Why not?

            First, there was a magnificent trip to Cuba.  Then, another to Colombia just after that.  This was immediately followed by a work stint in the hills of Napa for the summer.  After all this, I haven’t had much time to catch my breath, much less write down anything about my experiences.  So, I thought I’d get back into the mix by starting with an adventure a little closer to home…

            “OK, ready.  Three, two, one, now!  Go, go, go, stand up!” my instructor calls to me. 

I immediately push myself up on my hands and bring my left foot up between them in a sort of twisted crouch.  Then, I attempt to rise to a standing position, preying to defy gravity and the churning waters beneath me, in order to remain upright while in motion.  “That’s it, all the way!”  I wobble a bit one way and then the other, but I’m still standing.  Hey, I’m doing it, I’m surfing!

            Through the soles of my feet I sense my boards trajectory begin to slow and veer, signaling the shoreline.  I step into the shallow waves feeling pumped – yeah, I did it!  I conquered the wave and mastered my balance.  I ignore the skeptical side of myself that wonders if this isn’t just a fluke and if I’ll actually be able to do it again.  It really doesn’t matter, I just love being out here - rocking and rolling over the relentless waves.  Not much compares to the feeling of standing on the crest of a wave being propelled towards shore, while the water before me rushes past on its way back out to sea.

            “That was awesome!  High five, right in front of ya,” my instructor informs me where to reach so he can slap my hand.  

He seems pretty pumped himself, as he steps off the back of the surfboard from where he caught the wave with me.  This only being my second time surfing, and my first being almost a decade ago, he seems quite impressed with my skill.  “You’re much better than most beginners that come out here, and you’re very easy to teach,” he tells me.  Well, you know what; I’m pretty impressed with him as well, especially given my history.

            Growing up not far from the beaches of Southern California, I’ve always been interested in surfing, but never quite knew how to get started.  I didn’t know who would be willing or have the skills to teach a blind person.  Then, while living in Hawaii for six months, the week before I moved back to the Mainland, I finally found someone.  I met a local whose life was surfing, and who seemed to find no challenge in teaching a young blind girl.  My first surf lesson was on my 22^nd birthday on Waikiki Beach with an old school Hawaiian surfer.  By the end of the lesson I was standing on my board, riding wave after wave as he called them out to me.  The exhilaration and sense of accomplishment were addicting.

            Since then, I have continued to try to find someone willing to step out of their comfort zone and teach me, but until now, I have had no such luck.  People that surf who I’ve met over the years have always said they’d be willing to try, but nothing ever came of it.  Experience has taught me that it takes a special kind of person to aid me in learning a new skill – someone who is open minded, self-confident, and able to learn how to do things differently from their established way – and I’ve realized that it is sometimes worth it to me to wait for such a person to come along, rather than try to learn from someone who is not able to grasp what it is I need.

            Fortunately, such a person has appeared again in the surfing world for me.  When I called to set up the lesson, my instructor Matt, at University of Surfing in Pacifica, was not at all daunted by me being blind.  In fact, he seemed excited by the prospect, which in turn was a relief to me, seeing how this is not often the case.  Plus, once out on the water, he listened to, and was able to comprehend  what it was I needed from him.  This made not just surfing, but the overall experience of it a total success.  At the end of the lesson, as we finally turned our backs on the oceans strong allure, I put my hand under his elbow for guidance up the beach, feeling secure in the knowledge that I would be back soon.

Crazy Dog Lady - March 23, 2011

Hurrying down the steps and out my front gate on my way to work, I stopped twenty yards or so from my front door to let my dog relieve himself in the same empty patch of dirt that he uses daily.  In my very urban neighborhood of busy streets it is very difficult to find a good spot for my guidedog to go, so we’re fortunate for this one vacant tree planter (though it often seems to get mistaken for a trashcan.)  Today, however, there is a van of two or three hysterically barking dogs parked beside his precious spot.  I wonder if he will still go with them barking their heads off right next to him, or if I’m going to have to find another location (which will most likely make me even later for work).  Fortunately, he goes though, and just before he is finished I hear a woman’s voice from around the front of the van.  “Um, do you think you could stand somewhere else with your dog because he’s making my dogs crazy.”  Uh, what the hell…This caught me so off guard I didn’t know what to say in the moment.  It was obvious that she neither knew he was a guidedog, nor got that he was peeing.  So I replied, “Uh, sure.  He’s a guidedog, and as soon as he’s done peeing we’ll be moving on.”  I don’t know how much of the situation actually sank in though, because as I put my dog’s harness on to walk away, she said to me in a somewhat less bitchy tone, “Well, I wouldn’t normally mind, it’s just that my dogs like their privacy.”  What???  I had no response for this, so I proceeded to walk away in disbelief, hoping that eventually the entirety of what just happened might dawn on her.  Moments later though, as I moved off down the street, all kinds of responses bubbled up in my head, including: “If your dogs need their privacy, than why don’t you keep them at home where they can have it!” “This is where my GUIDEDOG goes to the bathroom every day, so if your dogs are having a problem with it, you are more than welcome to move your van.“ and “If your dogs were trained and/or socialized, than they wouldn’t have such a need for what you call privacy, and others might refer to as instinctual behavior!”

Oh well, I hadn’t thought of any of this in time, so I didn’t get to say any of it to her.  I just get a good story out of it, and hope that the next time an equally ridiculous incident occurs I will be more prepared to respond.  Oh, and I’m sure I’ll get the chance to test my skills soon, because things like this happen on a daily basis for me; though fortunately most aren’t so extreme.

Yacht Club - February 20, 2011

Yay-yah…what a weekend!  After yesterday’s quick Tahoe excursion (against my better judgment of likely time constraint on such an endeavor)), and just a few hours sleep, today was all about sailing.  Since I was back in time to get on the boat and the sun was actually making an appearance, why not, right?  And I’m very glad I did because the conditions were fabulous; there were strong winds, lasting sunshine (though it was freakin’ freezing), and some good rollers (waves).  The camaraderie was great, the banter endless, being at the helm (steering) felt completely natural to me, and just a general sense of ease for me on the boat.  
            

After sailing I was planning on going home rather than having drinks at the yacht club as most of our group often does.  However, I ended up going in to sit with another blind sailor so she wouldn’t have to wait by herself for the rest of the crew to come up from the docks.  At the club we came across our Commodore (also blind, and a very interesting man), and of course we all got to talking.  The next thing I know, a guy we met, offered to buy us a round, and then the rest of our crew arrived.  Before I knew it two hours had gone by, and I was a little buzzed off one (very large) glass of wine (how sad, I know).  
           

Anyway, as I finally left the table for home, the guy who bought the round appeared beside me, saying he had something to give me.  Expecting his contact info of some sort, I was pretty stunned when he handed me a paper with his name and number in homemade Braille.  At first, I had trouble deciphering the message, but when put in context I was able to figure it out.  Wow, impressive!  Because he avoided telling me how he knew Braille, I can only assume that while I sat chatting, he had looked it up online, and then proceeded to poke the described series of holes into a piece of paper with a pen or something.  This guy gets major points!
           

I was pretty stoked because I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a gesture of quite this magnitude before – a sightling willing to take that big a step into our world – and I wanted to share the hope it inspires with other blindies,  let them know what’s possible. J So, I went to find the Commodore, who I heard pass by on his way to the restroom.  Because I can hear the Ladies’ room is fully occupied and I have to wait anyway, I knock on the Men’s room door to see if the Commodore is still in there.  He is, but can’t hear me through the door.  So, after thinking how such actions aren’t really permissible in the sighted world but are totally acceptable amongst blindies, I open the door and walk in, just as he calls, “why don’t you just come in!”  I replied, “I’m already here,” and relayed my story, asking him to send out a particular woman whose opinion I trust.  As I open the door to leave, I seem to startle another of our sailors (who is a bit shy and much more reserved than some of us) on his way in.  Laughing, I cross to the ladies’ room (now empty), and shortly after, hear the woman I sent for (one of our sighted sailors) calling my name in the hall.  I then hear her open the men’s room door, asking if I am inside.  By this time I am laughing to myself hysterically at the comedy skit this has become, and at what I can only imagine what the Commodore (never one to miss a chance to improve upon a story) has said.  When my companion finally enters the ladies room, she reports that the Commodore got back to the table and announced that I was in the men’s room and needed help.  (Thanks a lot Old Man)  So she came looking for me, and when she opened the men’s room door, there were three men inside, one of whom was the drinks guy who unknowingly brought this whole thing about.  A positive visual report from her (just so I know the guy isn’t flying a visual freak flag), and the scene comes to a close; though my friend is sorry that walking into the men’s room didn’t provide her with more of a view to report.

Awe, sometimes I wonder how the yacht club keeps us on here.  As I walk out into the frigid night, I remember that the Prince concert is tomorrow night…the excitement never ends around here.

Tahoe - February 19, 2011

Relieved to know I won’t have to be doing this alone, I drop my butt into the middle of the tube, awkwardly interlocking my feet (in their adorable new, white snow boots) through the arms of my friend in front, and my arms through the legs of my friend in back, so that one shove sent the three of us plunging down the snowy hillside together, laughing hysterically and with no means of control.  We even got enough momentum to slide right over the flat landing at the bottom and up a small incline.
            

Finally, a little action!  After a six hour car ride to Tahoe, we made it just in time for closing at the ski/snowboard resorts, so it was awesome to be out doing something with at least a bit of an adrenaline rush.  This was my first time snow-tubing, and would have loved to get another run in, but no such luck, they were shutting down too.  Well, one go at a new experience is better than none.
            

After 4 pm there really isn’t shit to do outdoor sportswise in South Tahoe, so one friend and I decided to create our own action.  Using my puffy, long jacket as a sled, I attempted to slide down a slope on my stomach.  Unfortunately, my boobs created to much of a snow bank, which made the going pretty slow even when my friend tried pushing my feet wheelbarrel style.  We tried various ideas of this nature, until finally barrowing a real sled from other friendly snow goers who took pity on us.  Hey, since we were here, I was getting some snow action in somehow.
            

After that, it was an entertaining dinner at Fire and Ice Grill (another first for me).  The restaurant goes for another angle on unique dining experience.  After creating our own combinations of meats, veggies, sauces, and noodles at the buffet, we then carried them to the gril, where everyone stands around watching as the chefs perform impressive stunts and maneuvers as they cook the food.  Since we could make as many plates and combinations we wanted, and since I’m into pretty much any kind of interactive eating, I was sold.
            

Then we hit the casino, and that’s when I got my real adrenaline rush.  Sitting down at the Blackjack table on my own (without anyone I knew playing, I mean) terrified the shit out of me.  An almost overwhelming sensation of “I don’t want to do this” came over me, and I had to force myself to sit through it by chatting with my friends standing behind me.  I realized I was terrified because I felt as if I had no idea what I was doing since so much of what happens at a table is visual, and I had none of those cues to learn from.  I knew nobody was there to take the time to show me how things worked, and I was afraid of looking (and feeling) like a complete idiot.  It’s sad to me that even though I’ve been to Vegas a few times a year since I was eleven, I still could feel this inadequate.  Oh the mind trip…I guess it’s just that since leaving my compulsive gambling phase of my pre-teens (developed during my first visit to Vegas under the lure of the clanging slot machine), I haven’t had any interest in gambling.  It’s only been on the past few trips, that I’ve tried to get someone to sit at a table with me and show me the ropes.
            

Well, that didn’t happen, so it was now up to me to somehow do this solo.  First, I told the dealer it was my first time at a table, and he replied, “well then, you’ve come to the right place,” thank God.  I was very fortunate that my friends stayed nearby to help, the guys already at the table were incredibly friendly and excited for me, and the dealer was as helpful as possible; he showed me the hand gestures and visual cues I didn’t even know I needed to know, and even let me play a hand after my money ran out, (which happened more quickly than I imagined it could).
            

As I played, I kept getting the feeling I was doing something wrong.  I even got the sense that the dealer was giving me hints, but I had no idea what the problem was.  So, when my money evaporated quite quickly after my first win, I left the table both exhilarated from my triumph over my fear, and doubtful as to how anyone actually won at this game.  The high of accomplishment stayed with me for the next hour or so, it felt really good to know I now had the confidence to sit at a table and play if I wanted to.  

            The good feeling, however, was quickly overshadowed by disappointment and shame as we left the casino, and I realized why my money disappeared so fast.  Even though I have been playing cards all my life (my grandparents taught us every card game known to a dealer when I was a child), I had only played with friends and family, or against a machine before.  So, I thought whoever got closest to 21 without going over won the hand.  Even though I knew you aren’t supposed to hit over 16 or so, I figured why not at least try for 21 if I was going to lose anyway, when anyone at the table had higher than me.  On our way to the car, I finally discovered my ridiculous mistake: I ONLY Had TO BEAT THE DEALER!  What the fuck…why had I not realized this, and why had nobody told me!  I desperately wanted to run back inside, sit back down at the table, saying “wait, I know how to do this now, see?” and do it right!  But, of course I couldn’t, so I just felt like a total moron for the four-and-a-half hour ride back.

            Well, the crazy idea of a day trip to Tahoe (especially over Ski Weekend) ended up being pretty eventful and fun after all.  I highly doubt though that my East Coast migrant roommates will plan on doing the one-day trip again.  As for me, now I can’t wait to hit the Vegas tables to work on my skills.

Windows - November 23, 2010

Shee-it!  Now what do I do?  All started out well – a man let me through the big gate when my subway card wouldn’t swipe because apparently there was no money left on it (being blind sometimes has its perks); an old man reeking of cheap whiskey came over and swiped his card for me when the same thing happened on my return trip; my guidedog immediately found the way out of the Columbus Circle station, and people on the street were so easy to get the right directions from (love this town); my new guidedog of very limited experience did amazingly well on the pedestrian clogged streets of Holiday season, Midtown Manhattan; and he loved the enormous piles of crunchy fall leaves all over the park.  It was awesome seeing my friend, accept when she happened to mention that she would have to leave early for a doctors appointment that evening, which meant no dinner plans, and certainly no drinks.  Damn, that’s when things went wrong, ‘cause pretty much everyone else I knew in NY was gone for the holidays.  Plus, this was my last night in my favorite city on Earth.  I definitely wanted to do something.  Not knowing what else to do, I sadly headed back to the apartment, which was dark because even my aunt was out.

            

Arg!  I’ve hit that inevitable point in almost every trip I have, where I desperately want to claw my way out of my skin screaming, because the only option I feel I have is to sit in the apartment (or hotel room), writhing with desire to be out doing something, ANYTHING.  I hate this feeling of being trapped in a room (because it is safe) when there is so much happening right outside; so much I want to do, just no one to do anything with.  I despise feeling dependent on others, needing someone else in order to go out and do what I want, but I don’t know how else to go about it.  The thought of venturing out to a desirable restaurant or bar on my own in Manhattan, still seems just beyond my scope of plausible.  First I’d have to pick a place, then find it, then…God, I don’t even know!  Just thinking about it terrifies me on some level, though all I really feel is frustration…ugh, and yes, a bit of that most hated feeling…desperation. 

            

After a few minutes of trying to come up with some doable option, I figure I could find something close by, but the Upper West Side isn’t exactly where I know any very exciting places that would be worth all the effort, to go to.  After envisioning walking up and down the nearby streets asking random people if they know of a good bar around, I realize that the wonderful invention of the internet, and websites like Yelp and Zagat could be very helpful, if only I could access one of the thirty-five  available wireless networks that are infuriatingly all secured.  

            

So, in search of any useful solution, I call another blindy (the extremely independent one of my two blind friends, but who has never really been into going out the way I have).  After offering me the same options I’ve already run through in my head (all of which still sound a bit too terrifying to actually attempt do to all the effort involved), we continue on to commiserating about how impossible it is to hail a taxi when your blind, especially if you have a guidedog.  Besides the fact that we don’t have any idea when a taxi is actually coming (accept in NYC you can sometimes identify them by a particular sound older cabs make), if they see a dog they just keep driving.  It was so much easier when my aunt had a doorman.  Unfortunately though, she decided to move (who knows why), and now I have to ask people for help (sometimes doormen of nearby buildings if I can find them, but are always very helpful), take a more complicated form of transportation – like the subway or bus, which always require a lot more effort of finding things like stops and entrances -or walk.

            

But, I digress.  By the time we ended our bitch session on blind transportation in this sighted world, my aunt came home and we decided to order takeout.  This lifted a huge amount of pressure off me, but I can’t help feeling that, in a way, I’d let myself down by settling for takeout and not finding a way to make what I really wanted, happen.  In hindsight, I could have had my friend find me something on the Upper Westside online.  Why I didn’t think of that in  the moment, I have no idea, but hopefully it will be useful the next time I’m back  in this same position.

            

Oh well, at least the Macy Christmas windows were pretty awesome.  Beyond the impressive visuals, the whole thing had an audio track, making it enjoyable for those who can’t really appreciate the scenes on there own (especially when you don’t know the story, which was “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Clause). 

A Real Expedition in the Concrete Jungle - November 23, 2010

Success, or failure…I guess it’s like the whole glass half empty/half full conundrum, but at least it turned out OK.  See, any time a blind person (or maybe it’s just me) goes exploring in a city where her internal mapping system (i.e. the automaticly imprinted mental image of the topography of an area that I visualize in my minds eye and navigate from) has faded from years of little use, one never quite knows how things will turn out, or where she’ll end up.  Sometimes everything goes smoothly and exactly according to plan, other times, well…go something like this one.

            

So, on my second day in NYC, I decided to go exploring in Riverside park.  I headed south this time since yesterday I had wandered north for  a bit.  At one point we came upon a bunch of stairs, and since my guidedog, for whatever reason, loves going down stairs (and ramps and hills) down them we went, actually a series of them along a twisted winding path.  After the steps my dog and I found ourselves on a path running alongside what had to be a lake.  I didn’t recall hearing about a lake in Riverside Park during the short time I lived in Manhattan or on any of my many subsequent visits, but I was heading south and a body of lapping water was on my left, so cool, there’s a lake. 

            

It was at this point that I realized I needed to pee.  So I made the logical choice to continue on around the lake back towards Riverside Drive, which would be the most direct route back, rather than trying to retrace the circuitous route we had come.  Right?

            

Well…the lake kept going on…and on…and on.  Sometimes we were right alongside the oncoming traffic on the Westside highway, and at other points we passed large, grassy areas with people playing what I think was tennis and other sports.  For awhile there were lots of joggers and bicyclists sharing the path, but eventually the path narrowed, continuing for a very long stretch as part of the highway, with very fewother occupants.

            

Eventually I decided I was going to have to ask someone how I could get off this path, ‘cause obviously I was missing something.  Unfortunately there weren’t many people to ask anymore, plus the noise from the highway made it difficult for me to hear anyone coming until they’d pretty much passed me.  I kept trying to get my dog to find a turnoff (some way off this endless path to nowhere), but alas, nothing.  What was I to do accept trek along until finally I heard a jogger’s footsteps approaching. 

            

“Excuse me.  Can you tell me where I can get off this path?”  And would you believe it, he actually stopped to help.  “yes, your next exit is about three quarters of a mile further on, at 125^th street.”  After thanking him, I continued on, with the immediate dawning of two very different realizations at once.  One, was that I wasn’t heading south along a lake at all, I was heading north along the Hudson River (no wonder there was no end whatsoever).  Considering I had started south from 86^th Street, I had made it quite a ways.  It’s totally disorienting when I’m picturing one thing in my head, and it turns out to be something entirely different (especially since that doesn’t happen to me very often, thank God).

            

The other realization was more of a validation of exactly why I love New York  and New Yorkers.  Contrary to the whole country’s beliefs – maybe even the world’s – in my experience, New Yorkers aren’t mean and/or rude (usually).  I find them to be extremely helpful, direct (which San Franciscans are most definitely not), and socially adept, because they’re used to living in close proximity to so many others.  The man stopping as soon as I tried to get his attention, just reconfirmed all my beliefs.  In no other city have I experienced people immediately stopping when I try to ask them something.  Often (and I can’t be sure why because I can’t see them), people don’t respond to me.  There are tons of possibilities why not (they don’t realize I’m talking to them, they didn’t hear me, they don’t speak English, etc), but it usually takes a few uncertain tries for me to get someone to respond; and when they do, there is often a slight delay, an anxious pause while I wait to find out if the person is going to answer.  The man’s immediate response on my first try was, well, inspiring…maybe there are more like him.

            

And there are!  At what felt like it could have been three quarters of a mile, I stopped the next person I came across, so I wouldn’t miss the escape.  A biker going the other direction pulled over as soon as I called to her (announced by the squeal of her breaks).  She got off her bike and walked with me to the crossing, which was back the way she had just come.  She waited to let me know when to cross (it was a very confusing crossing for me), and even offered to continue on with me to the next street.  I assured her I’d be OK, and crossed over to a tunnel under the Westside Highway.

            

On the other side, however, the streets were not the easy grid I imagined, and after a feudal attempt to get my bareings, I was thoroughly confused. After a particularly bad street crossing, a truly sexy Brooklyn accented, male voice called (or rather shouted) from a car window, “Can you hear me?”  “Yeah I can hear you,” I said, thinking, I’m blind, not deaf!  He was a very nice guy though, informing me that this was the ramp to the Westside Highway, and told me where I needed to go. 

            

However, his directions took me into an overgrown field with no obvious path, so I figured he must have had his directions switched, because this couldn’t be where I was supposed to be.  So back the other way I went, until that landed me in a very industrial feeling area under the highway.  So basically, after assistance from a truck driver, then a construction worker, and finally a woman going to the pedestrian ramp that served as riverside Drive for a block, I made it back to the precious, precious grid of Manhattan streets.  The very nice native Manhattanite insisted on walking with me over to Broadway, which I wasn’t about to refuse at this point.  She even found me a bathroom, which by then was a total blessing, and quite a miraculous feit in this city. 

            

So, once I hit Broadway I was good to go.  I even opted to walk the more than 35 blocks back to the apartment.  I just hoped it wouldn’t be too much on my unaccustomed feet, because I was meeting a friend in Columbus Circle in just two hours, gonna hang out in the Park (Central Park, of course), and then over to check out the holiday windows (all walking of course).  I prayed there would be some drinking in there at some point, any point, please.  I definitely was going to catch the subway to and from though (mildly anxiety provoking since I hadn’t ridden the NY subway in over a year, didn’t really remember the layout of the system, and never really rode it by myself in the past), and forgo the walking, as much as I love it in a city like this.

New York, New York - November 22, 2010

Did that really just happen?  Did that man really just try to take a blind girl’s sunglasses, and did that woman really just go out of her way to see if they were mine and help me get them back?  It definitely did, and well, that is just one of the reasons I love Manhattan, ‘cause  things happen here, and you just take the good with the bad. 

So, on my first venture out on my first day back in the city in over a year, I manage to unknowingly knock my sunglasses out of my pocket during the half block from the apartment to

Riverside Park.  A workman was doing a job outside one of the buildings, so there were some obstacles in the middle of the sidewalk that my dog tried to, but didn’t manage to get me around.  I kicked a bag of something, and took him back to rework it (i.e. safely navigate around the obstacles without me coming into contact with anything), which must be where my sunglasses made their escape. 

While waiting at the corner to cross, a woman walking with a bunch of school kids asked if I had lost my sunglasses.  A quick pat of my pockets confirmed it, and she said, “I think that man working back there has them.  I found them on the ground and asked if they were his.  He said they were, all casually, but after I handed them to him and walked away, I realized they were probably a woman’s glasses because they were like mine.  Here, let me take you back there to get them.”  

She had her aide take all fifteen or so children over to the park while she escorted me back to the workman and asked him to give me back my glasses.  He nicely enough got them from his truck and handed them to me with an apology.  Whether it was seeing a girl with a guidedog and no sunglasses that led the woman to think they might be mine, I can only guess, but that is one stereotype I’m really OK with since I need the protection, and it means I got my expensive-ass sunglasses back.