A Broad Abroad

2011-10-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

IRAN IN RETROSPECT

As I do the final draft of my next memoir, A Broad Abroad in Iran" a memoir about living in Iran during the revolution of the 70s, I feel a need to post this somewhat revised blog to get myself in the writing mode.

In the 70s, with the revolution already in motion (of course we expats had no clue), the Iranian people seemed unhappy, cross, maybe even pissed that westerners had invaded their land.

In retrospect, it’s somewhat easier to look back and understand why the Iranians so hated Americans, but at the time we assumed they weren’t happy campers and let it go at that. In our ignorance, we thought the shah was all about bringing his country up to the 20th Century, and not leave it lagging in the Old Testament days.

Hiring expatriates from all over the world to help bring his country to a new global respect seemed like a generous undertaking. But, retrospection is a wondrous tool. We seem to want to look at casualties “after the fact” and then sort out the problems. But, at the time, we didn’t know there were problems.

The people wanted their country back. Back from the onslaught of foreigners hired by the shah to make more money for his coffers. I guess ignorance is bliss, as they say, because we went on our merry way thinking that we were welcome. Oh how wrong we were!

What I did take notice of was the country and the incongruity of it all:

The well-dressed driver of a Mercedes-Benz lays on his horn as he is surrounded by a herd of sheep. They slowly meander across the potholed dirt road, brushing against the front, sides and back of his gleaming car with their filthy, wet coats, while he screams obscenities at the sheep, the herder and at his illiterate countrymen that would allow this to happen.

A chador-clad woman stands in the street. As she waves her arm and tries to hail a taxi, her chador rides up revealing a forearm dripping with a fortune in gold bangles, while an ancient, blind woman squats at her feet, begging for money or scraps of food.

A towering mosque laden with gold and jade, stands in tribute to the incredible architecture of centuries past, while beggars with limbs missing seek shelter in the shade provided by its magnificent minarets.

In the capital city of Tehran, a theater marquee stands twelve feet high and pictures a female strapped to a pillar; she is wearing black fishnet stockings, garter belt, stiletto heels, and black bra with cleavage pouring forth. Lined up on the sidewalk and spilling over into the dirty streets are throngs of men, salivating as they wait to enter the theater. Walking by the theater and on both sides of the street are other figures, covered from head to toe in the traditional black chador, eyes, nose and mouth the only indication that they are women, yet having to hide every strand of hair and femininity to insure they do not cause a man to have “unholy thoughts.” Hellllooooooooooooo!

Okay, now I have to get busy and sell it.

Agents, feel free to contact me!

MELBOURNE: ROOS, KUALA BEARS AND PENGUINS

2011-10-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

MELBOURNE

Melbourne was the last top on our tour. This beautiful place is Australia’s second largest city, an extremely popular destination for expatriates from all over the world. Melbourne enjoys a mild climate with four distinct seasons. The city is located just a few kilometers inland from Port Phillip Bay, where we were to go the next night, with the main part of the city on the northern bank of the Yarra River, with its historic Victorian bridges. The city has a European feel about it with its many historic buildings and attractive cobblestone alleys. Green and leafy, it also has many beautiful public parks, gardens and decorative fountains. It is also seen as multicultural, a shopping and dining capital, with a wide range of shopping malls, markets and specialist shops and dining options to suit all budgets and tastes. They certainly suited ours, as we explored almost every mall we came to, and there were many.

We were so tired by the time we got to Melbourne, that we just wanted to check into the hotel and crash. The hotel was The Crown Plaza, and it was the size of a huge plaza. It had rooms going and coming. Escalators and elevators. Doors and windows and subterranean byways! We noted also that an enormous casino took up the other side of the block from the hotel, and was called, of all things, The Crown Casino. Much later we discovered that at one time our hotel had been the casino, which made sense to us after all the strange little byways. This “Crown” person seemed to own half the city, or more. We could hardly wait to investigate.

We were a bit put-off when our van pulled up to the hotel. First off, we’d just left a 5-star, the Shangri-La, in Sydney, and were accustomed to a palatial setting; secondly, the hotel was rather dingy and the entrance was downright unappealing in its shade of prison grey. We looked at each other, rolled our eyes and wanted to bolt. Stop! This isn’t where we want to be; we’re 5-starers! But, we soldiered on.

Inside it wasn’t quite as bad, but had a strange architectural design; not like any hotel either of us had ever seen. We checked in, were given room keys and proceeded on our way. Hey, what the heck? First off, there was a set of escalators, no elevators, which made us roll our eye yet again. We took the escalator up to a large open area that had a lovely view of the Yarra River from its many-many windows, with various cozy sitting areas placed along its immense walls. It looked for all the world like another lobby area. But where were the rooms? We asked a passing porter where we were. “Oh, no worries, just hop on that lift to your floor.” Now we are getting nervous. An escalator to nowhere, then a lift to another strange sitting room, again with various overstuffed chairs grouped around windows for excellent views of the city, but still no rooms. The place was deathly quiet, no evidence of any tourists who might be staying here. Once again a porter happened by. “Can you please tell us where our room is?” “Oh, sure, no worries, just follow me straight away.”

Another set of elevators and we were at our room. The porter opened the door for us, and we stopped. Ginger sniffed and made a face: “It stinks in here.” I took a whiff and had to agree that it smelled rather old and musty. Then we opened the drapes. An over-sized picture widow looked down on grey, ugly metal rooftops of some sort. We could see the river about three blocks up the avenue. Okay, stop again.

I called the front desk. “This room is unacceptable,” I said. “We’re supposed to have a room with a view, all we see here are views of tin rooftops.” She said she had no such order but would be glad to upgrade us to a room with a nice view, for quite a bit more money. We squabbled a bit, and finally gave in, paid through the nose, and ended up with a lovely view of the city, the river, and nightlights. Spectacular. Every night at dusk, they would send up fire-flares around the river, lighting up the whole area.

Our first tour was that same evening. We’d much rather have flopped down and slept, but had only two hours before the scheduled departure. The tour was in the Colonial Tramcar Restaurant. The train car, built in 1869, was used right up to the abandonment of the cable tram system in 1930, over 55 years. Later, an electric tramway system was adopted to replace the cable cars. The Colonial Tramcar restaurant is the proud recipient of four national tourism awards and nine Victorian tourism awards, a nod to its excellence and professional service. The tramcar restaurant is a major tourist attraction for visitors to Melbourne. The train had undergone extensive rebuilding and refurbishing to ready for a first-class dining experience. We tooted around the city as we ate in splendor: a three-course dinner, along with an incredible dessert, all made by a famous Melbourne chef. Drinks were included. As many as you like, mate!

I finally found a boyfriend. He said he owned the train; I found out he was a conductor!

The next day we were scheduled for a 12-hour tour around the famous Bells Beach Road and the great ocean road and its miles of golden sandy beaches, shear cliffs and amazing rock formations. From there it was more of the same and we both felt we couldn’t do 12 hours of sightseeing. We opted instead to take a city tour and enjoyed it immensely.

On the city tour we visited Captain Cook’s home, set among what felt like a five city block park. It was breathtaking. Exotic flowers and greenery everywhere you looked. It was amazing to see how they lived in those days; the house could not have been more than ten-feet square, with straw mattresses and wood plank floors. The word Spartan comes to mind.

The rest of the day we spent strolling the beautiful walkways along the city and Yarra River. We’d stop, notice an ice cream shop nearby, order 10 scoops and then sit on a park bench and pig out. We told ourselves that we were talking off all the calories. That night we visited the casino. We were overwhelmed as we walked inside. it was over the top: 500 table games and 3,000 slot machines. Dozens of restaurants, food courts, movie theaters, and dance halls. Amazing! Around all the entrances and side-rooms, goon-like guys were stationed, looking for all the world like Mafia goons. Ginger innocently pulled out her camera, when a large, ham-bone-size hand touched her shoulder. She whirled around to see the goon, who had a goon-look on his face. "No cameras allowed" he said in his well-rehearsed goon voice. We played a couple machines, bid the goons goodnight and went back to our hotel and bed.

Our last cruise was 9.5 hours, but well worth it. Our tour took us to a cattle farm where birds, kangaroos, and wombats ran amok. Ginger was brave enough to walk up to the roos and pet one, but as I’d just seen a lady get a swift kick in the leg from a pissed-off roo, I decided I’d pass. Walking back to the main ranch house, the owner had some great-looking sausages on the barbee. I couldn’t wait to try one. She grabbed a slice of white bread, slapped a sausage in the middle, poured some tomato sauce (we call it Ketchup) on it, and handed it to me. I had it digested before we even paid for it. On the bus later in the day, someone asked if anyone had tried the kangaroo sausages. Did I try one, he asked. HELL NO! I answered, as I felt a giant heave in my belly, followed by a rather loud belch! I still denied it.

After eating a kangaroo, I would pass on the Koala kabob!

The tour bus drove along spectacular beaches and scenic coastlines of Phillip Island. We could see wildlife jumping and frolicking in the sea grass and hills as we passed by. We stopped at the famous Nobbies rock formation overlooking one of the most treacherous expanses of water in the world, Bass Strait. I jumped out and took pictures, but would not venture out on the point for a better view, which of course is exactly where Ginger went. However, her camera card was full, so I used my iPhone, which does not do that majestic scene any favors.

At sunset, we were all gathered around the water at Summerland Beach, waiting for the little penguins to perform their nightly ritual. They can have as few as 10 or as many as 1000 come ashore on any night. They were so adorable as they waddled up the sand to their nesting places. It was most amazing.

The next day was a free day, so we decided to check out a few things we’d heard about: the famous old jail where people were beaten, hanged and lost forever. It was bone-chilling walking through the cold, cement enclosures. Then we were led into a sort of police station for interrogation and fingerprinting. It was supposed to mock a real arrest, and the gal did a great job of it. "Drop your pants,” she thundered to one goofy-looking guy, “I think you’re hiding contraband.” We all laughed. “What’s funny,” she growled, “now you can all drop your pants.” We stopped laughing.

After the jain, Ginger wanted to see the Skydeck, an 81-foot monster that is supposed to be the highest building in the Southern hemisphere. The elevator shot up to the 81st floor as if it were only three or four floors. I leaned against the wall of the elevator, trying to become invisible. Again, Ginger dragged me out to enjoy the spectacular view. Well, it was amazing, as long as I stood ten feet back from the glass walls.

The next morning we bid farewell to a beautiful country and wonderful people. Our flight was a bit late, but everything else went smoothly; Customs, Immigration, no body peeking booths. Once in the air, Ginger put on her mask, closed her eyes, and I didn’t see her face again until we landed at LAX. I, of course, stayed awake to help the pilot fly the plane. Everything was great.

Then we landed at LAX.

AUSTRALIA TRIP - SYDNEY

2011-10-17T03:07:00.000-07:00

SYDNEY HARBOR

We had a pleasant three-hour flight to Sydney. Again, a beautiful airport, so clean you didn’t want to walk on the shiny floors. We found our luggage and then looked for our shuttle driver. A grouchy-looking man stood by the door. He didn’t seem to be looking for anyone. He held a sign, but it was turned toward him and we couldn’t read it. “Norwood party?” I asked. “Yes,” he growled, “follow me.” He took our luggage, all 200 pounds of it, and began walking. And walking. And finally I hollered up to him, “Excuse me, sir, are we walking to our hotel?” He turned around, gave me a hateful look, and said: “No Madam! You didn’t order a private shuttle. I had to park two blocks away!” Sheesh! What a grouch. “What country are you from, Mohammad?” I innocently (not really) asked. I knew he was from the Middle East by his accent and his grouchy face. I really just wanted to say, “Khale shoma chatore” which means, hello, how are you? hoping he might be nicer. He turned again to face us: “Australia!” he growled,” then turned and kept walking. Ouch! I’d hit a sore sport. Ginger was afraid I was going to start a Fatwa and gave me a pained look that said, “Shut T.. F… Up!” Mohammad spoke no more, and drove like a mad man to our hotel, while we flew around in the back of the shuttle.

We finally arrived at the front of The Shangri-La Hotel, the most beautiful hotel I’d seen. He dumped our luggage on the ground, and took off. Ouch again! We walked along in awe. So ornate, all glass, gold and granite, with dark mahogany wood and enormous windows everywhere. Then we were led to our room. The bellman opened the door and the first thing I saw was a King bed. “OH NO!” I cried. “We ordered two Queens. I can’t sleep with her, she snores!” The poor bellman looked bewildered. “Call the desk, please, and get us another room with two queens.” Ginger stood at the window overlooking the harbor and a most incredible view of the city, skyscrapers, blue sky and white thunderheads. “No!” she cried. “I won’t snore, I promise. This is fine. We’ll take it.” “No,” I cried, “She snores.” The porter stood rooted in the hall, waiting for a final directive. I finally picked up the phone and spoke to the reception desk. “This room is unacceptable. We ordered two queen beds.” The desk sent another porter up to move us to a room with two queen-beds. Ginger pouted, I smiled, and we were led to another beautiful room with the same amazing view. The sun was pouring in through the immense windows as we stood admiring the scenery below, when we noticed the room was very warm. I asked the porter to turn on the AC before he left the room, which he did, but added that the room was warm because the sun was beaming in the window, and would cool off as soon as the sun moved on. After we unpacked, hung clothes, put our things in the bathroom, the room still felt warm. I called the desk yet again. This time they sent up an engineer who discovered that the motor to the AC had burned out and could not be fixed until the next day. He called the front desk to report this, and I took the phone from him. Helloooooo, we are not happy. Ginger’s in the background hissing: “Get us a free dinner, get us a free dinner!” The manager apologized and told us she was upgrading us for our troubles to new room with a view of the Opera House, which I thought we were going to have in the firs place. I told her she might want to assuage our pain by offering us a complimentary dinner. She acquiesced, but only 50% off. Ginger was pissed. Later that night, we accepted her offer. The restaurant was beautifully appointed, glass floor to ceiling on three sides to enjoy the beautiful city of Sidney at night. I politely ordered just a small bit of food, Ginger ordered the beef, lamb, and pork, as well as the potatoes, veggies and wine. It was a lovely dinner at $134 for the two of us, but of course only 50% did we pay. Our third and last room, was lovely; now we not only had the opera house view, but were fortunate enough to see a fireworks display from our huge window that first night.

The first few days we cruised the beautiful harbors; Sydney and Darling. The Sydney Harbor is often referred to as the most beautiful natural harbor in the world, and we could see why. The Circular Quay is the hub for the ferries that carry hundreds of tourists around the 149 miles of shoreline every day, all day. As we cruised along the miles of beautiful water, the captain pointed out an area along the way, where homes were worth upwards of $30M. We could live here.

SYDNEY HARBOR BRIDGE

We also took a one-hour guided tour of the famous Opera House, the largest in the world, and were amazed at its vastness and splendor. The building was begun in 1957 and finally, after many setbacks, was completed in 1973. It is admired internationally and proudly treasured by the people of Australia. It is a graceful piece of urban sculpture in patterned tiles, glistening in the sunlight and invitingly aglow at night. The acoustic are world renowned, with the seats specially made to grasp and contain the sound coming from the stage. The way it was built, every seat in the house receives perfect audio, while the actors on stage use no microphones. Amazing!

Because I can normally make friends on an iceberg, I picked stranger’s brains everywhere we went. Never know what you might find out if you ask. All of the people we talked to were most helpful, happy to give us names of places to see and directions. One couple told us about a ticket we could purchase which would give us transportation on bus, train and ferry for one week. We learned a lot about the city, the country, and its people; things that most tourists might never know.

The next few days we did trains, planes and automobiles; well, not really planes or automobiles, but we did ferries, buses and trains. One of the trips was a two-hour train ride to the Blue Mountains, where we stopped at several small cities, circa 1800s, with old churches, shops and homes. In one restaurant, in a back room, they had an RCA Victrola with a Caruso record on the turntable as if waiting to be played. The restaurant was built in the 1800s, and the owners had kept the original decor, with wood carved benches and tables, cash registers from the early 1800s, and pictures of visitors from days gone by. We also managed to scarf up some of their wonderful meat pies that are famous in Australia.

MANLEY BAY

We also visited Manley Bay by ferry. We walked along the shoreline, which reminded us of the Caribbean, with its aquamarine water, palm trees, white puffy clouds and white sandy beaches. We also had to try the famous fish and chips that Aussies are so crazy about, plus their wonderful homemade ice cream.

We were to leave for Melbourne the next day, when we heard about Quantas engineers’ impending strike. They had already started canceling domestic fights out of Sydney, and other cities in Au. Now, what the heck were we going to do if they canceled our flight to Melbourne. Oh well, “No worries, mate!”

CAIRNS: RAIN FOREST, SKY RAIL AND GREAT BARRIER REEF

2011-10-12T23:52:00.000-07:00

AUSTRALIA TRIP –
CAIRNS – RAIN FOREST, SKY RAIL AND GREAT BARRIER REEF

Again, we were amazed by the sparkling airport, as well as the friendliness of the Aussies as we alighted from our plane in Cairns. You could have eaten off the airport floor tiles. High-end stores from all over the world, gourmet restaurants and gleaming lavatories. Wow! We looked like a couple of country bumpkins just let off the farm. Of course, every turn we had to stop and ask someone where the hell we were. The roads, the buses, the trains! The whole place, city, airport and train stations were like Grand Central Station, and we were two nuts from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” And everything is downhill. My aching knee!

We had a pleasant shuttle ride from the airport to the hotel. Clean streets, with a moderate amount of traffic. The hotel was The Pacific International; A 4-star, by the looks of it. Bright, gleaming lobby with friendly smiles all around. Porters eager to assist with our luggage, and the biggie here was we were told "No Tipping." Can you belive it? I felt guilty every time I signed for room service, or the coffee bar. A couple times I did add a tip. Can't teach an old dog new tricks, as they say.

The first thing we saw from our over-sized window was an enormous casino across the street from the hotel. I'm sure it's the largest one in the world, but then I haven't seen them all--yet. It looked like some sort of Sports Arena for the Lakers. I made a mental note to take my money there for a visit before we left town. Our room was lovely, spacious and bright. We tested the beds like Goldilocks, and deemed them "..,just perfect." We dropped our luggage and then had the daunting task of emptying our suitcases and restructuring the mess inside. We needed cooler clothes. We’d just left Brisbane, which was in the low 70s, and were headed into the rain forest the next day, which would be in the 80s, and humid.

After the clothes mess and the late hour, we were too tired to go out and ordered room service. As food is higher than our national debt, we decided to split a hamburger, fries and a dessert. We expected something on a tray, but when it was delivered, there stood a gentleman with a huge collapsible table, and one little hamburger in the center. Quite embarrassing. Anyway, he struggled and got the table inside. We sat in our jammies, with the table crammed between the queen beds and pretended it was the most elegant meal we’d ever had. We sipped our water as if it was the finest wine and sent our compliments to the chef.

The next morning, our shuttle took us to the train station for a ride up to see the Rain Forest. The train was circa 1920s, with pictures of days gone by everywhere. The ride to the top was a tad nerve-wracking, at least for me. Ginger loves speed and death-defying rides, so she smiled while I turned a shade of Dolce & Gabanna green. The train stopped along the route (way too close to the edge of the mountain) for picture-taking, while I stayed put on my seat and tried to envision green, flat golf courses. I took a peek out the window once, and was startled to see that the track itself was lying on ground that looked like one good rain would take it downhill. Help! More “S” curves and then we reached the top. Incredible! There seemed to be hundreds of different colored trees, different sizes, and different varieties, all reaching for the sky. At least four shades of greens and velvety browns. At the top we caught the Sky Rail, (or should I say Ginger caught it and dragged me along with her). The view looking down was unbelievable! At some points we couldn’t even see the ground below for miles, it was so dense.

While at the top, we were given ample time to stroll through a myriad of tourist shops, ice cream and bakeries. Our tour included a delightful complementary buffet that we promptly inhaled. The waitress asked if we’d like coffee or tea, and we both ordered iced tea. We chatted with two couples at our table during the meal, and then proceeded outside for the Aboriginal interpretative dance and talk. Halfway down the walkway, a very panicked waitress came running towards us, waiving a piece of paper in the air. “You forgot to pay for your iced tea,” she wheezed. We'd both assumed the drinks came with the buffet, and told her so. She was not happy. “Madam, coffee and tea were offered with your buffet, not Iced Tea.” Well, another $30 made its way into the AU economy, but we were not ugly Americans about it. We waited until she was out of earshot to bitch about “…the nerve….”

THE RAIN FOREST

We took the sky tram back down to visit a small little zoo, where sweet little Koala bears napped in the trees. I was a bit disappointed in the Kangaroos; all they wanted to do was scratch and stare. I’ve yet to see one up and hopping about, which is a bummer. However, we were offered a picture of a hopping kangaroo for $50, which we declined. We walked for what seemed like miles, weaving our way back to the bottom of the hill. Ginger detoured a bit when she met a bushman along the way. She has all the luck!

That night, to reward ourselves for all the walking we’d done and the strain on my poor knee and back, we visited the casino. Wow! Again! Amazing. It had to be the largest casino I’d ever been in, and spotless. I wondered why I didn’t smell any smoke as we entered, and then found out why. They said there was a smoking area outside! Do you believe it? In other words, no smoking anywhere in the casino. I was amazed. There were tables and chairs for just sitting and lounging right in the middle of the gambling areas. So thoughtful! We decided to have a snack there, but the devil made us order sweets; I had a very modest-sized muffin, while Ginger took what little money we had left and had a piece of carrot cake the size of a slot machine. Such pigs! We donated about $20 and decided we’d leave.

Tomorrow we’re off to see the Great Barrier Reef.

GREAT BARRIER REEF
In the morning a shuttle delivered us to the jetty where we boarded a monstrous catamaran to take us to the Great Barrier Reef. The cat ride took one and a half hours to arrive at the reef; the view was glorious and the azure water was breathtaking. They tied up the Cat to a floating barge, which held all the snorkeling and SCUBA diving gear, all the food, along with tables and sun chairs.

We signed up for the snorkeling, but elected to have a thirty-minute massage before going into the water. The masseuse expertly rubbed out all our old age aches and pains, and we felt young again as we donned our masks and snorkels. We then joined a group of young fantastic-looking males (I think they were extras for a new weight-building contest). Well, now that I think of it more clearly, there were about six old ladies, hanging on our rubber raft. Ginger floated lazily and happily. I struggled to keep afloat with a porcine octogenarian who had to prove to her grandson that she could snorkel, while she held tight to my arm, and kept falling against me, grabbing me, and kicking me in the groin. I thought I was going to drown. She held on tight, dragging me under with her. I finally gave her a kick in the groin and snorkeled off. Okay, I didn’t really do that (but thought about it). I helped her get her gear on right, taught her the sniff and blow technique, and then pushed her under.

A beautiful blue fish, about three-and-a-half feet long, floated up to us as we snorkeled. Evidently, this fish has been entertaining swimmers for some years. Everyone reached out to pet him, which he seemed to enjoy. His body had the feel of velet. I can’t imagine how my skin would feel after years in the water. When I finally emerged, I was freezing. I asked around for a towel and was told that most people had brought their own, but they did sell them at the main desk. I assumed it would be 5 or 10 dollars for a beach-size towel, but was given a small bath-size towel and charged $20. It’s grey, it’s short, it’s ugly, has no embroidery claiming that “I snorkeled with the sharks” on it, but damn’it, twenty dollars is twenty dollars. I’m bringing that towel back home with me.

They set out a beautiful buffet on the barge, and offered cocktails and sweets. We laid out in the sun, then back to the coast. We were in bed by 7 p.m., ready for our next exciting trip: Sydney.

2011-10-08T14:29:00.002-07:00

AUSTRALIA TRIP
KINGFISHER BAY RESORT, FRASER ISLAND:
DAY ???

So confused, not sure what day it is. They have strange times here, drive on the right side of the road and also the wrong side of the bus, so how can I keep up? When I say “excuse me, can you tell me…” they say, “No worries, mate!” and offer you that wonderful helpful smile. Yesterday was kind of a lazy day, just what the doctor ordered. Our tour for the day was to be a trip on 4-wheel-drive jeeps around the island, while the forest ranger showed us and told us the history of the island; its wildlife and dangers. When we checked in at the desk they did indeed tell us the tour was cancelled as all roads were closed, and those that were open, were for fire personnel only.

We had a small little bungalow, with a beautiful pond at our front patio. The birds swooped in and out of our view as they chased one another in this beautiful setting. We sat on our patio and drank one for the folks back home. Our walkway was a wooden path, elevated about three feet off the ground, which we imagined was to keep the fierce Dingos, deadly spiders and creepy crawlies from taking a nibble or two from our epidermis.

Ginger and I decided to “have a walk” as they say here, and headed for the beach. The boardwalk from the resort was a winding, tree-covered maze with assorted low-hanging vines, trees of incredible beauty we’d never seen before, and also home to many cranky poisonous snakes. We walked a little faster with eyes skyward. We found our way to the jetty, which led us to a beautiful white sandy beach, where we did the normal touristy thing and took pictures, all the while watching for the infamous Dingos. Beautiful! I can imagine the excitement the Aborigines felt after sailing from wherever (no one is sure where they came from, other than it was about 4000 years ago). Just seeing the beautiful island after years at sea, and being able to come ashore, must have been a dream. As Bill Bryson says in his book: “A Sunburned Country,” it was NOT Cook who discovered Australia, but rather the Aborigines, long before Cook ever pulled on his big-boy pantaloons.

The rest of the day we spent strolling through coffee shops, eating every goody in sight, tourist shops, and learning about the wildlife. At 7 p.m. we joined in a ranger’s talk about the Dingo. I raised my hand. “I’m a little worried when we walk the beach or the long wood path to our cabin. What do we do if we encounter a Dingo?” The ranger chuckled. “No worries,” she said, “we have a high fence around the whole camp; they can’t get into the resort.” Well fine! The bus driver really got us. But she did say we might encounter them on the beach. She told us the Dingo was brought here hundreds of years ago by explorers from Asia. They run and attack in packs. Rather than charge their prey, like a Wallaby for example, they wait until the animal is on the beach scrounging for food, then walk toward their prey until it backs into the ocean and drowns. When the carcass comes ashore with the tide, the Dingos “have a go at it.”

We inadvertently sat in on a bird talk, of all things. Actually, we were about to walk out of the room after the Dingo talk, when the ranger immediately put the bird video on the screen. Not wanting to appear rude we sat still (well sort of, Ginger’s head did much bobbing). But after 800 species fluttering, squawking, and eating worms, I decided it was time to go. Plus, Ginger had fallen asleep with her head on her chest, and someone in the back mistook it for a bird call.

We are taking the ferry back to the mainland today, and will be dropped at the airport and fly to Cairns; hopefully without any skin missing.

The next morning we were bussed back to the Cairns airport. We entered the airport, hauling two gigantic bags apiece, and stopped dead in our tracks. There were no check in counters, no agents that we could see, nothing but fat little check-in machines six inches on center. Everywhere we looked they stood like little Martians awaiting to fly off. I was afraid if I slipped something in the slot it would take a bite! I frantically looked around, found an agent behind a post, earnestly looking busy. It was more like a pillar which was holding up the roof, complete with a flip-up desk and a computer underneath. I looked pathetic and begged her to help us. We had a 2:15 p.m. flight and it was now 2:05. She gracefully agreed to help us; otherwise we’d still be in the airport. The machines are incredible. I’m surprised the US doesn’t have them. First you have to check in, either by typing in your name or passport. When it recognizes you, it spits out your boarding pass. Then you must run to another funny-looking machine, a bigger Martian, and slide your boarding pass into its open yaw. The machine asks you how many bags you have, you answer, then it says: weight please, at which time you grunt and slide your luggage onto its base tray. If you are overweight, you are taken to jail…just kidding, but if you are overweight, you must either lighten the load, or find another suitcase, or pay $9 billion dollars. After going through all this, we ran like idiots to the security area, where we were in line for another ten minutes. I guess no one cared if we missed our plane. We had no hotel, had no idea where we were, but as luck would have it, our plane was delayed AGAIN. But this time to our advantage.

WERE OFF TO CAIRNS: Or as we were told: pronounce the city as ... Canns-as in soda cans; Cahn, as in James Cahn; Cains as in Cains and Abel. Also, another fact we learned: do not pronounce “Aussies” with an “S.” it’s “Auzzies” with a “Z.” If you pronounce it with an “S” you’ve immediately branded yourself as a feraner! “Please pronounce it with a “Z” it’s much more friendly!” Okay mate, no worries, there!

2011-10-05T01:29:00.000-07:00

AUSTRALIA TRIP - DAY TWO OR THREE:
10/3/11 BRISBANE, AU (PRONOUNCED BRISBUN)

It’s 1:30 a.m. your time, and 8:30 a.m. AU time, but we’re a day ahead of you; very weird indeed. We left the USA on October 1st and entered AU on October 3rd, with only a fifteen-hour flight. That means we lost one whole day out of our lives. Where did it go? Do we feel any different? Not sure yet. But what happened to our cells, did they just blow away into extinction? Are they patiently sitting in a holding pattern at the International Dateline waiting for us to return? Do they just glob into us as we soar by? What if someone else’s cells grab on and we lose ours? These are things I’m contemplating as I sit on my veranda overlooking a beautiful marsh at the Kingfisher Bay Resort on Fraser Island. Every now and then an excruciatingly beautiful bird, yellows, red and purples, lands on one of the strangest looking flora and fauna at the edge of our veranda, I’ve ever seen….but I digress. Back to our 2nd day, which happens to be our first day…or something like that.

Arrived in Brisbane at 8:30 AU time. We were exhausted, then had to push, pull, and tug our heavy luggage through Customs, then through another line that checked to make sure it was our luggage we were walking away with. Found our shuttle to hotel, Siebel Citigate Hotel. It was nice, but certainly not a four-star, which was what we expected. Ginger dropped like a rock into bed. We didn’t feel well so we decided to stay in. She got comfy in her jammies while I started organizing my messy luggage and bags. I decided that I didn’t want to carry around my heavy computer bag, so would find another bag and ship this one home. We ordered room service, and split a grilled turkey club and fries; $23 plus $5 tip. Food terribly high in AU. I showered, and we slept about one hour, then we took a walk to see the city.

A great little shopping area about a block from the hotel. We noticed that everyone was so friendly here, and ready to help with directions or any questions you had for them, from wait staff to cleaning ladies; from desk clerks to salesgirls. I might add the girls have the most beautiful and creamy skin; not sun lovers like the So. Cal girls I suspect.

I found a luggage place on our stroll and bought a small, wheeled carry-on that would hold my computer. I planned on sending my current, heavy, thick and old computer bag home via post. However, after some rational thought (unusual for me), realized that would not be cost-effective, so returned the cute, lightweight one the next day. Viva the Return Queen. I’m afraid both Ginger and I are going to be seriously over-weight (airlines and body) by the end of the holiday. We started out heavy, just under 50 lbs. that the airlines requires, and have added a few things along the way.

We found a beautiful cathedral on our walk and stepped inside to see the most gorgeous pipe organ, which I felt rivaled any I’d seen in Europe. As we entered the church, dressed in sweats and looking rumpled after a 15-hour flight, a woman approached us: "Hello, are you here for the wedding?" Really????

We stopped at a coffee shop, sampled all their sweets and of course ordered them. We both ordered coffee, but when the salesgirl asked us if we wanted “flat white” or “tall black” we stared at her. “Huh?” “Flat black” with their accent sounded like “Flight Blike.” Eventually we learned that they don’t brew coffee like we do in the States; it’s made like our lattes, with steamed milk if you want cream, and cost as much as our new cars. We headed back to the hotel in sprinkles, and I organized again, fell asleep at 7 p.m., Ginger watched TV, then slept.

I awoke at 2:30 a.m. and could not sleep. Tried for another hour then got up, put on my face, dressed and left for the lobby, hoping I could get a “Flight Blike” downstairs. When I pushed the “lift” button, I heard the elevator making strange noises and lots of grinding. I had to push it several times to get it to the 9th floor. When I stepped in, I pushed a button for the lobby. The door closed but the lift did not move. I waited. I pushed again and suddenly I was dropping—it felt like three floors—then came to another teeth-jarring stop.

I froze. OMG! I looked for the red emergency button, pushed it, but no sound. Nothing. Quiet as a mausoleum! The emergency bell must be ringing down in the lobby, I thought. Surely someone will be calling me on the lift phone to tell me not to worry, be there in a sec. I pushed it again after a few more rapid heartbeats. No sound. I grabbed the railing, held my breath and pushed the G button again, and the damn thing dropped again, then another grinding noise as it slammed to a stop. Then silence! I pushed the red button again. Nothing. OMG! I thought about a YouTube I’d just seen where the guy was stuck in an elevator for about 36 hours with nothing but a briefcase. OH NO! No Panti-liners! In fact, no nothing. What if this thing free-falls to the basement? I’d be flattened against the ceiling with a terrified grimace on my face when they found me. I pushed again, and held on to the railing. It hesitated then slammed down to the G floor, where the doors opened as nicely as you please. I expected to see paramedics and hotel employees standing there as the door opened, prepared to give me sympathy and a free stay. Instead, the place was eerily quiet. I walked to the reception area, quiet. Found a cleaning lady and asked where is everybody? She called and a front desk clerk materialized. I was still shaking as I approached her desk. Did you not hear me call from the emergency button on the elevator? No, she heard nothing. Are you okay, she asks with mild concern. Well, just shaken up a bit, I said. Can you get me some coffee? Yes, I’ll call room service for you and have them deliver it here in the lobby. Oh, thank you. After that terrifying episode I felt coffee would be most welcome. I also KNEW there would be no charge, as after all, I was nearly crushed to death on the ceiling of the lift.

A few minutes later a woman appeared with a tray of coffee, and a nice fat bill, with the room service charge added on to the coffee bill, which she handed me and which I accepted and signed. Doesn’t anyone care that I almost died? I signed the $15 charge. I’d just wait for the manager to assuage my terrified emotions, and also remove the $15 charge. When he came on duty he walked over to me with a sad look on his face. Did the clerk tell you what happened to me? Oh, by all means, he said. Sorry for your discomfort. I checked the lift and it’s a bit cranky, so I put a “closed” sign on it. CRANKY, it was downright hateful. I took an obvious sip of my coffee, expecting him to say he’d take it off my bill, but NO. Just smiled and walked away as I waived the $15 bill after him. He didn’t turn around.

After I’d recovered from my terror, Ginger and I walked to the shopping mall again, returned the carry-on, bought an umbrella and sun tan lotion; a dichotomy, I know. But we were told it might rain, but after the rain it would be sunny and beautiful.

According to our itinerary, we were to catch a tour bus to the Kingfisher Bay Resort. However, what we caught was a ride in a ratty, shock-absorber-less old shuttle bus. And painted on its side was: THE WORLDS BEST TOUR BUS. I don’t think so!!!! It was a looooong four-hour, bumpy ride, on seats that were part concrete covered in thin cotton. We were dropped at a spot, along with our luggage, where the driver told us: “Wait here for the shuttle to take you to the ferry. It’ll be along shortly,” then drove away, leaving us in an extremely cold environment, with our summer clothes, luggage and empty stomachs. Actually, it was an hour-and-a-half before that bus appeared.

We were told that around the corner there was a nice restaurant where we could grab a bite. We then had to haul our luggage with us, around many corners. The restaurant was lovely, al fresco, and cold. Ginger said the “seafood chowder” might be good, so of course I had to order that too, when what I really wanted was a hamburger. When they brought the dish, it was scary. Looking up at us was a pair of beedy little eyes, feelers, attached to five inches of prawn. I gagged, Ginger winced, and then asked the waitress would she mind de-shelling this creature, which she didn’t want to touch. The waitress was shocked, amazed and insulted that we would ask such a thing, but took both of the inert bodies back to the chef, and brought them back skinned and edible (which we were not able to eat). The chef probably spit on them anyway!

On the ride, the bus driver told us a little of the history of the island. He also told us to beware of the Dingos, as they ate people regularly. He also said: Anything that can bite, claw, scratch or maim you, would probably also kill you. Lovely! He said the Dingos usually came around the pool area of the resort, so we should be aware of that and not try to pet them or give them food. Hellooooooo, I think we got that.

On our ferry ride, they announced that the island was on fire, not contained yet, but they felt the resort was safe. We weren’t so sure. He also said most tours were cancelled for the next day because of the fire danger. It was a bit smoky as we came off the ferry, but he assured us that it would probably be out in a couple days. We were disappointed that it was dark by the time we arrived at the resort, and missed the beauty of it all, but when we leave here, it will be 8:30 a.m. and we’ll be able to see the whole landscape; ocean, island and forest.

Our room was a quaint little cottage, with a lovely view of the wilderness and plant life of the island. We will not be touching anything that could bite, claw, scratch or main us while here.

AUSTRALIA TRIP: DAY ONE-OFF TO BRISBANE

2011-10-03T12:19:00.000-07:00

TWENTY-TWO HOURS OF SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Saturday, 10/1: Dropped puppy at super-friend, Robin’s house, then drove to Joe and Gails’s house for a wonderful bon-voyage dinner for my traveling buddy, Ginger, and myself. Friends, Dave and Ginny, let us park our cars in their one acre yard, and we called for the shuttle to LAX.

The fist clue we were in trouble was the shuttle driver’s obvious lack of backing-up skills as he wove back and forth trying to avoid the brick columns along the path. He tried several times to back the old, tired Ford Van into the driveway, finally giving up half-way in. We dragged our luggage to the van, afraid if we didn’t, we’d miss our plane.

He asked what terminal we were going to. “To Brisbane on Quantas,” we said. “Which one?” he asked. “Is there more than one?” “Yes,” he replied as if talking to two children, “there’s Quantas in the Bradley building and Quantas in Terminal 4.” We looked at each other, nonplussed. I whipped out my cell phone and called our travel agent. “It’s Bradley,” she said, most irritated, “he should know that.”

Ginger climbed in and seat-belted up, then I slipped in. No seat belt. I found various and sundry straps, and several buckles that kept slipping under my butt as I scooted across the seat, but when we tried to make the connection, it was a no-go. When I complained that I couldn’t get these things to cooperate, the driver pulled to the curb, groused about missing a turn because he was listening to me grouse. He tired to belt me in and realized it was a lost cause. He then asked me to “lift up” so he could slip his hand under me and find the buckle. When I raised my rump, out slipped a little gas bubble, with just a hint of a sound. The driver jumped backwards like he'd been shot. Ginger giggled while I gave her a dirty look, then I began to laugh. The driver mumbled something in a foreign language that I’m sure were meant to call down a hex upon our families and their descendants. He found the elusive buckle, belted me in, then slammed the door. He jumped in the driver's seat and screeched off, as our necks flew back with whiplash. Geesh! It was just an accident. I had a lot of bubbles rolling around inside due to my fear of flying, so I say he was lucky it was just one, and small at that!

The driver was from some indeterminate country where they seem to like to hit every bump and hole in the road—at high speeds. We finally arrived at the Bradley building, where he off-loaded our baggage without a smile. Sorry! We dragged our 48 and 49.5 pound bags into the terminal, only to find that we were supposed to be at Terminal #4 “Bradley is for Auckland and Sidney, and Terminal 4 is for Brisbane and Melbourne. We left, dragging our 48 and 49.5 pound bags about a block down the road. “Good thing we’re early,” we said in unison. Our plane was scheduled to take off at 11:20 p.m. It was now 7 p.m. We had plenty of time.

I’d expected lines of irate travelers as they headed toward signs that read: Step right up. This way to the “See Your Privates X-ray Machine,” along with stern TSA Folks. The line was really not that long, but the Folks still pushed us ahead pretty fast. By the time I emptied all my paraphernalia from my computer case, crawled out of my shoes and jacket, we were almost up to the “I See Your Privates” machine. I began to fret as I neared the monster. I’d heard some horrible stories about these Peeping-Tom x-rays, and what they could see. I’d worn a panty-liner (extra protection against sudden onset of sneezing or laughing fits) for this fifteen-hour flight, and I, with my vivid imagination, conjured up what would happen as I entered said machine: “Ma’am, please step out and against that wall.” “Huh?” He then would talk to someone on his shoulder mic: TSA 1 to TSA 2 - Sir, I’ve detected an unidentifiable object in this lady’s underwear. What’s that, sir? Roger, sir! That’s a big 10-4.” Then he would turn to me and say: “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to step in this room with me and hand over that UFO you’re hiding in your panties.”

But luck won out. The couple in front of us were taking way too long to get their carry- ons into the little plastic carriers, so a TSA Folk waved Ginger and me into another line where we walked through the “I Can’t See Into Your Privates” machine and thus bypassed the whole Privates-Peeking monster. Thank you gods of travelers who wear panti-liners!

From the TSA area, we proceeded to the waiting area, found two seats and settled in. We had over three hours to wait for our flight. About ten minutes later, I began to fidget. I can’t sit here this long, I said. I'll get stiff. I need to walk. Ginger, being the sweet thing she is, suggested that I might want to think about the 15 hours of sitting ahead of us. So we walked. We stopped in a Duty Free shop, smelled all the wonderful perfumes, and then headed for the place we really waned to head to in the first place: Brioche Doree, a heavenly bakery on the concourse. We split a cookie, bought some water, and paid what amounted to my mortgage payment. I walked across the aisle to a bookstore, picked up a dime-sized bottle of aspirin and handed the clerk a five-dollar bill from my purse. “It’s nine-ninety five” she said without a smile. “WHAT?” Well of course I paid and groused as I walked out of the store.

Ginger waned a sweet roll so we ambled back to the bakery. Not wanting her to feel bad, I ordered a small fudge brownie. I reached for the strap of my purse, only to find no strap, hence, no purse. My heart fibrillated and I thought I would faint. Everything was in my purse; my boarding pass, my passport, my visa and cash, and cell phone, and most importantly, my extra panti-liners!

I knew it! I’d heard about all those pickpocketers at airports. They should all be rounded up and their fingers broken. Instead of worrying about panti-liner bombers, the TSA should be on the lookout for pick-pocketers and thieves.

What the hell would I do now? Ginger would have to go to Australia without me, while I roamed the airport like Tom Hanks.

I ran back to the books store, ready to scream at them for not being on the lookout for pick-pocketers and thieves in their shop, when I spotted the clerk who’d waited on me. She wore a smile, and a strap dangled from her pinkie finger, with my purse attached. OMG! Thank you gods of forgetful old broads.

Now, we’re sitting in the same waiting area. Thirty minutes after we were supposed to board, the agent announced we would be delayed because of engine trouble. Now, I’m a wimp when it comes to flying, terrified of all things that go “bump” during a flight. Did she have to say “engine trouble”? Couldn’t she have said they were taking an extra long time to clean up the mess that the last passengers left?

We finally boarded at 2:15 a.m. instead of 11:20 p.m., which amounted to seven hours of sitting, waiting for our plane. Once aboard, they served us a nice weight-watchers size meal of chicken cacciatore and caramel cream cake dessert. Ginger ate little, then pulled her blanket over her face and went to dreamland. I watched her, enviously, between runs to the head and back. Fortunately, we did have a wonderful bonus; we sat in Economy Plus, which is Quantas Airways concession to under-privileged travelers. Actually it was well worth the price we paid to bump up, as we had at least six inches extra leg room, which allowed us to pile everything on the floor in front of us. Unfortunately, the couple in front of us pushed their seat-backs all the way back, so that when we needed to step out into the aisle we had to put our bodies into the “Limbo” position and literally crawl slide our butts over the center divider, the outside arm, while praying we wouldn’t get our feet wound up in bags, blankets or purse handles in the process. We are hoping for a bulkhead row on our return trip. Maybe I’ll sleep then.

I envy people who can cast all fear to the wind and sleep on airplanes, like Ginger! I snuggled up with a blanket, put on my eye mask, stuck in earplugs, plumped my pillow so it was just right, then stared at the inside of the mask. I crawled out of all my covers and looked over at Ginger: mouth agape in a smile, and I hated her. When she finally awoke, about five hours later, I was so excited to have someone to talk to: “Hi, good morning!” She looked at me, opened her mouth, growled and then turned her head to the window. I guess she didn’t get enough sleep. Oh well, have to crawl over everything now and hit the lavatory again.

More to come tomorrow.

FIRST DRAFT FINALLY FINISHED: A BROAD ABROAD IN IRAN

2011-08-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

A BROAD ABROAD IN IRAN: One Strappy Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs (during the revolution).

It has taken me a few years go get this off the ground, but off it came and now ready for the editing to start. I would venture a guess that it will take 9,222,034 new drafts, but, hey, what else do I have to do.

Lots of interest coming out for the book, which Iran has spurred on by getting itself into hot water; bless Ahmadinejad’s little black heart!

Writing this book, and reliving everything that happened to me in the 70s, brings back some horrific memories as well as some hilarious ones. I seem to see past problems as humorous after a few years have passed. Hopefully my readers will see humor as well.

The Iranian people that my family dealt with were welcoming and kind; the others that seemed to want the country back in the Old Testament pages, well….they’re still there.

My book starts with my husband’s proclamation that we are to move to Iran for eighteen months for a great job offer. He leaves, and six months later we join him. That six months follows me through trials and tribs, handling four children (two teenagers) and a large house that needs to be sold before leaving the country.

We finally get to Iran in July, where I face culture shock and intestinal shock, intrigue and stoning. But, you can read the synopsis on my website, dodiecross.com/books

More to come……..

TO BLOG OR TO WRITE?

2010-07-13T07:17:00.000-07:00

That is the question. I’m really getting into my Iran book, trying desperately to get chapters done. I’ve left my blog sitting since June because I don’t want to take the time out from writing. I’m up to 17 chapters now. The weather is in the 100s and too hot to stick my head out of the house so that saves me some time for writing.

However, I joined a writer’s Read/Review website: “The Next Big Writer” which has helped immensely. As a member, you must “read and review” other author’s writing to gain points to post your own writing. It’s a pretty slick deal. The people who have given me numerous reviews are incredible! That’s doesn’t mean that everyone gave me great reviews; it just means that they were well-versed in HOW to review. Most caught glitches that I did not pick up in my reading, reading and re-reading. Some caught glitches that others missed, however, the ones that missed them found glitches that the first ones missed. Some have offered ways to change a phrase, delete a passage, change POV, get active instead of passive, show don’t tell, all the things a writer knows, but fails to pick up on their own work.

I would recommend any writer who is working on a manuscript or poem to join this group. It’s like attending a Read and Critique class, but you get to stay home in your jammies or undies while hundreds of eyes are reviewing your work.

The website is: www.thenextbigwriter.com
For all you writers, give it a try.

Here’s an excerpt from a chapter I’m working on now in: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs.

JULY, 1977
CHAPTER 16
THE INCREDIBLE ISFAHAN BAZAAR
Noise, Odors and Treasures

“Don’t go to the bazaar without me.”
My husband was hyped up about taking us to this incredible place. “I think you might get a bit overwhelmed, and I want to see your reaction.” I wondered, did he expect me to scream, cry, jump up and down? I admit I am a very excitable person, so maybe all three. He’d told us about the bazaar in some of the letters he’d sent home, but I had no idea what awaited me.

The following Friday we set off on our big adventure. As we approached the square, I could hear an unearthly clamor wafting out from the entrance and was a little apprehensive about entering. I saw that some merchants had their wares lined up around the outside walls of the great edifice, and thought quite clever—no overhead, and they could make a sale before the merchants inside had a chance to corral the tourists.

Hand-blown glass vases, bowls and platters, copper and brass pots gleamed in the bright sun. Exotic-smelling spices and scents called to me. I was eager to buy it all. “Hold off, Earl said, “wait until we get inside and see everything they’ve got.” He herded us toward the entrance.

Then we stepped inside.

Oh, what a glorious, exciting place! But filthy!
Eardrum-piercing Persian and American music blared forth from every nook and cranny, as it mixed radios, tape decks, and the worst offenders of all, the loud speakers which were affixed to the earthen walls. All came together in one huge reverberation. If I concentrated hard enough, I could make out some Neil Diamond, The Beatles and even some Rod Stewart, while Googoosh, Iran’s most famous female singer in the 70s, wailed her disco sounds in the background. All this music was mingled with a multitude of babbling voices as women in chadors, hell bent to get the freshest produce, pushed and shoved against each other, while merchants or “bazaaris” yelled out their prices. It was a cacophony of music, braying donkeys, baaing goats, clucking chickens, ugly sheep and snot-nosed, howling kids, who I might add were all underfoot and running wild. And I was enthralled!

The air was at once fetid and pungent, sour, sweet, and then disgusting. At times the odors were overpowering: meat that should have been tossed a week earlier, along with rotting fruit and rancid oils. Added to this assault on the newcomer’s nose was the rank smell of urine that played in the mix as men chose to relieve themselves against any wall close enough. The worst assault was the occasional smell of animal excrement, dropped at will, and seemingly always underfoot.

The body odor that inundated the bazaar was insufferable, facilitated by the extreme dry heat outside, the humid air inside, and the mass of humanity. I had the distinct feeling that some of that odor might have attached itself to my clothes, so every now and then I’d do a clandestine sniff.

Denny, my ten-year-old son, was intrigued by the animals that roamed freely, while Lauri, my twelve-year-old daughter, hung next to her father, terrified of the leering men. The merchants, men of all shapes, sizes, and colors, wore dark suit coats over sweaters, dark dusty pants and worn down shoes or sandals. Even I was a little wigged out by them. Her father laghed at her fears, “Honey, these men will only keep you prisoner until you’re 20. Don’t be so afraid.”

She didn’t think it was funny. “Mom, it stinks in here.”
I had to agree with her. It was hard to carry on a conversation while breathing through my mouth. I knew better than to use my finicky olfactory glands in this place. “Well of course it does,” Earl said. Haven’t you seen all the animals running around?”

“No, I mean, B.O.”

Denny piped in: “It’s not just B.O., Dad, it’s donkey poop. I just saw a man step in some and he just kept walking.”

Earl was weary of their complaints. He’d been excited to show them the bazaar and all they’d done was worry about everything. “Hey, this is a cultural lesson for you two. There are people here from all over the world. Forget about smells. Try to learn something from it. This is how they traded long before there were any stores. They’d carry all this stuff you see in here with their caravans and head out to trade with other countries.”

“No way, Dad,” Denny said. “You mean on camels across the desert?”

“Yep. The same way Marco Polo got around.”

“Marco Polo? I thought that the name of a pool game.”

I made a mental note: Get son a history book.

As we pushed and shoved our way along, I kept a firm grip on Lauri’s hand, while Denny, begrudgingly, let Earl hold his. It was rather spooky. It seemed that most of the men looked at me with disapproval in their eyes. Did I imagine it? I don’t think so and it ticked me off. I’d made a point of dressing modestly; a long blouse over jeans. Yet, I could feel them undress me with their eyes. They made no secret of it. I was pissed and asked Earl to get in their faces.

“Really, Dodie. This is their country, and I’m not going to start an International incident because some old geezer finds you nice to look at.”

“It’s more than just looking at me,” I said. “They’re gawking, and looking right at my chest.”

“Can’t blame ‘em.”

“The next time we come, I’m wearing a Levi jacket. Let’s see them check out any body parts then.”

“Not me,” Lauri said, “I’m never coming back to this scary place.” And she didn’t. She much preferred going uptown to the gold stores and carpet shops.

I found it intriguing. Everywhere I looked was something I knew I couldn’t live without. Beautiful hand-woven carpets were everywhere; some hung from wobbly wooden racks on the earthen walls, some piled on the dirty floors, while peddlers cajoled you to buy the carpet of your dreams: “Special made for you, Ma-dam.” Picture frames made of camel bone with intricately carved stories of Persia’s history, then filled in with India ink from a cat-whisker brush.

After I’d recovered from the shock of the noise, crowds and odors—wet Sherpas came to mind—I loved it. How could you not love a place that called out to sell you something wonderful? I’d find a way to get around the ogling men, smells and noise. It’s amazing what a person can do when they’re besotted.

And return I did, either with Earl (the kids begged off) or with Trudy, or anyone I could drag along with me. Exploring was what I loved to do, and this place begged for it. The bazaar seemed to be shaped like a huge honeycomb with a vast labyrinth of paths leading in all directions. Dark, unending lanes wound off to even darker places, with dimly lit cubbyholes scooped out of rock and dirt walls, sometimes roofed, sometimes gaps in the top that let in a soft-filtered light. Dirty, fly-encrusted light bulbs hung from ceilings which gave the place a dank, gloomy presence. Dirt paths wound through the maze where you might find someone who sold everything from expensive art to spices to vegetables, locally grown or imported. You could walk forever and never quite see it all in the famous Isfahan Bazaar.

Dozens of peddlers hawking their wares, called to me from stalls no bigger than a small closet. Fine silks to mysterious smelling incense.

At one of the stalls a small boy, maybe four years old, hammered away with a chisel on a copper platter. His little legs hung over the edge of the stool, three feet from the floor, but he knew exactly what he was doing as he pounded away, and then showed his work to the merchant. He obviously was doing a good job as the man would smile, pat him on the top of the head and then offer it to me. Of course I had to buy it from him. Was this “Child endangerment” I was witnessing? Nah! It had to be his son.

One of my greatest finds was a frail, ancient man who looked like he might blow away in a heavy wind. Squatting on a dirt floor, he etched out wondrous engravings on copper and brass pots, plates and vases. I was in awe of the beautiful artistic work coming from such an old man, who looked as though his sight had left him in his 90s. His cataract-filled eyes stared off into space, as he did his handiwork. Could he possibly be blind? I saw him trace his work with his bony fingers, over and over, always ending with a finger on the spot he’d just finished.

I tried to get his attention. I coughed several times, said, “Salam, Agah,” but he never looked up. I squatted down beside him and touched his emaciated arm. “Agah? These are beautiful. Che ghadr?—how much.

He reached out and plucked a pot from the earthen wall. He held up five fingers as he stared straight ahead. “Huh?” What did that mean? I looked around for Trudy who’d left me to check out some carpets. I found her and dragged her back, along with a carpet merchant who wasn’t about to let a good buy get away.

“Would you please ask him how much for this copper pot,” I asked the rug merchant.

“No problem, Ma-dam” he said. He rattled off something in Farsi and the old man again raised five fingers. “He says you buy five pots and he give you good price.”

Oh yes! I’d heard about this game. Only a rube takes the first price I’d been told. In fact, I’d heard that if you argue with the merchant about the price he’ll have more respect for you. Did they not know who they were dealing with? Dodie, the master haggler!

“I don’t need five pots. Please tell him that I want only this one.” I pointed to a small copper pot on the floor. “And I need to know how much. If it’s a good price, maybe I’ll return and buy more.” I was extremely excited by the beauty of his work. I could envision my house glowing with copper and brass pots and platters on every wall.

Again the chattering from the rug merchant, but only a quick nod from the old man. “He say you take five or he not sell.”

“How can you say that when he didn’t even move his mouth?”

Trudy nudged me. “They all work together to fleece foreigners. Just say you’ll return another day and maybe he’ll change his mind.”
“Okay, Merci.”

I turned to leave. “Farda.”—tomorrow.

I took another step. Nothing! I looked back. No movement from the old man. The rug merchant was pulling Trudy by the arm towards his stall. Well, damn! I thought I had this haggling thing down. I must return with a seasoned haggler.

And, return I did. Over and over, so much so that the old man knew me by my cough, and would begin to pull down his treasures for me to admire. The old fool got what he asked for originally, but I was happy to oblige. Of course I told anyone who’d ask about the lovely pots and platters that I’d haggled for and won. I think it’s okay to tell a white lie now and then, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, right? When admirers would ask where his stall was located, I conveniently forgot. Couldn’t have my bartering fame undone.

I loved going to the bazaar. Every walk of life seemed to be represented there. It was definitely a diverse group. Women in smart suits, very high heels, swimming in gold bracelets and huge diamond rings, all haggling with dusty peddlers over meat, fruit and rugs. Old women in filthy chadors, picking over everything, taking bites to see if the fruit was ripe, while the peddler screamed at them. Europeans, Japanese, Russians; it seemed that the whole world was at that bazaar.

The noise was frightful. The grinding and pounding of the copper, the haggling sounds as if they were about to slit each other’s throats, the shouting in Arabic, Greek, German, Spanish, and other unfamiliar languages filled the air. As you walked along, peddlers would yell at you to come look at their stalls: “Buy from me, Ma-Dam, not him, he haf bad rugs.”

Cubbyholes made from dug-outs in the dirt walls were common, where you could find old emaciated men, clothes ragged and threadbare, shoeless and ancient. They’d sit in the dirt etching amazing pictures on their pots and trays.

In one such stall I found an old man who looked as though he’d died a week earlier. He was in a squat position, but very still. His skin was grayish-yellow, mouth agape, with no visible teeth, no chest movement. I stopped in front of him. Terrified! Is he dead? I crept a little closer to see if I could detect breath sounds. I thought about putting my fingers on his carotid artery, but just as I was about to do that, with eyes still closed, he reached up,stuck a long, bony finger deep into a nostril, wiped it on his baggy pants and continued his death-like sleep.

I made a mental note: Keep distance from merchants.

If you'd like to comment on this chapter, feel free!

FEMALE NOMAD AND FRIENDS

2010-06-20T21:42:00.001-07:00

Over this weekend, between writing some chapters for my book, A Broad Abroad in Iran I cheated and took a reading break.

The book was excellent and I found I lost all track of time I was so engrossed. I'd like to recommend it to all of you who like to travel—and eat!

The book is: “Female Nomad and Friends” by Rita Golden Gelman, which includes stories and recipes from her “friends,” a group of women who submitted their great travel stories; some sad, some hilarious, along with some great exotic recipes.

So if you’re in the market for a fun book, along with exotic recipes from all over the world, you’ll want to check out this excerpt from her book:
http://dodiecross.com/docs/Female_Nomad_and_Friends_Excerpt__Soul_Food.doc

Rita is also the author of “The Female Nomad,” another great book that I enjoyed thoroughly. You get the feeling that you’re traveling right along with Rita in her stories of exotic places and meeting new friends.

Happy reading!

I WISH THERE WAS NO “MEMORIAL DAY”

2010-05-31T09:23:00.001-07:00

My first thought this morning was it’s not “Happy Memorial Day” which Americans are wont to say. It’s a very sad day. How wonderful if there were no dead men and women to remember. How wonderful to have no wars. If religion is so much a part of every country, why do men kill in the name of it? I don’t get it. I’m not a religious person, so maybe that’s why I don’t understand all this. But, I'm pretty sure religion has nothing to do with it: the Irish Catholics and the Protestants; the Tutsi and the Hutu tribes; the Sunni and the Shiah tribes, and it goes on and on, ad nauseum. WHY? Isn’t there just one God? Does he wear a white robe, a baggy pair of pants and a turban, a long gown and sandals? Or is he of the spirit realm and wears nothing? We all see him in our own mind’s eye as our life script has taught us.

Wikipedia translates a religious war as: …as a war caused by religious differences. It can involve one state with an established religion against another state with a different religion or a different sect within the same religion, or a religiously motivated group attempting to spread its faith by violence, or to suppress another group because of its religious beliefs or practices.

In the 7th Century, some church rulers even sanctioned a “Just War,” stating that in the name of religion, it was okay to rape, burn and pillage if the bad guys didn’t accept their beliefs.

Okay, we’re not in the dark ages now. It’s no longer about so-called religion. We all know that the Desert Storm and Iraqi wars were not about saving the poor people who were being raped and murdered, it was about OIL. I didn’t see our leaders heading for Darfur to help the downtrodden souls who were being slaughtered. Sorry! No OIL, no help.

So if it’s not religion, it must be something another country wants? Could it be OIL, territory, power, with the end result being loss of our most precious commodity: young men and women who joined to learn a career, to be able to afford college on the GI bill, to see the world, to honor their country, who instead came home in body bags.

My grandson just joined the Navy. I pray that he returns safe, having seen ports of call he’s only read about in school books, that he continues his schooling and learns a way to make a living to support himself for life. That he makes lifetime friends like his grandfather did in the Air Force. That he continues to be our Pride and Joy.

So, on this Memorial Day, let’s all pray to whatever deity we believe in, that someday this endless and senseless killing will stop, and that eventually our children’s children will only be remembering the men that gave their life for their country…years ago.

STRESS-FREE LOVE: GRAMMY'S SECRETS

2010-05-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

Grandchildren have a way of bringing life back into our lives. Mine do—nine of them. In a world of so many lonely people, I feel blessed that my life is filled with happy, energetic progeny; all so different, yet defined by drops of my DNA. I often look at them with utter amazement—that from my genes (okay, maybe a few others) these rarefied beings sprang forth.

When our children get married, how we yearn for that first grandchild. How we look with envy (and secretly dislike) all our friends who made the Big G before we did. Those mean-spirited grandmothers who whip out strings of pictures as long as a football field; how they drone on and on about their MENSA Club-intellect grandchildren, and prattle on about the little cherub’s accomplishments, ad nauseam.

But, oh, when ours do come along, it’s so different. No grandchild has ever been as beautiful at birth, as attentive and wide-eyed; even the birth weight and length become things to crow about. All of a sudden we’re the ones sporting a backpack stuffed with pictures of the new baby in every conceivable pose known to man.

But, aside from this constant need to push pictures of our grandchild into our friends’ faces, there is something else grandmothers have in common. After interviewing many women on the feelings they experienced at their grandchild’s birth, the final consensus was this: we all had an overwhelming emotional pull, but also a feeling of complete stress-free contentment.

Did we feel this same emotional pull when our children were born? No! Well, if we did it was smothered under anxiety, and the fear of what to do with this baby when the nurse told us to get up so someone else could occupy the bed.

I think I’ve come up with a reasonable answer for this stress. As young mothers giving birth, we came face to face with this small blob of protoplasm. We had no clue where to start. They might as well have put a blindfold over our eyes when they handed us this warm, stuffed blanket and wheeled us toward the hospital exit: “Goodbye. Good Luck!”

Unfortunately, babies don’t come with How-To books. There’s no user’s manual with instructions on operating this howling little person. No tag dangling from a tiny pink toe with instructions on care.

Now enter the grandmother. Here is this same tiny blob of protoplasm, only now it doesn’t fall on grandma’s shoulders to see that this child survives, walks, talks, eats, sleeps, matures into a perfect citizen, and is socially acceptable. We leave the hospital after visiting hours, full of emotion, full of love, but absolutely free of stress.

As the baby grows from infant to toddler, we hold them close to inhale their milky-moist breath, search their faces for any resemblance of our own children, ourselves, our DNA. And it is totally stress-free. We get to love them, cuddle them, spoil them, and then send them home to the responsible party from whence they came.

At the end of a visit, how we hate to give up these soft, precious creations of God. We can taste their hello and goodbye kisses long after they’ve delivered them. How we look forward with such anticipation to seeing them again. We allow them to do things we never allowed our own children to get away with—a fact which is pointed out to us on a regular basis.
And, if this child develops traits not to our liking, well, of course we are duty-bound to tell their parents how we would have handled that in our day.

But, alas, children grow. And, we are only humans—albeit older humans. I doubt there’s a grandparent who will ever admit to this, but after a weekend of running after the precious little toddlers—tripping over their toys, watching our spotless homes fill with smudges, drips and scuffs—we feel the words of someone famous as the taillights disappear down the street: “Free at last, free at last. . . ”

Fast-forward a few years, and guess who takes credit for all the grandchildren’s accomplishments? Of course—we do! Where else would that child have inherited that porcelain skin, that thick head of hair, that high I.Q.?

Fast-forward again. As we age, so do our grandchildren. Now it seems there is scarcely any time for Grandma in their lives, but we know we can catch a peek at them on a baseball diamond, soccer field, or class play, if only just to crow to the stranger sitting next to us “…..that’s my grandchild!”

Next in this voyage to adulthood comes the dating game. Grandma Who? We might get calls every now and then asking if they can drop by to show us a new prom dress or a tux, their newest date, their school pictures or report cards. Can we sew up a quickie little item for a school play or dance class?—it won’t take long, Grams. Or, “…ah Grams, got any extra bread?” As I head for the kitchen it dawns on me…oh, that kind of bread—then I head for my purse.

I had an eye-opener of how my youngest grandson sees me: I was attending his baseball game, and when it was over he came running up to me, oozing sweat and smiles. “Grams, did you see the great throws I made? Did you see my home runs?”

“Of course I did, honey. You were great. Are you going to keep playing baseball?”

“Heck yeah,” he answered, without hesitation. “When I’m older I’m gonna play Pro ball with the Angeles.

I was most impressed. “How wonderful,” I said. “Professional ballplayers make a lot of money, you know. You can take care of Grams in her old age.”

He thought about that for a nanosecond, looked me straight in the eye and replied, “But Grams, you’re already old and I’m only eight!”

Oh, all right, maybe I’ll have to depend on some of my older grandchildren to help me in my dotage. But, I thank God everyday that I have them to depend on—for stress-free love!

IRAN IS MOVING RIGHT ALONG

2010-04-25T10:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm ready, willing and able. I have my cerebral tool belt on, stocked with note pads, research material, books on the subject, calendars, letters, and whatever else I can cram into it. So here I go.

I’ve entered a contest for “The First Three Chapters” of your book and it got my juices flowing. I can do that! I can take my first three chapters of “A Broad Abroad in Iran” and win this contest. Thank you, Women on Writing.com; I guess I needed a jump start and a good goose!

So I started this morning. I had it roughed out, but today I got serious. Here’s one chapter and I’d like to know what you think. Please leave me a comment, and join my blog as a follower.

LEAVING IRAN, November 1978

Our plane is sitting on the tarmac. Jet engines revving. Exit door closed. But nothing is happening. I fear if we don’t become airborne soon we’ll be grounded, grabbed by the Islamic police and marched into a holding room to be interrogated. Who were we? What crimes had we committed against Islam? Were we CIA, the evil spies of the hated American government?

Then I feel a slight tremor under my feet. Is it my imagination? Are we really moving?

I hold my breath as the plane inches forward.

We are moving!

I watch the surrounding buildings slide slowly past my window. We are going to get out of this horrible nightmare after all. Mentally I pull back on the stick as the plane begins to gain speed and altitude. I exhale, slowly. Tentatively.

We are finally leaving this terrifying place.

I try to shake the fear that has held me so rigid in my seat. Until I feel the plane’s tires lift off from the tarmac, I can’t let go of the panic. My cheek is numb from the freezing glass of the window as I strain to watch the fires and ropes of smoke below; a city burning, growing smaller as we ascend to our flying altitude.

I close my eyes and try to slip into a zone of REM, but acrid fumes still invade my dreams. Memories sear through my mind. Screams assault my ears. I see the charred human remains caught in a flash fire of pipe bombs and incendiaries from the Polaroid that crossed my desk a few weeks earlier: DEATH TO AMRIKANS—YANKEE GO HOME scrawled in blood-red paint across the gutted bus.

They are chasing me, trying to stone me as I run for my life.

A foreign voice startles me awake. The pilot announces that we may now remove our seat-belts. I shake my head to be rid of that recurring nightmare. Next to me my husband slumbers, seemingly without a care in the world. My two little ones, in the seats in front of me, sleep peacefully while slumped on top of each other in innocent dreams. I'm thankful they weren’t in this hellish dream with me.

ARTICLE FOR O.C. REGISTER

2010-04-05T09:26:00.001-07:00

The following is an article I wrote for the O.C. Register, the Palm Desert Sun, and the L.A. Times. Because they all had their own journalists working on stories, they missed out on this special one; a story from a mother's perspective.

So, with the shake-up we had Easter Sunday, it brought it all back to mind. In fact, as I stood ready to bolt from the house, I thought about those poor souls in Haiti and how this one was just a hiccup compared to what they suffered:

RETURNING HEROS: A Mother’s Answered Prayers

Television cameramen vied for spots to get their best shots. Children waved “Welcome Home” banners, balloons floated through the air as men embraced their families, and some wept openly. I stood in line behind my daughter-in-law and three grandchildren to get my hugs. They were worth waiting for.

The Los Angeles County Fire Department's finest—Urban Search and Rescue, USAR-2—had just returned home, after fourteen long and exhausting days in Haiti, escorted by a helicopter and flashing lights from fire trucks. As the buses pulled into the Technical Operations Facility in Pacoima, my heart thudded in my chest. My son, Captain Dennis Cross, was on that bus and as a mother, my life was wrapped up in his safety.

The team was greeted by hundreds of family members waving American flags and chanting USA-USA! As they stepped off the buses, the men appeared to be in high spirits, but I was sure the glowing smiles belied the unimaginable sights and tragedies they’d experienced while in Haiti.

When we returned to my son’s home in Laguna Hills that night, he uploaded a video and pictures he’d shot during some of the rescues, while he narrated. One particular scene was heart-wrenching. It was filmed inside a confined space where a woman was trapped.

The woman was the manager of the bank that had collapsed. When her husband heard her cries for help, he ran to my son’s team. “She’s alive,” he told them. She was calling out: “Help me Jesus,” over and over when the team arrived. He told the team that his wife had called to him saying she didn’t think she was going to get out alive and wanted him to know she loved him.

As a mother, I was griped with anxiety as I saw my son and his team put their lives in such eminent danger. I watched, transfixed, at the remarkable expertise of the rescue team as they brainstormed a way to save this woman. After clearing an opening about the size of a paper plate, they were able to see and speak to her. They cautiously and systematically removed steel and concrete to gain access to the void space. Then two rescue technicians slid into the void, and lying on their back, they cut, sawed and pried their way to free her hands. After four hours of extreme heat, raw nerve, and perseverance they were able to pull her to safety. As she was brought up into daylight, she began to sing a Haitian religious song, and the bystanders cheered and joined in with her. It was magic, my son said, and it made all their work worthwhile. But, along with their elation at saving someone, came the heart-wrenching news that a young girl they’d rescued had succumbed from her injuries.

Before each rescue a structural engineer, also a member of the team, was brought in to check the integrity of the building. Facing the massive walls of concrete they had to cut through, my son said it gave the men a much needed sense of security. But as I watched other rescues, I thought, these men had to have been unnerved as they crawled over those loose crumbling layers of debris. But, like diamond cutters, with precision and exactness, they worked for hours just to remove one layer (one floor level at a time) of concrete and steel.

The USAR-2 team pulled a total of nine people from a sure death; some rescues taking eight hours or more. One rescue took thirty-two hours to free a single survivor, according to my son. They worked for over twenty-four exhausting hours, until they were finally relieved by another U.S. team. Eight hours later the victim was pulled to safety.

When the rescuing was called to a halt, the team now had time for humanitarian work, which my son said helped offset the pain and suffering they’d witnessed.

They were told that an American working in Haiti needed their help. His wife and two children had been in their apartment when it collapsed. He thought they were dead, he said, but needed to know for sure. The team brought in the K9s that are trained to smell for signs of life under the rubble; they would not signal if they came upon a cadaver. Sadly, they did not signal. The team then breached through multiple layers of concrete and steel until they reached the bodies. Though his family was dead, it gave the grieving man a much needed closure to this horrible ordeal.

There were several instances where the team was called upon to do this; a Canadian who’d lost his daughter, and a Brazilian who lost his wife. The team was able to call for excavation equipment which enabled them to locate the deceased. Now the families were able to take their loved ones back to their homeland for a proper burial.

At the end, the team went about the devastation, delivering food and water where needed. They set up tents for medical teams operating out in the open air. They also donated several thousand dollars worth of tools and equipment to the destroyed Haitian Fire Department, who had lost almost everything in the earthquake.

My son sat with his children when he returned home that night. He told them of the poverty and ill health that the Haitians have to live through. He told them how he’d seen children making kites from trash bags and sticks. When they got the kites in the air, they were smiling and laughing as they ran, surely forgetting about their problems for awhile, as only children can do, that there was no home to go to, and no dinner awaiting them.

After seeing all the poverty and devastation in my son’s videos and pictures, I thought how lucky we were to have been born in the United States. But, what if we’d been born in Haiti? When you think about it, this could have happened to any of us, because our place of birth is determined by our ancestors; where they came from, and where they settled. So, if not for them, our children might have been pulling a plastic kite behind them. Maybe a silent prayer of thanks to our ancestors might be called for.

As my son tucked his beloved girls into bed that night, we all said a prayer for the Haitian people, and a prayer of thanks for my son’s safe return.

xxx

WHY DO WE HAVE TO GET OLD?

2010-03-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

To scream or not to scream...that is the question. Sometimes you feel like saying: "Hey, don't I count? Is there someone out there who cares if I'm sick, or feeling puny, or just want some TLC? But alas, that doesn't happen. You put all your Florence Nightingale skills to work, use your Nurse Ratchet (which my husband calls me) hard-nosed techniques to work, and hope everything you try to do helps the patient.

My husband, 83 years of age and just out of surgery for squamous cell carcinoma of the face and neck, seems to be getting better by the day, however, his Parkinson's seems to be going downhill by the day. It's not enough that he's plagued with the PD, but now he's got an eye that won't close, caused by a severed facial nerve during surgery, redness and pain, and then his blood pressure plummets, and you wonder, WHY do you have to get old?

I think Fitzgerald had it right with Benjamin Button: be born old, gently slide into middle age, then enter childhood with all its glorious wonderment and freedom. But alas, we are here, dying cell by cell, day by day.

Many women I've asked say they started thinking of their mortality at about age 40; before that age we think we'll live forever. The life expectancy statistics for women in this century is about 84.l years of age. The good news is that we didn't live in the Roman Empire era where life expectancy hovered around 25 to 28 years of age. I guess those orgies and food feasts did them in, as well as the raping and pillaging.

Here are some thoughts I've garnered from women, who all seem to think about this at one time or another: Okay, say we're in our forties. If we live up to the statistics, that means we have another 40 years to go. Yahoo! Plenty of time to do all that we want to do. Then all of a sudden we find we are in our 60s. Okay, 20 more years will work. And then one day we wake up (having no idea where the years went) and find we are in our 70s. We panic. Wait, we're not ready for this. It puts a damper on all our plans. Now that we're older, we have the money to travel; no kids, hopefully no bills, but now we find the body has taken on a host of nasty diseases. So the money we've saved for our "old age" goes for medicines, walking aids, hearing aids, chewing aids, and sometimes--horrors--nursing homes. It isn't fair, I tell you!

One consolation is that we do have it better than the men, statistic-wise; life expectancy statistics for men is only to age 73.

So, younguns, while you can, live, laugh and count off the days. And try to beat the Grim Reaper. Enjoy those trips before it's too late!

WORRA, WORRA, WORRA

2010-02-04T06:44:00.000-08:00

This morning I’ve much to contemplate: my worries are over for my son;he's home safely from Haiti and seemingly in good health and good spirits. He passed the Battalion Chief’s test and waits now for an interview. I pray he gets what he wants. Loving your job makes life so much easier.

Now my worry is about my husband, who was just diagnosed with aggressive squamous cell carcinoma in the lymph glands of his face and neck. He will have a parotidectomy and a radical neck dissection on the 15th of February, and then radiation will follow at a later date.

How could this happen? my husband asks his doctor. Doc says he was in the “environment” too much of his life. Well, that statement is true. Since his teen years he’s spent summers on the sands of Huntington Beach, then as an adult camped in the summers at the State Park in Chelan, Wa. Then in 1969, he built a cabin on the lake and has been outdoors as much as possible ever since. Yes, he’s been in the “environment” much too long

However, I always thought that the “Big 5” was familial; i.e., cancer, heart problems, high blood pressure, diabetes and stroke. What’s the first thing a doctor asks: Is there any history of “this” in your family?” Why don’t they say, “Have you been under stress, run any races, consumed too much booze, yada, yada?” Why wouldn’t they say: “Have you been in the environment too long?” Well, what do I know? I’m just an ex-medical transcriber who knows the medical lingo, the spelling, and the diagnoses, but not the “why’s and wherefores.”

I think his existing Parkinson’s and emphysema should be enough problems for one person to deal with. His father died of Parkinson’s, yet they say it’s not hereditary. He smoked for years, so the emphysema seems appropriate, however, I’ve known people who’ve smoked since grade school and they have no difficulty breathing. What’s the deal here? My children’s father died of leukemia. He didn’t smoke, drink too much, or cavort (well if he did it was before I came along). No one in his family ever had leukemia; however, five or more of his kin did die of some type of cancer. I’ve had endometrial cancer; however, no one in my long line of relatives ever had cancer of any kind.

I’ve always said: “Life is a crap shoot” and I still believe it. We’re here for a very short time, even if we live to be 100. When you consider this planet has been in existence for over four billion years, that makes 100 years sound like a hiccup!

A HERO'S RETURN

2010-01-30T10:55:00.000-08:00

The Los Angeles County Fire Department's finest—Urban Search and Rescue, USAID-2—returned home last night to the county’s Tactical Support Facility in Pacoima, escorted by a helicopter and flashing lights from fire trucks.

As the buses pulled into the facility, my heart thudded in my chest. My son was on that bus and as a mother, my life was wrapped up in his safety. The team was greeted by hundreds of family members waving American flags and chanting USA-USA! As they stepped off the buses, they appeared to be in high spirits, but I was sure the glowing smiles belied the unimaginable sights and tragedies they’d experienced while in Haiti.

Television cameramen vied for spots to get the best shots. Children waved “Welcome Home” banners, balloons floated through the air as men embraced their families and some wept openly. I stood in line behind my daughter-in-law and three grandchildren to get my hugs. They were worth waiting for.

When we returned to my son’s home, he uploaded his videos and pictures of rescues that he’d taken during his two-week tour of duty. One particular scene broke my heart. It was filmed inside the hole where one poor woman had lain for four days; both hands held crushed and trapped by collapsed blocks of concrete and steel. We got to see, close up, the remarkable expertise of the rescuers as they brainstormed their way to save this woman; cutting, sawing, and prying their way to free her hands. It took over four hours of concentration, raw nerve, and perseverance to accomplish this one feat. I was griped with fear and awe as I watched them put their lives in danger. They crawled into the impossibly constricted hole to give the woman an IV, and then begin the delicate task of extracting her. When she was free, she began to sing a Haitian song, and the bystanders joined in with her. It was magic, my son said, and it made all the work worthwhile.

All together they pulled nine people from a sure death, with some rescues taking as long as twenty hours for just one survivor. Then came the heart-wrenching part…learning that a rescued girl later succumbed from her injuries.

To see those huge slabs of concrete they had to cut through made it clear why it took so long to get to the victims. Initially a structural engineer, a member of the team, had to check the integrity of the building before they could enter. Then, like diamond cutters, with precision and exactness, they had to work for hours just to remove one layer (one floor level at a time) of concrete and steel.

When the searching was called to a halt, the team now had time for humanitarian work, which my son said helped offset the pain and suffering they’d seen. They were told that an American AID worker, living in Haiti, had lost his wife and two children in a collapsed hotel. The team was able to find the deceased, and bring out his loved ones, which gave him the much needed closure to this horrible ordeal.

There were several instances where the team was called upon to do this; a Canadian who’d lost his daughter, and a Brazilian who lost his wife. Excavation equipment was brought in and the team was able to find the deceased; so the family was able to take their loved ones back to their homeland for a proper burial.

The team went about the devastation, delivering food and water where needed. They set up tents for medical teams that were operating out in the open air. They also donated several thousand dollars worth of tools and equipment to the destroyed Haitian Fire Department, who had lost almost everything in the earthquake.

My son sat with his children, that night, and told them about the poverty and ill health that the Haitians have to endure, and asked them to pray for the people of that country. He also told them how he saw children making kites from trash bags and sticks. When they got the kites in the air, they were smiling and laughing as they ran, surely forgetting for awhile, as only children can do, that they had no home to go to, and probably no dinner waiting for them.

After seeing all the poverty and devastation in my son’s videos and pictures, I thought how lucky we were to have been born in the U.S. But what if I’d been born in Haiti? By our accident of birth we have no right to feel superior to anyone, do we? Because, when you think about it, this could have happened to any of us? Our place of birth was determined by where our ancestors came from, where they were born, and so on down the line. Had our ancestors been slaves who wanted freedom and escaped to end it, we might have been pulling a plastic kite behind us. Maybe a silent prayer of thanks to our ancestors might be called for.

As my son tucked his precious girls into bed that night, we all said a prayer of thanks for his safe return.

HAITI: PRAISE FOR THE RESCUERS AND RANTS ABOUT THE REPORTERS

2010-01-20T18:35:00.000-08:00

See video: http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/world/2010/01/25/am.haiti.search.rescue.cnn.html

It’s been a week now, and my heart is aching for the pain and suffering those poor souls are going through in Haiti. I can’t imagine how it will end. How can you fix something that’s been broken for so many years? True, the infrastructure, small though it was, can somehow improve with the right people handling it. But as we watch and wait, there seems to be no Haitian taking charge. Maybe it’s being done somewhere, somehow, but they need to put down the pencils and paper and start talking to their people.

We can only do so much for countries that are in such disrepair. We send our best and brightest, trained to save lives; doctors and nurses flock to help the injured. But what can they do without the supplies that a well-staffed hospital can offer. They bring in supplies, only to be turned back by a crowded and run-down airport. They come in ships, but cannot get the supplies over land because of the bad roads and thousands of people who want to commandeer the trucks and drive them away.

My son signed on for this. He took the training that is required for a First Response Search and Rescue. Just like so many others that are dispersed around the capital trying to find people who are still alive and buried under the rubble. They want to succeed, they dearly want to bring someone out and hear the clapping and crying of their loved ones. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. One young girl the the team rescued was so badly injured that she died shortly after they pulled her out from under the tons of debris. But still they go on.

However, it seems like some reporters love to stir the pot, love to get people agitated. It makes for such a great story. Maybe they’ll get a Pulitzer for their reporting. They look into the camera, put on an “I feel your pain” look and then say something so asinine that it voids the whole effort of those brave men who are trying so hard to save people. I’ve seen this on CNN and Fox News and I want to strangle someone.

They must search the crowd until they find someone who is in the depths of despair; someone who is so angry that he can’t wait to spew it into the microphone. I don’t blame the Haitians. They are suffering unimaginable things. But I blame the reporters, who hold the mic under the person’s chin, and then ask: “How do you feel about the help taking so long to arrive?”

What the hell type of question is that? Does this reporter know what it takes to deploy thousands of men, equipment from all over the world and get them to Haiti? Has he even bothered to look into it? I doubt it.

The man answers that he doesn’t understand why it is taking so long to get help, so long to rescue all the people that are trapped under buildings, that he is hungry and his family is hurt. Just what the reporter wanted to hear as he nods sympathetically while standing there in his Tommy Bahamas shirt and shorts, leather penny loafers, full stomach and wallet, then looks into the camera and says: “There you have it folks, the true feelings of the Haitians. Why is it taking so long?”

I’ll tell you why. My son and hundreds of other rescuers are spending ten to eighteen hours on one person who they think might still be alive. They put their life in harm’s way as they straddle hunks of timber and concrete perilously close to crumbling. They work in 24 hour shifts, not knowing if another quake could drop them all below. They do it because they were trained to, because they care, because they want to save a life, even if it takes 24 hours, which some single rescues have.

They are split into teams around the city. They are working while the reporter is asleep in his comfy little quarters. They are bending over piles of rubble, hacking away with equipment to break away barriers that have fallen on the victims while the reporter waves a mic under their noses. But the rescuers pay little attention to the reporters. They are there to save lives.

The rescuers flew to Haiti on cargo planes, packed to the rafters with their equipment. Cold, no toilets, no air conditioning. Wonder how the reporter traveled? Could it be in the Network jet? Would they have had snacks of caviar and crackers? The Search and Rescue teams are getting MREs(meals-ready-to-eat).

If anyone reading this would like to take a stab at answering some of these questions, please feel free to do so.

To keep current on what our guys are doing over there, click on: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=748640194#/pages/Los-Angeles-County-Fire-Tech-Services/268856409432?ref=mf

MY SON AND HAITI

2010-01-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday and today have been long, worrisome days for me. My son,a captain on the L.A. County Fire Department, and a member of the Urban Search and Rescue Strike Team, along with 70 other members, flew out of March AFB on their way to Haiti. I am horrified by the streaming videos coming from the T.V., and I watch closely as searchers walk along the precarious concrete structures, broken blocks and unfathomable debris that covers men, women and children awaiting help. I pray for them, as I pray for my son and all the rescue personnel who put their lives at risk to help their fellow man.

In 2001, after the attack on the twin towers, my son and a few of his firefirer buddies, flew to New York to visit the stations that were so devastated by loss of life. It was something he felt he had to do. It was soon after the attack and my heart was heavy until he returned, not knowing if the enemy had any other plans in motion.

Then in 2004, he was sent to Sri Lanka after the tsunami, but somehow I wasn't as terrified then as I am now. He told me when he returned of the devastation, the resilience of the poor people who'd lost everything. One old man and his grandson were sitting on the beach, heating water in an old can for tea. When my son walked up to him, the old man embraced him, and offered him a cup of tea; this from a man who had lost everything...but his kind heart. It broke my son's heart. Even though the man talked, and my son could not understand his language, the common thread was love and hope.

But this time I feel different. I have a dreading. I can't explain why this is. I do know that I'll be so relieved and grateful when his fourteen days are up. I will pray that all the planes will have the fuel to lift off and bring all the teams home safely to the U.S.

A BROAD IN TRAFFIC: AND OTHER RANTS

2009-11-28T10:52:00.001-08:00

It started out to be such a lovely getaway. Spending a few days at Carlsbad with old friends (well, long-time friends) was the plan, then on to my son’s in Laguna Hills for a Thanksgiving Feast with the whole family. Somehow, traffic got in the way of a great experience.

Where do all these people come from? I know, I know, I’m one of them, but still. I can remember the days when I’d drive the 91 and the 5 freeways and get irritated if there were more than one car per lane. Now, there are a gazillion cars in every lane, some even having the temerity to drive down the “break-down” lanes (on both sides!).

Because I’m always where I should be on any particular holiday, I didn’t realize that everyone else had to drive on THAT day. I left the beach at 11 a.m. and arrived at my sons at 2:30 p.m., three-and-a-half hours later; a drive that normally takes one hour and fifteen minutes, at best.

I normally only listen to music as I drive, but after an hour I decided to listen to the news, sure that the world had changed in many ways while I was driving in Limbo. I now know I can go without the news for a year. I know every bit of lies, truth stretches, and downright stupidity that goes on in the world.

Stupid NEWS RELEASE: LEAD IN:“Tiger Woods seriously injured in car accident.” Then: FOLLOW-UP: “After being seen at the emergency room, he was released in good condition.” Excuse me? You just said “seriously injured” and now this?

Tim Conway Jr. on KFI was recapping the day’s news. He said this had to be a press release from Tiger's Manager, and that all managers lie. So, can we expect that Tiger is laid up somewhere in a body cast? Then: “Police say ‘alcohol’ was not indicated as cause of the accident.” Tim said: “Manager again. Lies!” But they did not say: “Drugs” were not indicated….so take your best guess.

And what’s the deal with Tiger, anyway? He’s crashed into a fire hydrant and then into a tree or fence, or whatever he supposedly crashed into at 2:30 IN THE MORNING? What’s a married man and father doing out at 2:30 in the morning crashing into fire hydrants? Why wasn’t he in bed in his lavish Florida estate, with his beautiful model wife wrapped around him, his babies down the hall secure in the fact that Daddy is protecting them from the boogey-man.

The next day I read that his wife broke a window with a “club” to free him. A CLUB? 4-wood? Driver? Pitching wedge? Where did she get it? Evidently the car was locked, so if she broke a window with a "club" she would have had to run back into the house to grab one: If so, why didn’t she just call 911 instead of looking for a golf club? Could she possibly have opened his lip with a 4-iron because he got home so late? Or, were they fighting? Maybe she picked up a club as he ran for the car, jumped in, gunned the engine to get the hell out of dodge, then slammed into the hydrant? Then before he could recover, she clonked his punkin' head the club. Oh, to be a fly on the wall…er, the Cadillac!

STUPID NEWS RELEASE: LEAD IN: Uninvited couple gets into White House State Dinner without invitation.” Then: FOLLOW-UP: “An uninvited couple crash the White House State Dinner and have their picture taken with top politicians, including the President of the United States.” The Secret Service said: “Someone dropped the ball.” Oh my, this sounds like something you’d see watching the Pink Panther movies, as Inspector Clouseau stumbles into and out of trouble in his search for the bad guys.

Do I wonder how that could have happened? Well, no. Because I’m still amazed how a certain president could engage in “It” with a young page in the Oval Office and not be impeached. By the way, it wasn’t his “private life in the Oval Office” as some people suggested; it is “The People’s” White House, which means he was doing the dirty-deed in MY Oval Office!

Oh, well, that’s history. But, this event at the White House was hilarious. Those Secret Service agents need to toughen up, maybe take some lessons from the NTS guys at the airport. Not only do they look at me as if I’m Osama’s wife, but they search my carry-on and find a five-inch flexible emery board. “Hold on there, Misses Ben-Laden, you can’t board the plane with a weapon.” I have to admit that I do sort of look like a terrorist: red hair, 5’5”, sun-weathered skin, Lens-Crafter specialty glasses, and carrying a wooden nail file to fix any breaks in my gel-filled nails. But this “weapon” breaks when using it on my nails, how many people could I flatten with it?

Okay, I’ve had my rant. Life is always amusing. It just takes a few days to realize it.

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF ISFAHAN, IRAN

2009-10-27T12:03:00.001-07:00

Some of the things I write about in my book: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs, are in this beautiful video that I found on youtube. As you read the book, these sights will come to life.

Persians say that their beautiful city of Isfahan is “half the world.” The 17th-century capital of the Safavids, Isfahan. Incredible bridges can be seen along with the world's biggest square: Naghsh-é Jahan, which was also built in the 17th century in the center of the city. The enormous open plaza is framed by a wall of arches and surrounded by two of the world's greatest mosques; The 17th century Masjed-é Sheikh Lotfollah and the Masjed-é Emam, or Shah, one of the most amazing sites in Iran. Both mosques are of magnificent architecture and covered in brilliant colors of ancient mosaic tiles.

I was so excited to find this video on youtube. It's been since the late 70s, at the start of the revolution, when last I saw these beautiful sights. Living in Isfahan during that period was both exciting and terrifying. I hope you enjoy the video.

Please feel free to leave me a "comment" on this blog, about your experiences in Iran; as an expatriate, or as an Iranian.Or, you can go to my website: www.dodiecross.com/Iran and click on "contact."

WRITERS BLOG FOR THE GEEZER GENERATION

2009-10-23T11:46:00.000-07:00

Attention Writers of the Geezer Generation!

The Internet? Of course, who doesn’t know about the World Wide Web of Wonder?

I just returned from a wonderful Pen Women’s Luncheon. The guest speaker was Denise Welch, President of NewMediaID, who spoke on the benefits of using social media tools in today’s marketing world. Of course, unless you’ve been living in a cave, you already know what the internet can do. Don’t you? I thought I did. But, wow, what I didn’t know about marketing would fill Wikipedia’s web-space.

How I wish I’d grown up in this techy age like my grandkids instead of in the 50s, when the most exciting thing for us to talk about was the newest Elvis recording. Don’t get me wrong, the 50s were the most idyllic decade since the invention of Preparation H. We didn’t have air conditioning or seat belts, or Iphones or PDAs, but we had a close connection with friends and family because we didn’t’ always have something crammed against our ear or keyboards at our fingertips…we did something more amazing: we talked face-to-face!

Which is something our prodigy can’t seem to do! Okay, so they can figure out the lift system of the Delta II rocket, but can they talk anymore? Why is it that when you call your grandkids you get: Uh-huh; nothin’; nope, cool, okay; yeah; bye. But watch them text and you think they’re writing the Magna Carte.

So, I guess if you want to communicate with the kidlets, you need to learn to twitter, text and all those techy things, but please don’t use the shorthand stuff: How I hate that stuff. I swear, none of them will know how to write a letter, or even a story, without TX, LOL, BTW and BFF.

So as life moves inexorably forward, we of the Geezer Generation need to move with it or get flattened by some new techy machine, or, hear your little snot-nosed, four-year-old grandkid say: “Grandma, here, let me do it. I’ll show you how.” I could just slap ‘em.

Okay, back to what I learned today: After all the “pay-for” marketing I’ve done, that it’s really all about Google and getting your key-words out there, blog like crazy, getting hits, and keeping current on your website, or “landing-page” as it’s now called by the techy generation.

So, let’s get with it, Geezers. Learn all you can while your brain still has some cells moving around, albeit on walkers. Put down the knitting, the quilting, and get off the rocker and get the word out about your great works. Just Do It:
Internet Market!

Anyone want to share how they made a difference in their sales on Internet Marketing?

SEEING IRAN WITH A CLOUDED LENS

2009-10-03T13:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve left the beautiful shores of Hawaii and returned to the real world. Well, real in the sense that I need to fly up to Washington State, take care of an ailing hubby, finish my Iran book, and try to find an agent/publisher who’s excited about this timely memoir.

I noticed on the flight home that I was having trouble reading my Kindle. I had it up to the largest font and still it was difficult. I had on my glasses, a light above me, and still it was difficult. My seat-mate seemed a little nervous as I leaned his way to get some light from the window. “Care to change seats?” he asked. Not really, I told him, I’d just take my eyes with me.

I was now more than concerned. What if the retina had grown another membrane since surgery? The doc did say it could return; in a week, in a month, or in a year, or…never.

On my last visit to the retina surgeon, I was 20/25, without correction. Now, wearing my cutesy Versace glasses, I am only at 20/40 and barely eking out the consonants. The vowels usually come easier because they’re more obvious, especially the As, Es, and Os.

I saw an ophthalmologist before I flew to Washington, who told me that there was a small membrane behind my new lens that was clouding up, and that it could be taken care of very easily. It was uncommon, he said, but it did happen, and with a YAG laser procedure they could zap it, put a hole in the membrane and it would clear up the opacification. Fine! How many more “uncommon” problems am I going to have with this body of mine?

Since I’ve returned from Hawaii, I’ve written about fifty more pages in my Iran book, but it’s been difficult. When I use my glasses, I have to lean back and it’s uncomfortable. When I take my glasses off, I have to sit with my nose touching the monitor, then lean back and try to read it.

I made an appointment to have this taken care of here in Washington, but when the ophthalmologist examined me, he felt it was too soon after the retinal surgery to be probing around in my eye, and suggested I wait about a month, which shouldn’t change things, he said.

Now I’m at my computer, dredging up all my memories of life in Iran, and need Windex to clean the nose prints off my monitor. However, the book is moving right along, my poor vision has not altered my memory’s vision, so here I go.

You can check the progress of my book: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs (during the revolution) on my website at dodiecross.com as I add a few chapters to whet your appetite. Click on the bottom of the page where it lists the book.

GOODBYE HAWAII, HELLO MAINLAND

2009-09-15T20:47:00.001-07:00

Today is my last day in Paradise; leaving tomorrow for home. It does feel different in this small island. You forget that somewhere out there beyond your vision is an immense body of water, which reduces you to just a small blip on the island.

This is truly a multicultural blend of people; Hawaiians, Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, Tongan, Cambodian, Micronesian, Portuguese, a smattering of Hispanics and about 20% Caucasian. Intermarriages over the years have changed the appearance of pure-bloods, and the result is what I term exotic-looking. The men, handsome with their huge Schwarzenegger builds; the women, with their dark almond eyes, long shiny black hair and itty-bitty bodies: I hate 'em. Not really, but they do make me feel like I'm just one Big-Mac away away a heart attack.

We toured the island, ate in quaint little towns, sat on the beach at Waikiki in close proximity to the overt over-eating tourists, making us appear downright svelte.

I will miss noshing on the pork hash and the Leonard's malasada, (original if you please) hot out of the oven and filled with custard that are part of the native fare. I only consumed these delicacies to show the islanders that I cared!

I sadly say goodbye to my host, Lola, my wonderful friend and school chum (since the sixth grade), her handsome son, Paco, and his gorgeous girlfriend, Huyen.

Tomorrow I leave here, back to the land of the over-eaters and I shall miss this land.

Aloha!

THE HAWAII MUSE

2009-09-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in Hawaii eleven days and I’ve written more in my upcoming Iran memoir than I’ve done in two years.

I don’t understand where the muse goes, why she goes, or why she returns, but return she did and I am so pleased I shant ask any questions.

Every morning my inner clock wakes me at 5 a.m. and I hit the floor ready and excited to get to my computer. A cup of coffee to get the eyes open, place fingers to keyboard and look out at the beautiful Manoa Valley from my view on the fourteenth floor. It’s as though the view is subliminal, causing my fingers to take on a life of their own.

Thoughts of the revolution and the one-and-a-half years I lived in Isfahan, Iran, come flowing forth, sometimes faster than my fingers can keep up with them.

“Whoa!” I say. Wait for me. Then…oh yeah! I remember that, and I’m off, watching my fingers fly over the keyboard while reliving things that happened during the Islamic revolution, thirty-two years ago.

Something bizarre happens when you write a memoir. Your subconscious mind takes you back to the events as if you were living them at the moment. I see myself walking through the Bazaar, haggling with merchants; soaring down a river in a raft while irate men throw stones at me; driving through the beautiful countryside, drinking from an ice-cold stream as it rushes down shimmering rocks from the snow-covered mountains above; watching the mammoth tanks roll into town when martial law was ordered by the Shah.

Well, as you can see, I have much work to do. So, now it’s time to get back to my memoir.

THANKS TO THE SEA BIRDS

2009-09-03T20:19:00.000-07:00

It’s 9 a.m. Hawaiian time, 6 a.m. Pacific time, and I find myself sitting on the lanai of a friend’s condo in Oahu.

I can’t sleep. My body’s on Pacific time so I must get up. I stagger to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, then I look up and out. What an incredible view.
Her unit is on the fourteenth floor of a thirty-five story building, and the view is breathtaking.

I grab a cup of coffee, my laptop and head for the lanai. The view is of massive green mountains, partially obscured by dense, bloated clouds, black on the bottom, rising to white cumulus, thinning into oblivion as wisps of filigreed lace, and all ringed in a dazzling gold by the sun’s fierce glow behind them.

Towering high-rises sit plump and regal amidst Banyon, Mangos and Fan Palm trees, while tiny roads thread their way through the city to the suburbs and beyond.

Delicious aromas of plumeria, antherium and gardenia float on the tropical breezes bringing a soothing balm to all.

I close my eyes and visualize what this island looked like before it was covered with concrete, wood, glass and asphalt.

What spark of life led this heretofore lava mountain to come to life. Geologists say that after eons of volcanic eruptions in the seabed, the first and largest volcano reared its head from the ocean and looked about. Novelist James Michener credits a tired sea bird who deposited the beginnings of the flora and fauna of this verdant island. I imagine that after a long flight from some far-off place, the little sea bird came upon a wondrous site; somewhere to perch and gain strength to fly on.

After depositing the remnants of his last meal onto the bare lava, he blithely set out again as his DNA required. And from that one small offering, to what I see before me, I’d like to thank that little sea bird as I sit here and marvel at the wonder of nature and creation.

MARKETING YOUR BOOK....or selling your soul!

2009-08-31T17:24:00.000-07:00

MARKETING AND BOOK PROMOTION 101
From the Stakeout to the Kill:
Or: Secrets from a Self-Promoting Slut

I've had several writers ask me to talk about marketing and how I go about it. I wrote this blog a year ago, but nothing has changed, it's just gotten harder. Marketing is something that you have to do whether you want to or not, whether you're tired or not, whether you'd rather curl up with a good book and forget the world.

Okay, here’s the deal. We have to promote ourselves! There’s only one person who knows the book and thinks it’s the Greatest Story Ever Told; and that person is the author. I have no shame when it comes to promoting, selling or getting in someone’s face (or dinner plate) to sell my book.

The first thing I did after my cover was designed was to design and make a bookmark. It was easy. All I had to do was set my margins on my word document to the size of a normal bookmark (2”x7”) and then start typing….In this laugh-out-loud memoir, Dodie Cross…yada, yada, yada. You’d a thought I had just been awarded the Pulitzer by the way I bragged. But, why not? Whose going to walk up to you and say: “Hey, I read your book, and it wasn’t a ‘Laugh out loud.’”

Next I called around and got some quotes on 500 bookmarks; some prices were higher than my mortgage payment, some companies took six weeks to deliver. Then I found Office Depot. They were fast, did the work in-house, and the bookmarks turned out lovely! Then I began my attack:

The Stakeout: Every time I left the house I made sure I had at least 50 bookmarks stuffed into my purse. The second I saw a straggler, a woman sitting alone, two or more women together, or husband and wife, I began reaching into my purse. “Hi,” I’d say, giving my best local author smile, “I’m a local author and this is a bookmark for you.” “Oh, thanks,” most would mutter as they haltingly accepted it, hoping I wasn’t a rabid cult member trying to lure them into my church.

The Assault: I can’t tell you how many times my cheapo little cards sold a book for me. In restaurants: I’d scope out the room looking for happy faces—crinkles around the eyes shows a propensity for laughing; women chattering over a glass of wine (I always approach drinkers, they’re happy people). I’ve left the restaurant with two people trailing me to my car for an on-the-spot purchase. I suspect it might have looked like some sort of a drug-buy, but hey, you’ve got to market at any cost! On airplanes: I walk the aisles looking for women reading. They’re easy prey. “Hi,” I say brightly as I check out the name of the book they’re reading. “You look like you’d enjoy this type of book,” as I insert a bookmark into their book. There’s really no way to avoid a sales pitch on a plane. Where are they gonna go to get away from you? At the post office: Lines of women, just waiting to get their minds off of the dreary duty of picking up “held” bills. I think they’re the easiest marks. They have no book with them; they are bored beyond endurance; and their eyes light up when I tell them that the back of my bookmark is “for women only.” Then I lurk just outside the door, knowing I’ve interested a few of them, and sure enough, I have captured at least one to three bored housewives longing for some excitement in their lives, and honey, I tell them, this book will do it. Once I ran out of bookmarks before the line of women ran out, and I actually had a lady look ticked off. “Where’s mine?” she asked. Doctor’s offices: Another sure-fire captive audience. They’re all reading; either books or magazines left over from the pterodactyl period or boring health leaflets. “Hi,” I say, giving them the “local author” bit, “I’ll bet this book might be more interesting than reading about the heartbreak of seborrhea and psoriasis.”

Coming in for the Kill—The Guarantee: “This is a woman’s book,” I tell them. “Very funny, fast reading, and if you don’t laugh out loud I’ll refund your money.” “Oh!” some would reply, suddenly interested. “Well, gee. Okay. Um, where can I get it?” they’d ask while turning the card over and reading the hilarious synopsis I devised to trap such hold-outs. “Well, if you’re interested in saving some money in shipping and handling costs, I have copies in my car for just your type of smart shopper. Plus, I can autograph it for you if you purchase it right now.” I do believe I have sold more from my trunk than from my website.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all this airy persiflage is: don’t be a bunch of nattering nabobs of negativism. Get out and be a self-promoting slut!

Addendum: I need to add here that you must also try to find every book club in your area, and sometimes they may not be near you (I've been to Hawaii and Mexico to market my book), but if you don't get it out, who will?

Unless you're a King or a Grisham, you better get yourself some good walking shoes, and get hopping!

By: Dodie Cross

LOOK OUT DRIVERS, HERE I COME!

2009-08-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

I distinctly remember the first time I scooted behind the wheel of an automobile. It was the summer of my Junior year (notice how I ignored the year?), and my uncle had come to visit for the weekend. He called me aside and asked if I’d like to take a drive with him.

Now, in the 50s, there was usually just one car per family (okay, now I’ve given away my age), and the idea that I might have a chance to drive my father’s car was a non-starter. No one drove it but him, and I always wondered what the big deal was. It was an old beat up Mercury, spewed black smoke and the interior headliner was always sagging at some inappropriate spot. But he loved that car, and it was off limits to me.

When my uncle asked me that question, I knew immediately what he had in mind. My heart raced as we pulled away from the curb. “Don’t tell your folks about this,” he said, “they’d kill me.” What a brave thing for an uncle to do, or anyone to do for that matter.

In the 50s, we had Driver’s Ed as an elective in our Junior year, so I’d already aced the test (well, after hitting a few curbs and nearly running down a few little old ladies), and knew I’d be up to the task.

We parked about a block from our house and we changed places. It was a feeling like no other. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I had to do this perfectly so he’d tell my folks that I was ready for my first car. I knew there would be no such item coming, as we were just plain middle-income working class people, and to have two cars in the driveway signaled some sort of prosperity. We couldn’t be show-offs.

My uncle launched into a five-minute speech about rules; turning to look out the window when pulling from a curb, left arm out straight, or bent up if going right, down if going left, etc. Basically it was the same sort of car that our class instructor used, so I did know the names and places for the stuff on the floorboard. I'd just never drove anywhere other than the school parking lot. But,I felt I was ready.

I looked out the rear-view mirror, the side mirror, put my arm out straight, and was ready to go when I realized that I’d forgotten what to do with the two floor pedals and the one large gearshift at the same time. I put my hand on the gear shift, put both feet on the clutch and brake. Nothing happened. “Give it the gas,” my uncle prodded. “Oh, yeah, right.” I then put my left foot on the clutch, right foot on the gas, and slowly pushed down. Nothing happened. “Put it into gear,” my uncle said, patiently. “Oh, yeah, right.”

I then grabbed the gearshift like a long-haul truck driver, pulled it down, pushed on the gas, held in the clutch…and we were off. But I forgot to look out the window before doing so. There was a deafening screech as an old man swerved around the car, honking and giving obscene hand gestures.

All of a sudden it wasn’t so fun. My hands were still clammy, my heart was racing, but for the wrong reasons. I was no longer excited, I was scared to death. “No problem,” my uncle said. Just sit there awhile and calm down. You can try again in a few minutes.

“Can’t we go to a parking lot?” I asked, terrified he would think I was a big baby and wasn’t ready to drive. He got out of the car to take over and drove to a parking lot. I got out with shaky legs, not sure I wanted to do this.

After several bump-and-runs, and giving my poor uncle whiplash, I finally mastered the gear-shift and gas pedal at the same time and was flying high. I felt that I’d just passed puberty; I’d just ascended into the realm of young woman and no longer a kid. I couldn’t get the smile off my face.

Well, here’s the thing. My cataract surgery and retinal surgery was a success (YEAH!) However, the surgeon did say that the growth can return, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m back on the highway again.

Today I picked up my beautiful Versace glasses (if you have to wear glasses, might as well look cool). I drove home with a stupid smile on my face. I felt like a teenager again. I could see trees two blocks away, not to mention pedestrians and cars. What a thrill. I had been driving like I did in my Junior year, hoping that no one had the misfortune to step in front of me while I was behind the wheel.

Okay, I exaggerate a tad, but it has been scary. Last week, before my glasses were ready, I had a scare. On the 91 Freeway, whether you want to or not, you must drive 80 miles per hour to keep from getting rear-ended. So as I’m streaking down the freeway I see something strange ahead of me. You know those rubbery yellow poles that separate the FastTrack Lane from the other lanes on the freeway? Well, they came up on me so fast that I didn’t see them, and I mowed about ten of them down. Of course, they popped right up again, but I was glad they weren’t humans.

Thanks for those of you who wished me well. I will be taking the test for my driver’s license for renewal in the middle of September. Glad they don’t have gear-shifts and clutches in cars anymore.

A TRUISM: YOUTH IS WASTED ON THE YOUNG: THE RECALCITRANT RETINA

2009-06-28T17:39:00.000-07:00

It’s Friday, June 26th, and I’ve just learned that the recalcitrant growth on the retina will have to undergo a shaving. The “cellophane retinopathy,” an old medical term no longer used in the prestigious halls of UCLA Medical School, heretofore known as the “epi-retinal membrane," will have to be surgically peeled off.

Now, why I get these little hanger-oners, I have no idea, but I’m damn tired of it. First it’s the herniated disk that refuses to unherniate, even after the good doc does the surgery; then the thumb joint decides to do away with anything as helpful as some nice little cushioning between bones; next the cataract decides to obliterate my vision, while hiding the fact that stuff was piggybacking on the retina, so now I have to get that sucker peeled off before I go blind.

I asked the good doc how the procedure was carried out. He said to imagine trying to remove a piece of Scotch tape from a photo. If you go real slow and hold your mouth just right, it might come off completely clean, without taking any of the photo paper with it. However, and here’s the sad part, if some of the photo paper (e.g. the epi-retinal membrane) decides to come off with the Scotch tape,(e.g. the paring knife) then… he stopped right there, shrugged, and said not to worry. Anything could happen, he continued… “I could drop the knife in your eye, an earthquake could shake the building and then…. or the knife could get a little germ on it and it would be transferred to the eyeball…”

ENOUGH! I cried. If he wasn’t so dang good looking I would have run from the room, screaming, but alas I'm a sucker for a gorgeous face.

There is definitely something to be said about “The good old days.” Why didn’t we appreciate those days when we had them? I guess we… (“We” as in anyone over 50) just took those days as they came, always thinking of what the next day would bring and never realizing that the good days were slipping away as we pushed them aside and called on the next day. Oh, I want them back!

But I digress:

Here’s what the good doc told me when I queried, “Just tell me the risks because I already know the benefits.” He didn’t hold back…

For starters, how about: vitreous hemorrhage; infection; elevated eye pressure (glaucoma); non-healing corneal defects; double vision; eyelid droop; loss of circulation to vital tissues in eye, resulting in decrease or loss of vision; permanent blindness or diminished visual acuity; loss of eye; anesthetic complications, including death! Now, how could I refuse to undergo such a noninvasive surgery?

Actually, he said that the odds were 1 in 1000 that things could go wrong. I would have preferred a 1 in 100,000,000, but he didn’t offer that. So, I go, because I have no choice. No go…no license…no driving…no shopping…no freedom…a whole lot of “nos.”

Wish me luck!

RETINA RIDES AGAIN!

2009-05-17T19:34:00.000-07:00

Well, pshaw!!!!!

The cataract surgery was not successful.

It seems that the retinal growth reared its ugly head and decided it wasn’t to be ignored. If the doc had removed the cataract AND the retinal growth at the same time, my vision would be WONDERFUL! I think! However, he felt the two surgeries together might not be the best way to go in my case. He thought by just removing the cataract it would give me enough vision to pass my DMV test in four months. No changes, in fact, I could barely read the line above the 20/40.

What did change, though, with the removal of the cataract, was that colors became so much more vivid and bright. There’s a new world around me now. Up close, that is. My distance leaves much to be desired. I still can’t tell the difference between a theater marquee or a house on fire.

But, I can actually read the text on the television and movie screens. Before the cataract surgery, my husband had to read it to me. You know, such as...Directed by, Produced by; Written by, Grip guy, and other miscellany I really didn’t need to know, but he felt the need to tell me. Probably because his hearing left him a few years back (which he denies; says I mumble my words), and I have to repeat almost every line of every TV and movie for him. What a team! By now I should be a card-carrying SAG member!

So now it’s a waiting game. If the swelling in the retina has receded by my next visit on June 5, they will consider removing the growth; if it has not, then @%@#$@#$!#@, and same for the horse you rode in on!

Will keep you posted.

A POET AT LARGE

2009-04-30T08:59:00.000-07:00

Just got a lovely email from www.writerschatroom.com that they've accepted a poem I sent in. It was one of those crazy days when everything I thought turned into rhyme.

Now, I know some people think rhyming is not about poetry, but ole' Edgar Allan sure had no problem with it, and he's my hero.

I started writing rhyming poetry in the seventh grade when the class had to pick a poem, memorize and recite it. My aunt, an avowed Poe devotee, decided I should learn The Raven, all one-thousand, eighty-eight words of it. As I have (had) a wonderful memory, this was no problem, and I’ve loved his poetry ever since.

For my poem, I took "The Raven" and adapted it to a writer’s world. It has won several awards, some even actually paying me for the submission. So, Poe is still with me.

The name of the poem is: Quoth the Experts: “Write Some More.”

If you’d like to read it, it will be in the “May Spotlight” of http://www.aweber.com/z/article/?chatroom on Tuesday, May 5th.

Let me know your thoughts on it. You don’t have to be a writer to enjoy it!

THE HATEFUL EYE CHART

2009-04-28T16:32:00.000-07:00

My high-risk surgery on 4/20/09, for removal of a despicable cataract in my left eye, went well.

My thoughtful best friend, Gail, took me to UCLA Jules Stein Eye Center, where Dr. Caprioli did the surgery. After a wonderful cocktail of magical potions, I drifted off to LA-LA land, and awoke, prone, watching the surgeon’s shadow while he was mid-suture with 9-0 nylon. I wanted to tell him to take an extra stitch to keep everything in place, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words and my voice was nowhere to be found.

After surgery, with very limited vision in the surgical eye (which was covered with a metal patch with tiny holes), and no vision in the other (due to amblyopia), Gail led me (steered me) to the car. As I’d had no food since 6 p.m. the night before, my intestines were doing the macarena. After a short nap at our hotel, Gail led (pushed) me across the street to Ralphs, where they had an incredible bakery, which I just knew would improve my vision after ingesting a gooey sweet and some coffee.

I only walked into two walls and three people, so I felt reasonably sure I could drive soon. But, while we stood in line to check out, I was having a very gut level talk with Gail about losing my eyesight. In the middle of my gut-wrenching tale, without my knowledge, she left me for a second to grab something from another aisle. Of course, I babbled on, talking very animatedly (I later learned) to a shelf of canned, pitted olives and artichokes canned in oil. Very embarrassing! I could hear passers-by comment on the poor homeless person talking to herself, and debating whether they should help me or report me to the manager.

The next day I removed the patch from my left eye and was delighted that the world around me looked a little brighter and much clearer than before surgery. Alright, I admit it, I’m a cockeyed optimist. After a hospital cafeteria breakfast of powdered eggs and very tired bacon, Gail packed the car and drove us back to her house in Orange County.

The next day, three days post-op, I was sure I was ready to drive back to my winter home in Palm Desert, CA., a trip of only 121 miles. Gail, ever the realist, suggested we go to Wal-Mart and see if they would give me a quick eye test.

Now, according to the State of Washington DMV, I can only get my license renewed if I can read 20/40. Last September, after trying desperately to read 20/40, I was told I would have to take another eye test before my birthday in September of this year. If I couldn't pass the test, they'd yank my license. So you can see why I was desperate for 20/40 vision.

When the Wal-Mart optometrist put up the lighted chart and told me to put my hand over my right eye, I could read so many lines I expected her to cheer. However, I later learned they most assuredly were lines extemporaneously placed there by the guy who made the chart to fool people into believing they had good vision, or else proof that they knew the alphabet.

But then the optometrist scrolled down a line and asked, “Good, okay, now what do you see?” I faltered.

“Ummm, I can’t read that line.” And so it went for three more lines. Okay, but hey, I did read four lines, isn’t anyone excited about that besides me? “What’s the vision line that I read without a hitch?” I asked the optometrist.

“You were just below 20/40,” she replied, “but you were close on a couple of the letters.”

I was devastated. How could that be? I had my cataract removed; I was ready to take on the DMV. Then she asked when my surgery had taken place. When told it had only been three days, she giggled with her hand over her mouth, as if not to offend the idiot sitting in her chair.

I was disappointed that my distance vision had not changed after the surgery. But, she said it would take a month to really see if it was a success. If it was not, then I will have to undergo another surgery to remove a retinal growth; that's where the danger of swelling comes in. So, in three more weeks I’ll know whether I’ll be home free or back to UCLA.

Wish me luck!

TO SEE OR NOT TO SEE, THAT IS THE QUESTION

2009-04-13T19:02:00.000-07:00

HI-HO, HI-HO, IT'S OFF TO UCLA I GO! Next Monday's the big surgery day. I've been told that, because I am one-sighted, (can see out of only one eye) no surgeon would take the risk to remove a cataract from my "good" eye. Growth on Retina, Glaucoma, and all that risky stuff.

But when you can't tell a house on fire from a theater marquee, I think it's time to do something drastic.

So hail to the Bruins at UCLA Jules Stein Eye Center! They say "Bring it on! We do high-risk surgery all the time. We can help you."

As my husband's a rabid USC fan, he isn't taking this too well. I hope he's not pulling for a failure, but you know those football fans.

Anyway, at my last eye test, the sweet little DMV clerk wanted to pull my license right on the spot.

She became a bit suspicious when I couldn't tell a Q from an O, or a G from a C. "Are you having difficutly, dear?" she asked.

"Oh, no, I'm just being silly. Of course I know what it is."

"WHAT is it?" She had just morphed from a cute little old lady to Nurse Ratched.

Well, come next Monday I'll know if the surgery was successful, but right now, I'm dreaming of showing up with a patch on my bad eye and shouting Q-O-G-C, neener, neener, as I pass with flying colors!

Any one-sighted bloggers out there who have had this procedure done???

Wish me luck!

AN EXPAT’S WAKE-UP CALL

2009-03-31T12:19:00.000-07:00

I wonder how many of us even think about where all our conveniences originate.

Before I moved to Iran, I never considered where my drinking water came from, other than my kitchen faucet. I never considered where my electricity came from, other than the switches on lamps, walls, various and sundry plugs located at convenient intervals throughout my home. I never considered where the heat and air conditioning came from, other than the cutesy little louvered registers at ceiling level all over the house that blew out the required heated or chilled air.

I didn't consider what made them all work; how the gas went into the furnace, was then heated by a flame that warmed the heat exchanger, which in turn warmed the air, which then circulated through the vents and then was forced from the register to warm our house, our bodies, and made life in the winter comfortable.

Then we moved to Isfahan, Iran, in the 70s. As a new expat, I found myself worrying about everything that I had taken for granted: the heating pump in the basement; how to keep it full of oil (Naft) that kept us from freezing in 20 degrees, that kept the old radiators in each room putting out warm air and drying our clothes that stretched across them, or worrying about the cooling system when it reached 120F degrees outside, and which worked arbitrarily.

It all came down to when the "AC" or "Naft" man came to town to make it work. Some days he was busier than others and just couldn't get to our house. Busy also meant taking his four hours of Siesta time, prayer time and various obligations that he must attend to before showing up, if, indeed, he came at all.

I also had to fret about the water that came through our rusty pipes. Well, either the pipes made it rusty, or it came to us just plain rusty. I never did figure that one out. Where did the water originate?

A brief walk through town revealed water canals (jubes), running down both sides of the street, which were used for many conveniences; rinsing the vegetables that merchants sold from their carts, tossing rotted bits of produce into, urinating into by the merchants, or any male passersby if the urge to purge hit them, and a quick lap for the scabrous dogs who prowled the streets.

Which brings me back to my original thought: Sometimes we forget how lucky we are to live in the U.S.A.

IRAN IN RETROSPECT

2009-03-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

As I delve into my next memoir, the story of living in Iran during the revolution of the 70s, I feel a need to post this somewhat revised blog to get myself in the writing mode.

I realize my Iran memoir won't be as easy as my first memoir: "A Broad Abroad in Thailand." The Thai people were gracious, happy, smiling and welcoming.

In the70s, with the revolution already in motion (of course we expats had no clue), the Iranian people seemed unhappy, cross, maybe even pissed that westerners had invaded their land.

In retrospect, it’s easy to look back now and understand why the Iranians so hated Americans, but at the time we assumed they weren’t happy campers and let it go at that. In our ignorance, we thought the shah was all about bringing his country up to the 20th Century, and not leave it lagging in the Old Testament era.

Hiring expatriates from all over the world to help bring his country to a new global respect seemed like a generous undertaking. But, retrospection is a wondrous tool. We seem to want to look at casualties “after the fact” and then sort out the problems. But, at the time, we didn’t know there were problems.

The people wanted their country back. Back from the onslaught of foreigners hired by the shah to make more money for his coffers. I guess ignorance is bliss, as they say, because we went on our merry way thinking that we were welcome. Oh how wrong we were!

What I did take notice of was the country and the incongruity of it all:

The well-dressed driver of a Mercedes-Benz lays on his horn as he is surrounded by a herd of sheep. They slowly meander across the potholed dirt road, brushing against the front, sides and back of his gleaming car with their filthy, wet coats, while he screams obscenities at the sheep, the herder and at his illiterate countrymen that would allow this to happen.

A chador-clad woman stands in the street. As she waves her arm and tries to hail a taxi, her chador rides up revealing a bare arm dripping with a fortune in pure gold bangles, while an ancient, blind woman squats at her feet, begging for money or scraps of food.

A towering mosque, laden with gold and jade, stands in tribute to the incredible architecture of centuries past, while beggars with limbs missing seek shelter in the shade provided by its magnificent minarets.

In the capital city of Tehran, a theater marquee stands twelve feet high and pictures a female strapped to a pillar; she is wearing black fishnet stockings, garter belt, stiletto heels, and black bra with cleavage pouring forth. Lined up on the sidewalks and spilling over into the dirty streets are throngs of men, salivating as they wait to enter the theater. Walking by the theater and on both sides of the street are other figures, covered from head to toe in the traditional black chador, eyes, nose and mouth the only indication that they are women, yet having to hide every strand of hair and femininity to insure they do not cause a man to have “unholy thoughts.” Hellllooooooooooooo!

Okay, now I have to get busy and turn this into a 300-page book and sell it.

Agents, feel free to contact me!

BEST IN TRAVEL WRITING

2009-03-27T18:29:00.000-07:00

Wow! I just found an old email proclaiming me the "GOLD" winner for an article I submitted to a contest back in September, 08. (I told you the writing demons were out to get me!) I also won honorable mention for another submission. Now that has hyped me up, so look out, I'm on fire now.

The contest was the Solas Awards for excellence in travel writing and winners articles will appear in Traveler's Tales Books.

If you like reading stories about travelers; humorous, adventurous,whatever, you will want to check out these books at www.travelerstales.com and they're also available at book stores and Amazon.com.

Click here to view article

Just when I thought I would never put thought to paper again, things are looking up.

Onward and Upward!

BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND WRITERS

2009-03-24T09:19:00.000-07:00

Have you ever said… “Okay, tomorrow I start my... (in my case my manuscript)...” But tomorrow never seems to come. At my age, how many tomorrows do I have left?

Trying to get back to my next memoir, A Broad Abroad in Iran, I was caught up in problems that I soon realized were not going to go quietly in the night.

As I noted in my last blog, this past summer hubby’s Parkinson’s turned ugly and my writing was put on hold. His DBS (deep brain stimulation) hardware began hosting Staph. aurius, the nasty little bugs that like to eat up your good cells. So, the DBS was removed.

So far, the dyskinesia (involuntary movement) has not returned, however, his legs don’t seem to want to cooperate. His balance is precarious and his legs are weak, which makes for strange bedfellows; when he walks, they sometimes go out from under him. As I need to constantly monitor him, the writing and marketing had to be put on hold.

Then, squelching my writing even further, in January I had to have thumb joint arthroplasty (bone on bone) surgery. When I thought I could finally type again, my immune system decided to attack me rather than heal me after surgery, and there went more writing time.

Just when I thought I could start writing again, up jumps the writing demons to thwart me.

But, what is a writer if not an optimist? I’ll keep trying.

BOOK TRAILERS

2009-03-20T18:46:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd heard it all (at my age I should have) but this is soooo cool! A book trailer, like a movie trailer, should have some marketing savy built in. I hired a wonderful man, Chris, from ReaderViews.com and he did a spectacular job. Take a look. It's awesome. http://dodiecross.com/thai/index.htm#movie

Well, maybe I'm a bit prejudiced, because it is my first book and all, but, hey, I'm entitled.

It basically shows a quick summary of the book, and in less than three seconds it's over.

Let me know what you think of it.

JEREMY JACKSON SHINES FORTH

2009-01-24T08:30:00.000-08:00

Had hand surgery 3 days ago; this hunt-and-peck thing sucks. Just wanted to put up a flare for my first grandson, Jeremy Jackson, who now is on "Confessions of a Teen Idol" seen on VH1 every Sunday and rerun on Monday. What a hunk. He looks so much like his deceased father that I cry when I see him. He's a beautiful boy/man inside and out. Good luck to you my love.

Check out his interview on CNN
http://snackfeed.com/videos/detail/0adefb86-3957-102c-a525-00304897c9c6/Confessions-of-a-teen-idol?_s=s

Grammy Dodie

DBS SURGERY IN A MRSA-RIDDEN WORLD

2008-12-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

Originally posted on 11/14/08

You might want to give some serious thought before you sign up for any surgery.

It's on the Internet. It’s on television and in the newspapers.

MRSA, pronounced Mersa, sounds innocuous, almost poetic. Don’t let the name fool you.

MRSA stands for Methicillin Resistant Staphalococcus Aureus, or: a staph infection that is resistant to most known antibiotics. As the title states, these little creeps are resistant to normal penicillin drugs that heretofore have been used to send them to the great beyond. Now they sit up on their haunches and laugh at the antibiotic as it courses through the body, thumbing their nose because they know they have a permanent home in the dark recesses of their host.

My husband, Ray, has Parkinson's Disease (PD). He's had it for almost ten years, but it has just recently turned ugly. The dyskinesia (involuntary movement), seen by thousands of viewers at they painfully watched Michael J. Fox in Washington, D.C. asking for help for this disease, is one of the ugly parts about PD.

When it got to the point that my husband couldn’t even sit without nearly jumping out of the chair, we knew it was time for some help.

Parkinson's is caused by the failure of a group of nerve cells in the brain to produce adequate amounts of a dopamine. Dopamine is necessary for smooth, coordinated movement and muscle relaxation. Some patients, therefore, have no control over arms, legs, neck and head, which seems to take on a life of their own as they jerk, lift, flail, and tremble.

We looked into a procedure called Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS). Holes are drilled into the top of the skull and then wires are forced down through the holes and into the brain to find a spot that irritates the cells, causing a disruption of the dyskinesia.

The surgery, if all goes well, stops the dyskinesia completely, and supposedly the patient is able to lead a fairly normal life. We promptly signed up for the procedure at Loma Linda University Medical Center in California, and on January of 2008, Ray underwent DBS. He has been relatively shake-free since then.

However, along with the installation of the wires into his brain to calm the dyskinesia (we were later to find out), a few nasty little bacteria known as Staphalococcus obviously took up squatting rights on the wires before his head wound was closed.

Being Snow-Birds, we left in June for Washington, six months after the surgery. At the end of the month I noticed a spot of blood in Ray's hair just above the ear (and right over a wire). We were referred to a UWMC neurosurgeon, who felt it was just a slight break in the skin with some inflammation, rather than an infection. He opened the wound, cleaned and closed it. Antibiotics were prescribed for four weeks.

Two months later the wound appeared to have a bulge under it, so off we went again to the doc, who basically did the same thing; opened it, cleaned it, closed it and put him on antibiotics again.

The third trip, a month later, caused the doctor to throw up his hands in exasperation and suspect something was amiss. He called in a prescription for a stronger antibiotic.

Two days later, after we'd flown back to California, the Washington surgeon called to say that the laboratory results showed Staph. Ray would now need to take a much stronger antibiotic, Zyvox, which he would call in to our pharmacy and Ray was to start immediately. He also strongly suggested we see the DBS surgeon in California as soon as possible.

Now, some infections can be licked pretty fast, but having a foreign object in the body is the ultimate to these little scum bags. With all the wires and plates that were inserted into my husband's head during the DBS procedure, it must have seemed like an "A" ride at Disneyland to these bugs. As the doc explained to me, the bugs like to latch onto those foreign objects.

It was now time for me to throw up my hands in exasperation. After spending over $200 on the antibiotics for those first two occurrences, I now had to toss them and get yet another.

Now the pharmacist was shocked. “You do know these are very expensive, don’t you?” he said as he typed in the prescription for insurance approval.

“Well, no, but what can we do? We have to have them.”

“Very well, but you must be in the “gap” with Medicare, right?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“Because the prescription for six weeks is seven-thousand dollars!”

I chuckled as I dug through my purse for my husband’s Medicare card. Then I looked up as the words hit home. “Huh?”

The pharmacist was not smiling. “The bad news is you will owe three-thousand dollars. The good news is Medicare will pay four-thousand dollars.”

“You’re kidding me, right? How could an antibiotic cost that much.”

“I’m afraid I’m not kidding. That’s why I asked if you were in the 'gap' because I think Medicare would pay more if Ray had met his deductible.”

I struggled to come to grips with what he was telling me. “I can’t believe that. What do people do who have no insurance and need this drug?”

“I guess they do without,” he said. "But it doesn't always work. I have an elderly lady customer who has used this same drug and it didn’t work the first two times. She’s on her third go-round. So you have no guarantee with this.”

“OHMYGAWD! I don’t have three-thousand dollars to hand you right now.”

“Then my advice to you would be to have your doctor admit your husband to a hospital for the intravenous injections of this antibiotic. It would be much safer and cheaper because Medicare would pay.”

I digested this for a few minutes. “Well, we do have an appointment with the surgeon who did the DBS in five days. Could I just buy enough pills to get him by until we see the doctor and ask him to admit my husband?”

“That would be smart,” he said, turning back to his computer. He put nine pills in a little brown bottle, handed it off to the clerk, who smiled at me, and said, “Seven-hundred and eighty-three dollars please. Just run your credit card through the slot.”

“What? No! Please tell me you’ve made a mistake. Seven-hundred and eighty-three dollars for nine pills?”

“Yes Ma’am,” she said, repeating the amount as if I were deaf.”

“I heard you, dear. I just can’t believe it!“

Medicare’s rules for payment state that you must first be hospitalized for three days before you’re admitted to a nursing home.

The surgeon admitted my husband immediately and after three days Ray was admitted to a nursing home where he got his IV antibiotic therapy compliments of Medicare.

So, here we are, three weeks down and three weeks to go, of a very strong intravenous antibiotic, Vancomycin. We return to the surgeon on November 20th for the verdict.

But the jury still isn’t in on the MRSA. After all this, if those dirtballs are still hanging on, the whole works (hardware and wires) will have to be removed…otherwise their next stop is…the brain.

So, as I said, give it some serious thought before you undergo any elective surgery in a hospital. And, if you must have surgery, get discharged as fast as you can.

MRSA IS WAITING FOR YOU!

WATCH FOR THE NEXT EPISODE!

HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW!

2008-10-07T16:47:00.000-07:00

It’s so quiet here on our lake. The trilling and twittering from the gold finches and wrens and swallows that we hear all summer has suddenly stopped. The warbling and chirping that heralds the morning dawn, has also come to a stop. The dive-bombing of the birds to catch insects has also ended, and the lake is still. Geese fly low, just above our dock, honking and telling the world: Look out sun, here we come!

The water beyond our dock, once speckled with mallards, grebes and merganzers has suddenly become flat and empty.

They were here one day and the next they were gone. How do they up and leave so fast? It takes me a month to get ready for the winter and follow the sun south. What type of computer chip is embedded in their DNA that says: “Okay, folks, let’s roll.” What a carefree life they have.

The quail, though, stick around; I think they’re pretty glad the other pesky birds have flown the coop. Now the hills and lake are theirs to enjoy.

When it becomes still on our lake, I know it’s time to start packing. We, like the birds, will head south to a warmer climate, and leave the lake and mountains to the quails.

AN IRANIAN WAKE-UP CALL

2008-10-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

As I get more involved in writing my memoir of Iran, I begin to remember things that caused me great consternation as a new expat, but which now seems amazing that I was not more prepared, hence the wake-up call.

Before I moved to Iran, I never considered where my drinking water came from, other than my kitchen faucet. I never considered where my electricity came from, other than the switches on lamps, walls, various and sundry plugs located at convenient intervals throughout my home. I never considered where the heat and air conditioning came from, other than the cutesy little louvered registers at ceiling level all over the house that blew out the required heated or chilled air.

I never considered what made them all work; how the gas went into the furnace, was then heated by a flame that warmed the heat exchanger, which in turn warmed the air, which then circulated through the vents and then was forced from the register to warm our house, our bodies, and made life in the winter worth living.

But as a new expat to Iran, I now found myself worrying about everything that I had taken for granted. The heating pump in the basement; how to keep it full of oil (Naft) that kept us from freezing in 20 degrees, that kept the old radiators in each room putting out warm air, or worrying about the cooling when it reached 120 degrees outside, and which worked arbitrarily. It all depended on when the “AC” or “Naft” man came to town to make it work. Some days he was busier than others and just couldn’t get to our house. Busy also meant taking his four hours of Siesta time, prayer time and various obligations that he must attend to before showing up, if indeed he came at all.

I also had to fret about the water that came through our rusty pipes. Well, either the pipes made it rusty, or it came to us just plain rusty. Where did it originate? A brief walk through town revealed water troughs (jubes), running down both sides of the street, which were used for many conveniences; for rinsing the vegetables that merchants sold from their carts, for tossing rotted bits of produce into, for urinating into by the merchants, or any male passing by if the urge to purge came along, and a quick lap for the scabrous dogs who prowled the streets.

Which brings me back to my original thought: Some of us forget how lucky we are to live in the U.S.A.

FAT-CATS AND FIRE-ANTS

2008-09-29T18:44:00.000-07:00

Does anyone out there want to give Wall Street to the Terrorists?

I think I have a plan for fixing this whole mess. We take all the fat-cat CEOs out to the desert. We cover them in molasses and then set a case of fire-ants free.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch, but actually that's kind of what's happening to us poor slobs. They are the fire-ants, and we're the bodies covered with molasses. They misappropriated funds, lied, cheated their way to fat wallets, and when the shoe finally dropped, they want us to bail them out while running for the comfort of their off-shore bank accounts and faraway-island estates There is something wrong with this picture!

Please Wall-Street-Gods, don't let them get away with it.

SOCIAL NETWORKING

2008-09-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Besides working on my Iran book, I’m also getting ready for my “Social Networking Tour.” Hopefully it will take place in the next week.

How does it work? Not really sure, but according to Penny Sansevieri at Author Marketing Experts, Inc., I should end up with a bazillion people hitting my website and blog.

How much is a bazillion? Not sure, but I like the sound of it. Okay, maybe not a bazillion, but hopefully many more than I have now. People who’ve never heard of my book: A Broad Abroad in Thailand will now see it on the internet, along with my work in progress, A Broad Abroad in Iran.

Getting your name out there is the biggie. Sitting in your office and hoping that Oprah is dialing 411 at this very minute and asking for your phone number is a great dream, but you have to do more.

It’s tough out there. I keep reading about all those wonderful writers who’ve made it to the big-time publishers, and wonder if it will ever happen. I sent out a wonderful query the other day and just knew the agent would be so eager to represent me that she’d call me the second she read it. Well, there must be a reason. She’s probably on a short vacation, or maybe ill in a hospital somewhere and no one is reading her e-mails. That’s it. So, I'll just wait until she returns from her vacation or recovers from the flu, or whatever. But I will not think negative thoughts. Nosiree! She’ll call. How could she not? The book’s a hoot, even one of her clients agreed.

Here’s one of the problems: it’s self-published. Why agents don’t want to go after these books is beyond me. If you have a good selling record I’d think they’d say, Hey, let me see the book, maybe we have a best-seller here! Then again, I guess they think if you self-published that you’ve been turned down by other agents. Well, maybe they need to realize that we all can’t wait the four years it takes to get the book out. I don’t have that long. I don’t even buy green bananas anymore. So, come on, agents. Lighten up!

But just in case your phone does ring, make sure you answer with your most professional voice. You never know, it could be Oprah! Whoops, have to go. The phone’s ringing.

WRITING MY IRAN MEMOIR

2008-09-09T18:23:00.000-07:00

IRAN IN RETROSPECT
A Broad Abroad in Iran:
One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs
(during the revolution)

Hooray! Since my last post, A Broad Abroad in Thailand has received some great awards: “First Place" in the National Indie Book Awards 2008 for Memoir, and also placed as a “Finalist” in the Humor category. Abroad also won “Silver” in Foreword Magazine's Book of the Year Awards in the Humor category, presented to me at the BookExpo America in L.A. That's pretty exciting for a first time book.

It’s been some time since I’ve had a chance to get back here. The only changes I see in my marketing strategy are a few more grey hairs and wrinkles.

I now struggle to write my second memoir about living in Iran during the 70s. It won’t be as easy as my first memoir, A Broad Abroad in Thailand. The Thai people were gracious, happy, smiling and welcoming. In the70s, with the revolution already in motion (of course we expats had no clue), the Iranian people seemed unhappy, cross, maybe even pissed that westerners had invaded their land.

In retrospect, it’s easy to look back now and try to understand why they hated us, but at the time we just thought they weren’t happy campers and let it go at that. In our ignorance, we thought the Shah was just trying to bring his country up to the 20th Century, and not leave it lagging in the Old Testament era. Hiring expatriates from all over the world to help bring his country to a new global respect seemed like a generous undertaking. But, retrospection is a wondrous tool. We seem to want to look at casualties “after the fact” and then sort out the problems. But, at the time, we didn’t know there were problems.

What I did notice was the incongruity of it all!

The well-dressed driver of a Mercedes-Benz lays on his horn as he is surrounded by a herd of sheep. They slowly meander across the potholed dirt road, brushing against the front, sides and back of his gleaming car with their filthy, wet coats, while he screams obscenities at the sheep, the herder and at his illiterate countrymen that would allow this to happen.

A chador-clad woman stands in the street. As she waves her arm and tries to hail a taxi, her chador rides up revealing a bare arm dripping with a fortune in pure gold bangles, while an ancient, blind woman squats at her feet, begging for money or scraps of food.

A towering mosque, laden with gold and jade, stands in tribute to the incredible architecture of centuries past, while beggars with limbs missing seek shelter in the shade provided by its magnificent minarets.

In the capital city of Tehran, a theater marquee stands twelve feet high and pictures a female strapped to a pillar; she is wearing black fishnet stockings, garter belt, stiletto heels, and black bra with cleavage pouring forth. Lined up on the sidewalks and spilling over into the dirty streets are throngs of men, salivating and waiting to enter. Walking by the theater and on both sides of the street are other figures; covered from head to toe in the traditional black chador, eyes, nose and mouth the only indication that they are women, yet having to hide every strand of hair and femininity to insure they do not cause a man to have “unholy thoughts.” Hellllooooooooooooo!

Okay, now I have to get busy and turn it into a 300-page book and sell it.

Agents, feel free to contact me!

HARD WORK PAYS OFF

2008-05-17T18:27:00.001-07:00

I've just looked back on my last blogs and have to say that whining pays off. It was all worth it. My Book, A Broad Abroad in Thailand, An Expat's Misadventures in the Land of Smiles has placed as a Finalist in ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year Award. The winner will be announced at the BookExpo America 2008, at the Los Angeles Convention Center on May 30th. Guess where I'll be on May 30th?

I also just learned that Abroad won First Prize in the Autobiography/Memoir category, and placed as a Finalist, in the Humor category, both in the National Indie 2008 Book Awards.

So I have to apologize for all the whining I’ve done, but the whining spurred me onward to enter these contests and to hell with the BIG publishers. I can do it, I told myself, on my own!!!

Well, maybe I could use some help. Maybe Oprah or Ellen might walk up to me at the Expo and say, “Okay, I’ll take 200,000, wrap ‘em up!”

It doesn’t hurt to dream, does it? If it did, I’d be in a heap of hurt.

To read an excerpt from this award-winning book go to:
http://dodiecross.com/thai/excerpts.htm

Now that my confidence is up and revving with these awards, I’ve gotten serious on my next book: A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy-Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs. An Expat’s Misadventures during the revolution.

BOOK PROMOTION 101 - From the Stakeout to the Kill (Or: Secrets from a Self-Promoting Slut)

2008-03-09T20:08:00.001-07:00

Okay, here’s the deal. We have to promote ourselves! There’s only one person who knows the book and thinks it’s the Greatest Story Ever Told; and that person is the author. I have no shame when it comes to promoting, selling or getting in someone’s face (or dinner plate) to sell my book.

The first thing I did after my cover was designed was to design and make a bookmark. It was easy. All I had to do was set my margins on my word document to the size of a normal bookmark (2”x7”) and then start typing….In this laugh-out-loud memoir, Dodie Cross…yada, yada, yada. You’d a thought I had just been awarded the Pulitzer by the way I bragged. But, why not? Whose going to walk up to you and say: “Hey, I read your book, and it wasn’t a ‘Laugh out loud.’”

Next I called around and got some quotes on 500 bookmarks; some prices were higher than my mortgage payment, some companies took six weeks to deliver. Then I found Office Depot. They were fast, did the work in-house, and the bookmarks turned out lovely! Then I began my attack:

The Stakeout: Every time I left the house I made sure I had at least 50 bookmarks stuffed into my purse. The second I saw a straggler, a woman sitting alone, two or more women together, or husband and wife, I began reaching into my purse. “Hi,” I’d say, giving my best local author smile, “I’m a local author and this is a bookmark for you.” “Oh, thanks,” most would mutter as they haltingly accepted it, hoping I wasn’t a rabid cult member trying to lure them into my church.

The Assault: I can’t tell you how many times my cheapo little cards sold a book for me. In restaurants: I’d scope out the room looking for happy faces—crinkles around the eyes shows a propensity for laughing; women chattering over a glass of wine (I always approach drinkers, they’re happy people). I’ve left the restaurant with two people trailing me to my car for an on-the-spot purchase. I suspect it might have looked like some sort of a drug-buy, but hey, you’ve got to market at any cost!

* On airplanes: I walk the aisles looking for women reading. They’re easy prey. “Hi,” I say brightly as I check out the name of the book they’re reading. “You look like you’d enjoy this type of book,” as I insert a bookmark into their book. There’s really no way to avoid a sales pitch on a plane. Where are they gonna go to get away from you?
* At the post office: Lines of women, just waiting to get their minds off of the dreary duty of picking up “held” bills. I think they’re the easiest marks. They have no book with them; they are bored beyond endurance; and their eyes light up when I tell them that the back of my bookmark is “for women only.” Then I lurk just outside the door, knowing I’ve interested a few of them, and sure enough, I have captured at least one to three bored housewives longing for some excitement in their lives, and honey, I tell them, this book will do it. Once I ran out of bookmarks before the line of women ran out, and I actually had a lady look ticked off. “Where’s mine?” she asked.
* Doctor’s offices: Another sure-fire captive audience. They’re all reading; either books or magazines left over from the pterodactyl period or boring health leaflets. “Hi,” I say, giving them the “local author” bit, “I’ll bet this book might be more interesting than reading about the heartbreak of seborrhea and psoriasis.”

Coming in for the Kill—The Guarantee: “This is a woman’s book,” I tell them. “Very funny, fast reading, and if you don’t laugh out loud I’ll refund your money.” “Oh!” some would reply, suddenly interested. “Well, gee. Okay. Um, where can I get it?” they’d ask while turning the card over and reading the hilarious synopsis I devised to trap such hold-outs. “Well, if you’re interested in saving some money in shipping and handling costs, I have copies in my car for just your type of smart shopper. Plus, I can autograph it for you if you purchase it right now.” I do believe I have sold more from my trunk than from my website.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all this airy persiflage is: don’t be a bunch of nattering nabobs of negativism. Get out and be a self-promoting slut!

Shakespeare's "To be or not to be" had everything to do with marketing and distributing!

2007-11-21T09:42:00.001-08:00

I've just had a eureka-moment! You can write the best book in the world, but if you don't put some blood, sweat and tears behind it, it will sit quietly in the dark recesses of someone's storage area; all the while you're paying $125.00 a month to keep it there, nice and snuggly and dusty.

Ah, marketing and distribution! I read this truism somewhere: You've written a book. You think your work is done! HA! Now you have to market and distribute the book. Good luck! Your work has just begun.

As a self-published author, you're on your own, kiddo! No one there to take your hand, lead you in the right direction, warn you of the pitfalls and pratfalls. Nope, just you and your little fingers on the keyboard, searching for distributors to answer your queries: "Oh! Absolutely! Mail the copy of your book to me at once. We have been looking for a book of your caliber. You should make millions from this..."

But alas, all you find are companies that say: "How many books have you written?"
"Ahh, just this one, but I have another in the making."
"What are your marketing strategies?"
"Ahh, well, ah, I've hired a publicist, but they're so expensive I could only get them for six weeks."
"Hmmm. Well, we really only take on TRIED AND TRUE authors, so maybe you need to find another company."
"Well, can you recommend any?"
"No. Good day."

So, you slam down the phone, blow your nose, wipe your eyes then look for the next phone number. You find a couple, but when you hear their cost to "distribute" your book, you realize it could cost you more money then the publicist, and twice the cost of your printing.

Do these distributors have it in with the Big-4 printing companies? It's scary how they seem to all hang together; Hey, let's not let the little guy in. If he thinks he can do it without us, then let him try. We'll railroad him at every turn.

Then you find a list of distributors who say they'll take on a one-book publisher. But, hey, wait a minute. They require the deed to your house and cars before signing you on.

Okay, if any nice-guy distributors are out there reading this, HELP! I need you. Give a kid a break. When I'm wealthy and at the top of the New York Times Best Sellers List I'll tell the world how you gave me my first real break in the distribution world.

THE STORY OF DAVID (the self-publisher) AND GOLIATH, (the giant publishers)

2007-11-17T18:53:00.000-08:00

11/17/07: Okay, I admit it. I probably should have waited to find an agent, then a publisher, then my life would have been so much easier. But, I'm too old for that. I can't wait for two years for the agent to find the right publisher, then the publisher to make me wait two years, and then decide, "Who is this person?" and dump the manuscript. I don't even buy green bananas anymore.

But I did it on my own. I put out a magnificent book that I'm proud of, looks amazing and reads the same. From the reviews I've received, I feel like Oprah should be pounding on my door any minute. "Please, my friend, let me put this out to my Book Club. You're wonderful, incredible...."yada, yada, yada.

But, without a publisher, you have no distributor. Without a distributor, can't get into the book stores. There may be people in down-and-out Arkansas that would love my book, but would never hear about it. So, what do I do. I can't afford to go on a cross-country trek, stopping at all the independent book stores along the way. I'm in my middle-earlies and too tired to make that trip. I can't even afford to pay my two publicists, but I'm doing it. Giving up food and shelter would probably be better, but for now I'll just be an optimist and see what happens.

Tomorrow will probably be a better day, so I'll sign off and hopefully a distributor will be at my door with the newspaper. So, if anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. Leave me a comment below this posting.