88 Westcourt Lane

After the 2012 election, Jon and I knew that we needed to leave California. On many levels, it was a difficult decision. We would leave friends made over eighteen years, a house we loved, a community in which we were comfortable and a beautiful ocean environment. On other financial and philosophical levels, not really a tough call.

The transition to Texas started years ago when we thought 2015 was the escape target date. We researched communities in Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico.

In November of 2012 we visited San Antonio for the birthday of a dear friend from our former stint in San Antonio. On a whim, we made an appointment with a realtor and toured neighborhoods.

Three weeks later we were back for serious research. Before the end of the year we bought a lot in the gated (ugh!) community of The Dominion. We still have many friends and connections here. There is a golf club for Jon. Retail shopping has caught up with the population growth so products of all kinds are available. Downtown, non rush hour, is 25 minutes. (Rush hour is 28 minutes.) Cost of living is soooooo much lower than California - read taxes and everything else. All in all a good long term decision for us . . . as I fully intend to die here . . . as opposed to the "home."

We found our architect, Gustavo Arredondo. Yes, he is a swarthy Latino with slicked back hair and chest hair peaking from his open shirt with contrasting color and cuffs. And, yes, his competition was plain George Smith. (Kid you not.) However, objectively, his ideas and designs were much more interesting.

So then we found our builder, Jim Boles. Going against our prior experience we should have chosen Jim first. But we thought we might get an advantage in cost if we got competitive bids. Turns out we would have not missed a couple of errors and might have been able to cut costs better if we'd had Jim on board from the beginning.

Construction began mid-September. Nine months later we moved in . . . then promptly went on the amazing trip I just recounted.

Anyway, below are photographs our builder had a professional photographer take. They, and, more importantly, the house turned out great.

 Fountain outside Dining Room window.

  Dining room left.              Great room.

 Painting on lift to hide TV.

 

 Kitchen

 Master Bedroom and Bath

 Guest Bedroom

 Guest Bath

 Patio and Pool/Spa/Firepit

Will dredge up regular photos of Jon's office, the exercise room, laundry, and garage soon.

Final thoughts

            I am so grateful to have been born a woman in America. However, my sisters in other parts of the world are so much less fortunate.

            I have visited France, Italy and Germany in Western Europe. German and France actually rank higher than the US on the 2014 Global Gender Gap Index. But, lower employment rates, more temporary occupations, under representation in government and violence against women are still the norm in all these countries.

            In cosmopolitan Rio de Janero, Brazil and Capetown, South Africa the dramatic difference between rich and poor gives the illusion that wealthy, educated women are doing well. But we know these cultures spread misinformation about AIDS being cured y copulation with a virgin and continue patriarchal traditions that de-value women. In the rural areas of these countries little has changed for women.

            In the large cities I have visited in China, I got the sense that communism leveled the playing field, everyone was equally miserable. But gendercide of baby girls, forced abortion for gender selection and higher suicide rates for women combined with the high number of sex workers creates an oppressive environment for women.

            Even with my experiences of traveling to these countries and eleven others throughout the world, my eyes were opened to the plight of women in the world when I recently visited Turkey and Morocco, both Islamic countries. It is one thing to know something in the abstract and quite another to see it for yourself.

            My visit to these countries occurred during Ramadan and perhaps that is something that influenced my perceptions. People flocked to Istanbul and Marrakesh during the observance of Ramadan to celebrate their faith.

            I saw their obedience to their religion on the grounds of the Hippodrome as they waited for the Iman’s call from the Blue Mosque in Istanbul with sumptuous picnics laid before them. I saw women covered in burquas, veiled so completely that they had no choice but to be led by their husbands through the throngs . . . because they simply could not see well enough to navigate on their own.   

            In many ways Istanbul is very cosmopolitan. On a single bench I saw the full range of appropriate dress, from a completely veiled woman to a woman in a burgua with her face uncovered to a woman in a “coat” over western clothes to western clothes with only a hajib to a woman in shorts and a t-shirt. They were chatting gaily among themselves as if their clothing was of no consequence.

            When men were present, these same chatty women became quiet and seemed to draw into themselves. Even alone, they were reticent to make eye contact with me. And, if they were curious about me, they seemed afraid to engage with me.

            Even though I dressed with respect for their culture in a long skirt, long sleeved shirt and scarf at the ready to cover my head, I experienced the contempt and disgust of several men when I walked by. Just being “western” and obviously foreign was enough to invoke the disapproval of many of the men I saw around the Hippodrome. Frankly, it disturbed and frightened me and I asked my husband to never leave my side.

            These women of Islam are victims of a religious dogma that never blossomed through a reformation to acknowledge the value of women in their society. What I saw confirmed my belief that the demeanor of the women is in place to protect them from the consequences of a system over which they have no control.

            Again, I say, I am grateful for having been born a woman in America.

            In Morocco, the Islamic women wore colorful caftans with hoods thrown back leaving their hair and faces uncovered. They walked with a lighter step, spoke to me and looked me in the eye. However, they too were never alone, never far from a male or other women or children. While I felt their situation was much improved over the Islamic women of Turkey, I knew they were subject to many of the same restrictions. There weren’t women shop keepers, or taxi drivers or waiters. The women seemed to occupy the lower levels of employment, maids and cooks. In the  2014 Global Gender Gap Index, Morocco ranks 129^th out of 136 countries in the state of women in four categories; health, education, economy and politics. So their situation over all, is actually worse than Turkey that is ranked 125^th.

I also had the privilege of visiting the Republic of Georgia on my recent trip. Georgia is primarily orthodox Christian. The women in Tbilisi, the capital, were open, dressed in Western clothing and the ones I met were cosmopolitan. The women I met in the remote villages of the Caucasus Mountains were relegated to the kitchen in which they prepared the amazing traditional dishes for our dinners.

Only my female traveling companion and I were allowed to sit at the table with the men. I learned later that this was because we were considered honored guests, a status conferred upon us because of the men with whom we were traveling. We were expected to participate in the numerous toasts but were instructed not to stand as the men did with each toast.

The women of rural Georgia were much more outgoing than the Islamic women I encountered in Turkey or Morocco. They dressed western clothing and their peasant scarves were for warmth first and covering their hair when they entered a church second. They were proud of their culinary accomplishments, and rightly so. But they were not allowed to eat with us. This tradition, formed over generations of isolation in the mountains, felt very different from the subjugation of the Islamic women I’d seen. However, I have to recognize that subjugation is subjugation regardless of the reason or motivation.

Some of the most impactful moments of our trip were when I ventured into Georgian kitchens after our meals to thank our hostesses. Even though I spoke no Georgian and they spoke no English, we were able to make ourselves understood. Tears glistened in all our eyes as I took each of their hands in mine and thanked them for the honor of dining at their table. Somehow they knew my sentiments were heart felt.

As I reflect on this amazing experience, I am reminded of how lucky I am to have been born a woman in America. My options are almost limitless. Yes, there are still things that need to change to make American women as equal as American men. But, after seeing the way women in other parts of the world live their lives in constant fear of the men they “belong” to, I am proud to stand up and say I am an American woman.

Helicopter over the Caucasus Mountains

Even though Frank and his family have been visiting Georgia for 20 years, he had never been to the Caucasus Mountains. When he looked into the logistics of that endeavor, he realized it would take us days to cover the amount of area he wanted to see. So, he rented a 20 person helicopter with a seasoned pilot to take us from village to village.

We took all of our bags to the local soccer field and waited in the sunshine for the thump thump of the rotor blades to reach us. Then we saw it weaving through the hills toward us.

The views from the helicopter were amazing.

 The back of Ushba Peak.

 Snow on the mountain tops in August.

Here we are inside the helicopter.

The first village we visited is the highest village (5400 feet) in the Caucasus Mountains that is occupied year round.

This church was built in the 10th century and is still in use today and lies just outside the village. We'll see the interior later.

These photos were taken just outside the landing area. John's children joined us for this part of the trip because the helicopter had to come from Tiblisi where the kids were.

Walking into the city was like walking back through time. Avoiding cow patties as well as rocks was a challenge. The buildings were almost as old as the church. The roads were rutted dirt with cows laying in the shade.

Breakfast was at the bed and breakfast of the local border patrol. He was the tacit leader of the community who knew John from his visits to the area to find polyphonic singers.

Just across from his establishment, which had the only indoor plumbing in the village, was another small chapel. That day, a Sunday, was the celebration of the village's patron saint.

Even though the religion is Georgian Orthodox, the people of the mountains retained many of their pagan rituals. On this day they were sacrificing a cow in honor of their saint to be shared communally. The priest blessed the cow and we came upon the scene just after the sacrifice as the men of the community were butchering it for the open fire on which it would be cooked.

It was quite an honor to be invited to the village on this special day and our host spent a great deal of time with us. Before we sat down to a breakfast much like the meals we enjoyed the day before, the border patrol man and the helicopter pilot asked the priest to bless their becoming blood brothers. By blood brothers I mean it literally; cut yourself and mix it with the blood from the cut of your brother. Not something anyone in the Western world would consider doing given the blood borne diseases in the world.

The toasts began as soon as our host joined us. At first we thought he was drinking water. But no, it was the local ChaCha. . .talk about strong . . .whew. And it was barely 10 am.

This is our host. He had the largest hands I have ever seen on anyone. Again the women did not dine with us. But they were gracious and thankful for our appreciation at the end of the meal. You see here the first course. Someone brought us pieces of the sacrificed cow to taste. By the time we finished the table was covered with plates.

On the way back to the helicopter, we stopped at the church. Women entering the church grounds were required to wear something over their heads and a skirt. I had the scarf and put it on immediately when we entered. Our host looked at me, put his big hand on my shoulder and thanked me. It was a precious moment for me.

 The bells to call the people to worship.

 A plaque over the entrance to the church with the Virgin Mary and Jesus.

Some of the icons inside the church.

Frescoes.

The altar.

The cemetery outside the church.

As we were leaving another couple entered the grounds. The woman was in shorts and was smoking a cigarette. Our host frowned and shooed them out with his big hands flapping, saying, "No, no, no." I'm not sure what nationality they were but they definitely understood him.

This skull was laying in the grass next to the helicopter.

 For some reason, we had to divert back to Tiblisi to get additional gas for the helicopter. We loaded on several new packages and a couple of people we did not know.
Later we discovered that the helicopter pilot's son lived in a village close to the next village we would visit.

I needed to use the restroom, so while they fueled the helicopter, Jon and I walked over to the military building by the helicopter pad to use their facilities. Hadn't seen a toilet like this since Xian in China.

Back in the helicopter, our pilot took us deep between the mountains, banking left and right up a stream to the next village.

 Past more abandoned towers.

And into the final village. This village was built in the 10th century as well and is only occupied in the summer. The houses are made of dry stacked stones with slate roofs.

This is the roof of the restaurant we ate in. This town has more visitors than the last. Check Republic hikers cross the Caucasus Mountains nearby and come to eat at this "hotel". It had indoor plumbing and you'll notice a satellite dish on the roof in one photo. They get their electricity from generators.

Underneath this slate roof was a quaint restaurant. Again, we were served copious quantities of food and offered local beer (yuck! reminded me of the Zulu beer we tried in South Africa - also yuck!). The thyme tea was delicious however. No pork is allowed in town which was a carry-over from Jewish beliefs in ancient times. They are sheep herders and in the "old days" the women and children would only come up to the village in the summer while the men stayed there with their flocks. We saw several flocks from the helicopter as we flew up the valley. (I should also mention that we passed a place where he water runs uphill.)

One of the people we picked up in Tiblisi was a young woman named Ecka. She is from this town but is now a US citizen and graduate of Berkley and serves as an Eco-tour guide in these mountains.

Horses are the main form of transportation in this area. There are 15,000 horses and 8,000 people.

Here a man and his son were getting ready to cross the stream. A colt followed with heels kicking up all the way.

These are small versions of the pots that John uses to age his wine. His are much larger and buried in the ground.

As the helicopter landed to pick us up, all the children ran down to see it up close. I wish I'd had little gifts to give them all to remember our visit.

This was the end of our excellent adventure, or so we thought. But the helicopter pilot had two more gifts for us. First he flew us, illegally, over the border of Tajikistan but the pilot wasn't worried. He leaned out the window and waved at his friends in the border guards as we flew over.

Then for a grand finale he landed in a field on the top of a hill, his favorite spot in the world. With the exception of the wild horses and a cow or 100, I doubt this particular area had been walked by very many humans. The ground cover was so thick that your feet sunk in to the ankle.

The panoramic views were humbling.

 This was taken right after the obligatory ChaCha toast to our wonderful adventure.

As Tiblisi came back in sight, I was reminded of Frank's other saying. (Terribly paraphrased here.) He defined a rich man as one who has had amazing experiences and then gets to share them with his friends. I certainly felt rich and blessed then and now as I share this with all of you.

Thanks Frank for a most excellent adventure!