep while doing laundry. That “Osage Orange” will keep us on our toes, blood pumping.

I spend most of my indoor time bouncing between kitchen and desk so the colors we chose for those two rooms had to get along. The blue and brown remind me of my childhood parakeet sitting on the curtain rod in my bedroom, his blue feathers contrasting nicely against the wood paneling.

After many failed greens, we picked “Teddy,” which matches our morning coffee. Brown was Carrie’s idea because we had a lot of framed art on the wall and she said brown wouldn’t fight with everything else. And it’s a bright room, windows facing south, so we knew it could handle the dark color.

We had the orange wrap around the outside of our dining room on the kitchen side, and painted the interior “Lemon Twist.”

I can’t think of a better color for dining than the color of a good macaroni and cheese. Makes me hungry just looking at it!

We didn’t have to think too hard before picking “Peri Wink” for the living room, a color that plays nice with the greenery of Bob’s orchids.

Here is the other side of our living room with its double-sided gas hearth and wood mantle. What you won’t see here is all the knick knacks because I only chose a few to display and left the rest in a cooler nested in towels.

We wrapped the entrance from the living room to the dining room in periwinkle, another nod to my childhood because these are the colors I repainted my bedroom when I was about twelve years old.

Our raspberry pink hall also got a makeover. I thought yellow would help lighten it up.

We’ve been having a whale of a time rifling through our art collection picking and hanging. One of my favorites is “Wired Wanderings: A Quest for Identity” by Robyne Plaga in back entrance. Not only does it pick up the blue from the other side of the hall, but we find the robot’s expression—a mix of elation and despair—totally relatable.

“It’s like living in a bag of Peanut M&M’s,” I said to Bob after the painters left. And that’s okay. We like Peanut M&M’s. At our age, we need bright colors to pep us up and thanks to Kathryn, we’ve got them. Also, thank you to all our friends who weighed in and supported us along this confusing journey.

ARTE DE PLUMAS

Here we have baskets of plantain, mango, pineapple, carrots, chayote, peppers, sweet potatoes, and onions at Arte de Plumas, awaiting Daisy and Carol’s magic touch.

After an hour of birdwatching our first morning, Andre led us to the open-air dining pavilion for a breakfast of fruit, beans and rice, fried eggs, plantain, and toast. Refueled, we continued birding.

AFTER-RIDE LUNCH AT RANCHO JSM

Bob drove the four of us an hour north to Finca Tres Equis where Carrie and Lyle went for a birdwatching hike while Bob and I rode the Farm and Forest Trail (see Caballos de Costa Rica). Half an hour from home we stopped at the junction for lunch at Rancho JSM.

Andre had suggested we test drive JSM’s patacones, plantain coins, smashed and fried, with toppings such as refried beans, guacamole, and pico de gallo. They were immensely satisfying, a bit like pizza in their versatility, and very filling.

Bob asked me to pose next to a large, carved horse head that appeared to be taking a drink.

We asked Daisy to make us lunch when we weren’t out day tripping. On this day, she made us a delicious white bean stew with salad, a potato/chayote hash, tortillas, and pico de gallo. They were happy to accommodate our meat-free diet and—worried about our protein intake—made sure to supplement each meal with eggs.

BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

Lyle and Carrie’s birthdays fell a day apart while we were upcountry, so I asked Andre if they could do something special to help us celebrate. Over the next three days, he, Carol, and Daisy’s twinkled with the mystery of the surprise.

On Carrie’s birthday, our last day at the lodge, Daisy beckoned me into the kitchen and showed me what she and Carol had done. I gasped at the heart-shaped cake. They had frosted it in pink and white, topped it with raspberry jam ringed by grape halves and strawberries and, at its base, surrounded it with peach slices, and more grapes, and strawberries.

Carol, beaming, presented the cake and Carrie showed her delight which made all of us extremely happy. I always say, a birthday is not complete without a cake with lit candles. It just isn’t.

Naturally, we urged Carrie to make a wish and naturally, she complied.

FRUTA DE PAN

I was determined to have breadfruit if breadfruit could be had, and although it wasn’t technically breadfruit season, we had seen the occasional fruit hanging from those gorgeous trees, full and dripping with white sap.

So we all began scanning the produce stands for what Andre called Fruta de Pan, until finally, on our way out of town I saw one! Bob stopped the car and ran across the street to make the purchase, and I vowed to find a restaurant willing to cook it down in Cahuita.

Each day, I unwrapped my Fruita de Pan and squeezed it, and each day it grew a bit softer and a little sweeter. And each day, I worried a little more about who I was going to find to cook up my beloved breadfruit until Lyle helped me get the courage to speak with Giuseppe.

At first, Giuseppe said, “No,” explaining that they cooked Italian food and that was what they did. “Oh my god, it is so good,” I said, complimenting their home made pasta and the flavorful sauces. I asked him which part of Italy he and his wife were from, told him that my brother, Joseph, was named after Sicilian immigrants, and that my name, too, came from our Italian side.

Perhaps there was a restaurant in town that served breadfruit? I asked, because I had brought one down from Turrialba and would happily give it to any kitchen that might use it. “You have one here?” he said, and that’s when I knew he was about to make my dream come true.

I ran to fetch my baby fruta and before long, we were eating fried breadfruit, sweet and doughy, just the way I love it! I ate until I couldn’t handle another piece, then took the rest back to our room for another day.

POTTY BREAK AT THE COFFE PLACE

Halfway through an early-morning bird tour with our guide Manuel, we circled back through Cahuita and stopped for coffee. I ordered a fruit drink and, thinking it prudent to make a pit stop, saw some wonderful cat graffiti on the rest room wall.

On another day, Bob drove us south to Puerto Viejo (home of many retired expats) and discovered DaLime Beach Club Restaurant & Bar, tucked among the trees, well off the main road.

We put in our food order and sat on the deck, sipping tropical drinks and listening to the calls of the Great Green Macaw.

Every tree a work of art, I thought, bathing in the many patterns and colors surrounding the restaurant.

The food was delightful, too. Fresh and beautifully presented. Bob and I ordered the tacos and mine came with guacamole, grilled vegetables, and pickled radish with sides of pico de gallo and a red pepper sauce.

Lyle and Carrie went looking for the Great Green Macaw while Bob settled our tab. While I waited for Bob, I stared out into the trees and was surprised to see one of those big, green birds fly across an open area!

Our culinary adventure was very fulfilling in every sense of the word and we returned home determined to eat as fresh and light as we did in Costa Rica.

So far, we’ve done pretty well, but I now realize how highly processed our favorite vegetarian meat analogs are and will be phasing those out in favor of lentils, beans, and tofu.

Tonight, for example, I have made a bean stew which I am serving with Amy Armantrout’s hand-harvested wild rice and collard greens from our garden. We’ll spike it up with artisanal vinegar and orange jalapeno peppers that I pickled last fall. Bon Appétit and Pura Vida!

Here’s how Art in Bloom works: Each artist chooses an inspirational piece of art, and crafts a corresponding floral arrangement.

A pair of pink “wedding cake” shoes inspired me to remove my lens cap, directing my attention downward.

White sneakers were prevalent and I made a note to get myself a pair.

I love how much care some patrons gave to their outfits. If I weren’t a coward, I would have photographed some of the more outstanding ensembles. Caroline offered to ask several fashionistas permission on my behalf, but I demurred.

Instead, I continued snapping furtive pictures, earning the disapproval of NCMA’s inhabitants.

When a third inanimate onlooker gave me the side eye, I felt chastised, shouldered my Sony, and plunged deeper into the exhibits.

Caroline doing the correct thing

Meanwhile, my host was behaving in a proper manner, appreciating the floral arrangements we had come to see.

Still, my concentration wandered more toward the onlookers than the featured content. I wondered what they were thinking as they leaned in towards one item or another.

If I were from another planet—or hadn’t been raised Catholic—the image of a scantily-clad man impaled on two boards would certainly be worth a closer look.

Art is so personal, that it almost seems wrong to appreciate it in public. Maybe that’s what was holding me back. What would happen, I wondered, if I let myself react with wild abandon?

Okay, this one got my attention. Now we’re talking! I thought. I’ve been waiting for color like this all winter, and now, here it was!

More color. And shoes!

I asked Caroline to take my picture with another vibrant composition. As for my shoes, I am wearing the tan Teva flats that carried me all over Kumasi, Ghana ten years ago.

This molten piece was inspired by the work of art on the wall behind it which reminded me of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks.

Interactive art is always fun. This camera turned me and Caroline into a mosaic.

Caroline.

Cookie.

I liked this one because it made me feel like I had wings.

My rule is this: If I stare at a painting for more than ten seconds, I have to photograph it. “Where’s the lion?” I kept asking myself. “Is it standing behind me?”

More shoes!

This is a corner of a disturbing painting of dead and mostly-dead animals. Caroline said she began noticing kittens and other domesticated animals lurking in centuries-old paintings a few years ago. We wondered how on earth a seal made it into the kitchen, and marveled at the bold little cat defending that basket of oysters from such a large creature.

Caroline liked the gold foil in this multi-media project.

Cute! And yes, shoes again.

This nearly-human sculpture, fashioned from small buttons, stopped me cold.

So much for hanging around. Until, next time, that was my latest foray into the art world.