tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80267877828720909102024-03-06T02:41:26.246-05:00Run For LifeA blog about traveling around the world, and runs along the way.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-35379186100893862752014-12-07T13:08:00.001-05:002014-12-07T19:24:56.115-05:00In Ghana, a run that veered off-limits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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ACCRA,
Ghana – I’m just back from a 60-hour trip to five African countries – pretty hard
to imagine – that included a stop here and in Senegal, Guinea, Liberia, and
Sierra Leone. We went to assess the Ebola response in the three most-affected
countries (Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone), and one of the biggest
complicating factors (beyond the health risk) was the travel: two nights on a
plane, one night here at a hotel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Getting in a run was critical for
my stamina, even if it meant a few hours of sleep. I made it to the hotel lobby
by 5:30 a.m. and asked the clerk for a nearby route. He told me to stay inside the
hotel perimeter because it was dark out. I said I wanted to go outside and he
told to run the perimeter outside the hotel. I gave up. At the front entrance,
I saw a security guard and he pointed me toward Independence Square.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I crossed a highway after waiting
15 seconds for traffic to clear and ran down a broken sidewalk, passing vendors
already setting up stalls that sold warmed-up breakfast foods and coffee. I ran
for seven or eight minutes until I came to a major highway – Independence Square
was likely to my left. But in front of me was a narrow road opening to an
infinite horizon – it could be the Atlantic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I took the narrow road. It was
semi-abandoned, dark except for pools of light from street lamps. I passed a
few men, picked up my pace, and reached a guardhouse in front of a small hotel.
I could hear waves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The guard was asleep. I gently called
to him and he lifted his head. I asked about getting to the ocean, and he
kindly said, yes, follow me, and he led me through the hotel lobby, a back
patio, and to a locked gate, which opened up to the Atlantic Ocean -- the eastern
shore, less than a week after I had been to the western, in Maine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I felt a bit dizzy as I navigated
crude wooden steps to the beach. It felt like I was walking into a completely new
world. I stopped and steadied myself. The dark was starting to lift, the scene unfolding.
The beach was wide and soft, except the packed sand near the tide line. The
ocean stretched as far as I could see. I saw a few runners and walkers on the
beach, far in the distance. That gave me confidence to go on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I reached water’s edge and thought
for a moment about taking off my shoes, shirt, glasses, and watch, and jumping
into the ocean – it was 80 degrees and humid. I thought better of it. I couldn’t
read the scene. Enough people watching me. Not enough to stop a thief.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I picked up some beautiful shells
and then ran along the packed sand, passing people who said nothing. I saw a
young boy just a few feet into the surf, his head facing the beach as gentle
waves curled over his shoulders. I saw three middle-aged bountiful women, who
were walking into the ocean, holding hands, backs bare, singing about Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then I saw in the distance a
fishing boat and a dozen men pulling in a substantial fishing net from the shore.
I decided to run to the boat and turn back. But as I neared it, a man started running
toward me. He waved his arms and held his hand out as a policeman would: Stop.
I stopped and help up my hands as if I didn’t understand. He vigorously jabbed
his hand toward the beach behind me. I understood. I turned around instantly
and headed back. I didn’t look back. I had run into something off-limits and I
was getting out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I kept a good pace. I passed the
three women again who were on the beach now, holding hands in a circle, heads
turned skyward, singing and shouting. I passed silent men sitting in the sand.
I averted my eyes. I went to the gate by the seaside hotel, but it was locked,
and so I quickly picked my way through abandoned lots that were strewn with
garbage, chunks of concrete, and a small pack of dogs, until I reached a road.
I kept my pace. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 10 minutes, I reached my hotel.
It was 6:15 a.m. I made my way to my room, closed the door, and exhaled.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-26852468741442413472014-11-30T23:53:00.000-05:002014-11-30T23:54:26.667-05:00A run to the sea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqKJBU0HrU0hSSgBMxBjrecRxgDuKbEVWt_K2vC6SVH5znsm5iRTe27R0hZdHRp9gptCMwz_lUTU_jxCoroXk9Oqcn7cuMaOqehPjP_9JViYYUe_ukO09MUEDehzUMI80-YdrIAFEtJ8/s1600/Brunswick+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqKJBU0HrU0hSSgBMxBjrecRxgDuKbEVWt_K2vC6SVH5znsm5iRTe27R0hZdHRp9gptCMwz_lUTU_jxCoroXk9Oqcn7cuMaOqehPjP_9JViYYUe_ukO09MUEDehzUMI80-YdrIAFEtJ8/s1600/Brunswick+1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">BRUNSWICK,
Maine – For the last few months, my running has slowed down, thanks to an
injury to my left calf. So I’ve pieced together 20- or 30-minute runs, knowing sharp
pain would come at some point. I ran around the Washington Monument and the
Mall with my friend Patrick. Or on the Capitol Crescent trail with Ellen and
Chuck. Mostly, though, I have gone alone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
travel, though, has increased. I’ve been to the Horn of Africa, Korea, and Mexico
– all in the past month. I ran sporadically, lamenting in particular that I
couldn’t run in Mogadishu. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
last few weeks, my calf has begun to heal and I’ve started to test it, including
running on dirt trails for an hour. I need to pick it up again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I went
out the morning after Thanksgiving from my parent’s snugly built pink house in
Brunswick. My father showed me a route on his iPad on Google Earth. I studied
it closely. My brother asked from his living room chair, ‘Don’t you ever just
decide where to go as you run?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wish
I were more impulsive. I fear getting lost when I travel because my runs almost
always happen in narrow envelopes of time. Being late has consequences – like being
left behind. But I also like to know where I am going. I like to think of
myself as Robert Frost at a fork in the road, and maybe that will one day come
true, but not now. I etched the path on Google Earth into my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
father showed how I could take the road to the sea. He said that he and my
mother sometimes drove to a boat launch there at the end of warm days, where
they sat and drank a beer as the sun went down. “It’s a nice spot,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stepped out into the cold air. All
was white: the snow, the clouds, the sky. I tugged my hat over my ears and
turned right, onto a plowed sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Plowed
in Maine is relative. A dusting of snow covered what was underneath. In the
first block, I stepped unknowingly on a sheet of ice, my left leg went up in
the air but I caught myself, barely. I crossed the road and I ran in the road against
traffic. Maine’s road sanders are top notch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
passed a mobile home park and thought about a life of low ceilings, small
windows, and limited possibilities. I passed homes with large pick-up trucks
and thought what it would be like to sit so high. And I ran alongside stands of
pine trees with bowed branches cloaked with snow, a sight of beauty as well as stress.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I came
to a rise and could see water ahead. I found the sign for the boat launch; the
short road to it was not plowed so I hopscotched to water’s edge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
low tide and the water had receded to a half-mile out. The sea bed was brown. My
first step onto it was firm. My second was squishy. The bed started to swallow
my shoe. I pulled back and the bed made a loud sucking sound; it almost had me,
it was saying. I looked around my feet and found scatterlings of the sea,
broken clam shells, shiny rocks, bright green algae. I picked up a few purple-bellied
shells and an orange rock and spread them on my black gloves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood
still, facing the sea. It was silent. Then I heard wind rushing at my
back, a bird singing softly, and crows puncturing the air with calls. I closed
my eyes and thought of nothing, not what had come before, not what would come
soon, just the moment standing alone. Time passed and I suddenly felt chilled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-73085985113522107412014-08-10T16:16:00.000-04:002014-08-10T16:16:11.038-04:00Mind over matter: Full of energy, but why?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XsVHc-bRgKP-3XZAGZvgUwQbGVd6AMKSdw5jZSUu3A6FzaiugWc0cU1OW2jM-FdvR81rOyVb6VkIMzBv-avKbLib9v7RTRfdJLn-fbbEpO2izwiIrKBSPJ6tpz4RHHsjASuCGfR9338/s1600/Running+DC2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XsVHc-bRgKP-3XZAGZvgUwQbGVd6AMKSdw5jZSUu3A6FzaiugWc0cU1OW2jM-FdvR81rOyVb6VkIMzBv-avKbLib9v7RTRfdJLn-fbbEpO2izwiIrKBSPJ6tpz4RHHsjASuCGfR9338/s1600/Running+DC2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My posts are almost always far from home. But on my return
home from a month in Asia, it felt new again, and a recent run was particularly
thought provoking. So here goes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At home, I generally run three or four times a week and on
weekends I try to join my running partners, Chuck and Ellen. I was set to go
out with Chuck early this Sunday but he told me the night before that he had
some early morning work and couldn’t make it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That got me thinking. Where did I want to go? What would be
exciting? I decided on a run on the Capital Crescent trail north through
Bethesda, toward Silver Spring, ending near an area landmark, the Mormon
Temple. </span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_gxbxTJbESEbmuULWmbGwdf7yC2M4ne6307W1ogjVPc58DhmKnhnKpaRz3kgT0eBHUlkF8uewGipFPshDKNPzyuy3i4micdlegBzCQLRa6zMG243dg86YqgaXjMGcEhgpLE4R711uRI/s1600/Running+Mormon+temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_gxbxTJbESEbmuULWmbGwdf7yC2M4ne6307W1ogjVPc58DhmKnhnKpaRz3kgT0eBHUlkF8uewGipFPshDKNPzyuy3i4micdlegBzCQLRa6zMG243dg86YqgaXjMGcEhgpLE4R711uRI/s1600/Running+Mormon+temple.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For me, this would be a run of consequence, perhaps 90 minutes. When I
trained for marathons, I ran past the temple a couple of times a month, but I
hadn’t run there for well over a year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I went to bed excited about the prospect of a long run first
thing in the morning. I woke up excited, too. And I started out about 6:30 a.m.
with a bounce in my step.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had run the day before and my legs felt sluggish – likely the
byproduct of getting back in the routine of biking to work during the past
week. But I felt energized now. I wondered why was there such a difference from
one day to the next? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then I thought to the night before, about my preparation and
excitement about this run. It reminded me of other times, especially back in my
20s and 30s, when I used to plot long runs a day or more ahead. I would
mentally prepare myself, visualizing parts of the runs, thinking about pace,
about water stops, about possible new legs to the run. I pored over maps. I put
out my running clothes before crawling into bed so that I could leave as quickly as possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was fun – just as this recent run was. The mental aspect
of the run seemed to overshadow the physicality of it, becoming more dominant,
adding a sheen of happiness that somehow dimmed or dulled any pain. It also
made me think about how such mental preparation and planning or studied
concentration before any event could add joy to the actual experience. It didn’t
matter if it was a run or a bike ride or a backyard barbecue, enjoying
preparation could equal a more enjoyable experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The second noteworthy aspect of this run happened during it,
near its midpoint. It was an out-and-back run along Beach Drive (which is far
from any beach) and near my turnaround point several large groups of runners
led by a pace-person were headed the other way. The groups ranged from 10 to 20
persons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I turned back toward home, I soon came up on the first
group. They were running about 10 minutes per mile pace. As I approached them
and prepared to pass the group, someone in the back yelled, “RUNNER LEFT!” A
path opened immediately for me as the pack narrowed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found myself speeding up, suddenly turning into
the Young Racer for a few seconds, competitive gene asserting itself, striding
and pushing and passing with ease. I laughed at myself after (and slowed down
as I had to recover my breath). But minutes later, I came upon another group,
and I pulled the same Young Racer self out for the 15-second dash, only to
feel my age later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought, what am I doing? What am I proving? Maybe it was just
a short moment of satisfaction, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I still
have it in me.</i> I picked up the pace home (as my mental powers were still
strong) and when I reached our house I told my daughter Paige about passing the
groups with a burst of speed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s the best,” she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Competitive genes, indeed. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-8835145842886490192014-07-24T04:44:00.004-04:002014-07-24T04:44:52.938-04:00Photo blog: Running in Hong Kong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">HONG KONG – This is an incredible place to run and to discover the island's vast network of trails. But my best running tip here came over a beer. This beer:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI22AXgEHtG3RMAQPV1CQqaDiWr4ImpJ1SNbTro_7jEiiKcQKTNvjx8AzM8GNmyjN9-BWlIkK0sFkN1TfIqeyLNv_L9FFMXkdAFqh2qXscrdJ2hrK0KAXSj9Hm5igSn-hwKY5zWj-Q4Zs/s1600/Libertine+black+ale.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI22AXgEHtG3RMAQPV1CQqaDiWr4ImpJ1SNbTro_7jEiiKcQKTNvjx8AzM8GNmyjN9-BWlIkK0sFkN1TfIqeyLNv_L9FFMXkdAFqh2qXscrdJ2hrK0KAXSj9Hm5igSn-hwKY5zWj-Q4Zs/s1600/Libertine+black+ale.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend and colleague Nicolas and I had discovered an
outside Beer Fest one weekend afternoon on a side street in this densely urban
place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To give you an idea:</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzmGRSnmZvfP7u3JJSs26uyHDrlbLp2ntSYNokMG0hyphenhyphenZuYt7sT1fku3SnZ68TRKTxeZSzXW9aUsuNdXTSmTV2k3bBV0Xu4GmCLgaQHUqYa3oL7aAJ-3jj26t4YpLNpnbQjO8dXg2x-6E/s1600/HK+beer+festival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzmGRSnmZvfP7u3JJSs26uyHDrlbLp2ntSYNokMG0hyphenhyphenZuYt7sT1fku3SnZ68TRKTxeZSzXW9aUsuNdXTSmTV2k3bBV0Xu4GmCLgaQHUqYa3oL7aAJ-3jj26t4YpLNpnbQjO8dXg2x-6E/s1600/HK+beer+festival.jpg" height="240" width="320" />w</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We zeroed in on two booths that served craft beers, one from England,
the other from Scotland. It was early in the afternoon, and we ended up staying
for a couple of hours, talking with several 20-somethings who had gone to
college in the US or Canada and decided to settle here to do business. They
were full of ideas on how to make money – as they worked a couple of jobs at
the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hours later, after dinner, we stopped by again, found the
same two booths and had a beer – a black IPA called Libertine Black Ale, brewed
by </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BrewDog"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">BrewDog from Scotland</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. It
was delicious.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We started talking with two guys; one asked if I were a
runner and that led to a discussion of all the runs we had been doing in Hong Kong, where we've been staying on weekends during a three-week tour of Asia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One fantastic run was high
above the city. It was on a paved trail that had several panoramic views at eye
level of the top floors of skyscrapers. Like this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZHy5dmD5nh2k_KjkCASVe9Bt_TICi1l470IXvaQ0rMkqdWaV-Bqcu0LgNHVLWFlWdbu5OtpUeKntAU0Q6co1aJqc6zyHinPqPwDEQpeeB9ULuU8JBffma-2RxURyIiB1rXP-VCN9yds/s1600/HK+running+photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZHy5dmD5nh2k_KjkCASVe9Bt_TICi1l470IXvaQ0rMkqdWaV-Bqcu0LgNHVLWFlWdbu5OtpUeKntAU0Q6co1aJqc6zyHinPqPwDEQpeeB9ULuU8JBffma-2RxURyIiB1rXP-VCN9yds/s1600/HK+running+photo+1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
Or this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj22rmulkg-9ay2iIgr__fk0Rz9fhY7IXNNvncC4xp_jF0SOPEgS3XMsfV3LdOP2bEuUdbb5iCqFYdmjdrbsUqrEkCKBM5SRCCYIwtNU-0faPTLXoMm4hHd7AsyubuUtG_d-bPcXo8Nobk/s1600/Libertine+black+ale.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyQuFkdaIKPgEH9ybw6BOl712En-xy2YuvWmTXrBc_HBiKU8Z_of-BXKMrFWdydLx6AFs9H4AX47C_sK2hJHB7UQyUeQ7mFzs13mBf3qxfgC_eKkJ2aMhxYz4-vn9DLPhjiKaY-pspBs/s1600/HK+trail+view+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyQuFkdaIKPgEH9ybw6BOl712En-xy2YuvWmTXrBc_HBiKU8Z_of-BXKMrFWdydLx6AFs9H4AX47C_sK2hJHB7UQyUeQ7mFzs13mBf3qxfgC_eKkJ2aMhxYz4-vn9DLPhjiKaY-pspBs/s1600/HK+trail+view+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of guys, whose name was Gary, an investor who splits his
time between New York and Hong Kong, said there was an even better run. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He scribbled down some path names, warned that
part of it was straight up, but encouraged me to do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning, I went. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went up and up and up – so steep that it hurt my calves.
So I walked, up and up. At the top, I found a trail through a forest of small
trees and ran up some more. At the peak, I could see the other side of the
island, and then the strangest thing happened: a cooling headwind. Hong Kong is
hot and humid during summer, and it was the first – and only – bit of natural
coolness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran down the other side of
the mountain and found my way back to the hotel – nearly a 90 minute run in the
heat. I felt energized, though, after finding a glimpse of a rural oasis in a
packed city, all thanks to a kind stranger over a black IPA. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4zEq6UJlNbH0qZj5oTNQR6Ua2TL3h8bYmeHzFuWcCNGTlQtqIdOMrBh3ilzd6BSncn6VSfJvRabDieE1lieW5FUQxj0HufzozM2Er8Y28yMWYKssI9bvpEH-T5gra-13IAwKXnf_Jcs/s1600/HK+running+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4zEq6UJlNbH0qZj5oTNQR6Ua2TL3h8bYmeHzFuWcCNGTlQtqIdOMrBh3ilzd6BSncn6VSfJvRabDieE1lieW5FUQxj0HufzozM2Er8Y28yMWYKssI9bvpEH-T5gra-13IAwKXnf_Jcs/s1600/HK+running+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-63221353087009585252014-07-14T11:18:00.001-04:002014-07-14T11:21:35.173-04:00In China: What is behind the curtains?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLqSk4Kp-fluvFWFZCQKiUL7utEdLpQE7m7SHXxjzX8-zSCLnSZ_tc13i1efMfL48Tm_dv7pxxV-cumKCxk9tMM9mSPINWKAkHZgU_YLFkPlg31xdda8PrO1AoD7ZgrMqBM1DqUCKOJo/s1600/MasterFengwithSword.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLqSk4Kp-fluvFWFZCQKiUL7utEdLpQE7m7SHXxjzX8-zSCLnSZ_tc13i1efMfL48Tm_dv7pxxV-cumKCxk9tMM9mSPINWKAkHZgU_YLFkPlg31xdda8PrO1AoD7ZgrMqBM1DqUCKOJo/s1600/MasterFengwithSword.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">CHANGSHA,
China – This may be hard to believe, but I travel in such a fast-moving,
security-protected bubble – often a different city every day – with so much
work to do that sometimes I arrive in a city that I know in name only. At such times,
I learn where I’ll be sleeping after our entourage pulls up to the hotel; I’ll
receive a room key without breaking stride, like a running back receiving a
football from a quarterback, as we whisk into the elevator to our floor; and
sometimes late at night or early in the morning, after a few dozen emails or a
few hours sleep, I’ll take the time to draw the curtains of my room and peer
into the darkness with one question in mind:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where am I?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">This happened here. I opened the
curtains at 5:30 a.m. at the Wanda Vista Hotel (I looked for the name on the
hotel writing pad), room 2212, and I looked out at this south-central Chinese
city in the Hunan Province with no idea of what I would see. I saw gray light,
smog, the hints of a sunrise, and then a wide river right below -- <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">the </span></span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xiang_River" title="Xiang River"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Xiang River</span></span></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">, I would later learn, a branch of the </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yangtze_River" title="Yangtze River"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Yangtze River</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">.</span> Most importantly, I could see a path that
hugged the river: my running route.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stepped outside to the heat. It
was humid, over 85 degrees, but, within a couple of minutes, after reaching the
tiled path, I knew this would be one of my best runs in months.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everywhere: life. I saw old men in worn
white tank-top undershirts on their brisk dawn walk. I saw fishermen with pails
filed with water in anticipation of catches. I heard a man play a flute,
beautifully. I ran past two middle-aged women, a boombox at their feet, as they
hip-hopped to their daily aerobic routine.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The path was far from pristine,
though not overly dirty or overly crowded, at least not by Chinese urban standards.
It was full of Chinese people (no foreigners) who took no notice of me and who
were immersed in their early morning workouts or work.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I found myself fascinated by them.
One old man performed his tai chi movements, elegantly, soundlessly, on the
grass. A cluster of people, at the bottom of a stairway next to the river, ran
an informal fish market from their buckets full of foot-long silver-bellied
fish that were alive, barely. An old man and a young girl ran slowly together,
both smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then I heard a sharp sound –
almost like gunshots. I picked up my pace toward an amphitheater-like structure
with a large white roof and the sound grew louder and louder.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Crack!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Crack!
Crack! Crack!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I came to a wide pavilion and saw a
group of six men dressed in loose fitting pants and T-shirts standing in a
large circle. In their right arms, they held long whips. Ten feet in front of
them were fat wooden tops. The men reached back and whipped the tops, spinning
them round and round. The sounds echoed off the roof and off barges in the
river. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crack! Crack! Crack!</i></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC867aOZ1wEDX9eBfXKQIQ6S-C3C6Pt4P2Aj9oxbSf060s65BAXCUpDSLh1Mg9QX8MnrKTzRde1y3LcA1NegBUCPv6u-0szkfkgPmoLeun0ZcTLDuqobz1JNFa7KX4PRlQHjumZpLd7T8/s1600/Chinese+whip+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC867aOZ1wEDX9eBfXKQIQ6S-C3C6Pt4P2Aj9oxbSf060s65BAXCUpDSLh1Mg9QX8MnrKTzRde1y3LcA1NegBUCPv6u-0szkfkgPmoLeun0ZcTLDuqobz1JNFa7KX4PRlQHjumZpLd7T8/s1600/Chinese+whip+4.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stood entranced. Sweat dripped
from their faces. They watched their tops spin upright, calculating the timing
of the next stroke that would hit the top precisely at the point that kept it
spinning in place, not careening across the tiles or tipping on its side. They
paced slowly in between their whippings, like indifferent cats in front of
wounded prey. They were in no hurry. They just were.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large; mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
started heading back, wishing I could talk to them about this game or exercise
that I had never seen. (I learned later on bing.com – China blocks google –
that </span></span><a href="http://www.vagabondjourney.com/the-sights-of-china-whipping-tops/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">whipping
stone tops is ancient Chinese activity</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">, still practiced in some cities). I
ran past people playing ping-pong, women in pajamas stretching, a man playing a
Chinese string instrument called an echo.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large; mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">When I
got back to my room on the 22<sup>nd</sup> floor, I looked out again at the
river and tiny figures below. I had started the morning just an hour before,
with the mystery of opening the curtains, and now I knew so much more.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMl2a89_1vozds0O8vfHp0DaCeyv22PcB2hhw5mjpXRCOtXXXB0pSBaq27WRsXjOnqP8afloUNimnspZHxC6yFM6J7pYaBMOU7Zuq0Cfla1tU6cF53cQ2w8L1cPCbXI6VWz0N1EAuhi3Q/s1600/Chinese+whip+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMl2a89_1vozds0O8vfHp0DaCeyv22PcB2hhw5mjpXRCOtXXXB0pSBaq27WRsXjOnqP8afloUNimnspZHxC6yFM6J7pYaBMOU7Zuq0Cfla1tU6cF53cQ2w8L1cPCbXI6VWz0N1EAuhi3Q/s1600/Chinese+whip+3.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-14212956667707417612014-07-11T19:21:00.002-04:002014-07-11T19:22:58.528-04:00Along the Great Wall: Have a Tsingtao! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngC1poDQ5TeeXrahn4UgGoMZs8jaTqp6GDo4V8WyA1RAwjr9d9ix7mAZD8MYt8orp9XnZPj5JGV_rAAbNr8VDU0I1S-IdJdA1rGRJ6SV5FcFbeTk6pzSTcFB435xyySoYlE8edPmLBhs/s1600/Wall+shoe+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngC1poDQ5TeeXrahn4UgGoMZs8jaTqp6GDo4V8WyA1RAwjr9d9ix7mAZD8MYt8orp9XnZPj5JGV_rAAbNr8VDU0I1S-IdJdA1rGRJ6SV5FcFbeTk6pzSTcFB435xyySoYlE8edPmLBhs/s1600/Wall+shoe+photo.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">ON THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA – It’s been a long dream of mine
to see the Great Wall of China, the 5,500-mile long structure that runs from
east to west of the country. With the luck of good airport connections and a
travel companion, my friend Ed, who speaks Mandarin and had agreed to be a tour
guide, it finally happened -- late on a Sunday to a section of the wall in
Mutianyu, about 70 kilometers northeast of Beijing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">A friend, Liz, had just run the Great Wall Marathon and she had
described the race as incredibly hard because of the Wall’s steep slopes. I
had looked at her puzzled – my image was of a mostly flat Wall.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">But when we arrived at the Wall earlier this week, taking a
two-person chairlift from Mutianyu village to the Wall, I saw she was not only
correct, but had underplayed the steep pitch. I had put on my running clothes
and shoes in an airport bathroom stall (a first) and was ready to run the Wall
(thinking it would be great to put in a few miles), but after the first 200 yards I was huffing and
puffing.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In this section, the mostly granite structure, which was
built in the 6<sup>th</sup> century and rebuilt in the 16<sup>th</sup>,
consisted of a series of up and down sections so steep that it would be
dangerous to run the downhills and exhausting to run the uphills.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still, I gave it a go – a run-walk (mostly a walk) for 15
minutes or so. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had arrived around 5 p.m. and most of the tourists were
gone, and there was even a hint of a cool breeze. At first, it
seemed just as I had seen in photographs in a National
Geographic magazine. The Wall snaked over hilltops, zigged and zagged, going on
and on, as far as you could see. It seemed an incomprehensible feat from the
Middle Ages.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Up close, the experience, though, the 21<sup>st</sup>
century had crept in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran past a group of French tourists in their early 20s,
their faces red from exertion, all lighting up cigarettes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran past young Chinese couples dressed in latest fashions giggling
as they took selfies.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And on the top of one long uphill, I ran past a Chinese
vendor who saw the sweat dipping off my brow and shouted out, “Have a Tsingtao!
Ice cold! It gives you energy!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I smiled. Enticing, I thought. I kept going, second-guessing my decision – drinking a cold beer might have given me a
lift – but I kept moving until my lungs could power me no more. I turned around
and through the haze (likely smog from greater Beijing) looked out at the
Wall’s crown on the hills to the north. An opaque sun was barely visible. It was a
privilege to stand there and see, as millions of people had before me, a wonder
of the world. Not even the haze diminished it.</span> </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ole0ZaYQ7oTCYSRtgl9Fis21tALlxFa32bIRQK-U3axoOE9c2IU3GPhk5e7qb2T45TuDr2sgEVlrEQtoaHuzQH9_xZOVK-iXkgrlh1RocErYEvb33Hgc833Ww3EVyC1j6iaZxB83eZQ/s1600/Wall+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ole0ZaYQ7oTCYSRtgl9Fis21tALlxFa32bIRQK-U3axoOE9c2IU3GPhk5e7qb2T45TuDr2sgEVlrEQtoaHuzQH9_xZOVK-iXkgrlh1RocErYEvb33Hgc833Ww3EVyC1j6iaZxB83eZQ/s1600/Wall+photo.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-77913326316119807242014-06-04T05:35:00.000-04:002014-06-04T05:50:58.302-04:00In Jeddah, a discomforting run<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span id="goog_361669881"></span><span id="goog_361669882">
</span><br />
<span id="goog_361669882"></span><br />
<span id="goog_361669882"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> JEDDAH, Saudi Arabia – I’ve always wanted to run in Saudi
Arabia. It had nothing to do with the beauty of the place. It had everything to
do with the challenge -- particularly the discomfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
only do summer temperatures rise to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, but runners have to wear sweatpants and long-sleeve shirts. Running in shorts and a
T-shirt for men would draw the ire of the morality police (or so I thought).
For women, it’s much worse. Women wear an abayah and hijab in public – a
head to toe covering – and running in an abayah and hijab would be dangerous. (A few hotels
in the cities do have gyms catering just to women.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> I d</span>ressed
in black nylon long pants and a long-sleeve shirt, setting out at 5:30 a.m. for a
boardwalk that hugged the Red Sea. It was 85 degrees and humid. I was sweating
before I left the hotel grounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once I
crossed over to the boardwalk, I saw something wonderful: other men were
wearing T-shirts. Guiltily (thinking of women having no such choice) I removed
my long-sleeve shirt as I had a short-sleeve underneath. The degree of
difficulty just lowered. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
it gets so hot here, families use the parks when the sun isn’t up or it’s down.
Even at this early hour, on the grass along the sea, couples or families with
young children were eating breakfast, going down slides in playgrounds, or
smoking from hubbly-bubbly pipes. Others walked along the shore. A few
fishermen cast their long poles into the sea. And every so often a woman walked
by, dressed in black, the only skin showing were her hands and her eyes and
eyebrows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
night before, we had met a group of young Saudi entrepreneurs – a group of
about 15 men and women. Woman after woman (see the photo above) told stories of their work. They had
so much to say that the men could barely get in a word. One woman banker had overseen a
project that helped 10,000 women start businesses with small loans. Another
helped train women to market their work. And a third said her theory on why professional
Saudi women have a harder time than men in business was because as girls they
could not join sports teams and lost the chance to both understand teamwork as
well as develop a competitive spirit. Perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
did acknowledge that society’s norms made it more
difficult for women. She told the story of mentoring a woman entrepreneur, but her
contact dropped off because the woman had to accompany her husband
whenever he traveled; eventually she gave up on the woman. Still, she said, more and more
men in Saudi’s elite circles encouraged their wives and their daughters to
work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> On the same evening, before the meeting with the entrepreneurs, </span>two women journalists at a press conference asked a couple of great questions -- much tougher than their male counterparts. On my run, I thought about how
encouraging it was to hear women’s confident voices – this couldn’t have
happened when I was last in Saudi Arabia some 15 years ago. Even though these women were
from privilege, the episodes gave the impression that women were on the verge of receiving
more freedoms. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I thought
again. A half hour into my run, feeling like I had been in a sauna, I ran past another woman in an abayah and hijab. How did she feel in this heat? What were her
circumstances? What rights did she possess? What was her future?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
were all unanswerable questions, of course. I ran another 10
minutes, watched long-legged white shore birds dive for fish, passed a
series of large concrete sculptures, and ran up a short hill to the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stretched, did a series of sit-ups, and
meditated for a few minutes. As I quieted my mind, the disquieting thoughts of
the differences between the rights of men and women kept intruding. The run, it
turned out, was far more discomforting than I had thought.</span></span><br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-19131152114861207472014-05-31T13:58:00.000-04:002014-05-31T14:56:25.795-04:00Squeezing in a run in Toronto; transported to another place<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMToVTuO-SOc07jkJ6mXdgviNNzqtEcL0xJYcXj37xJL0U5UZZsKbfZi3_I3jqqK2Ysj-iK5AVr4CAxFY6Ii-rcVG0oImopwHSEhOyh8rCjGKxswGJxsm-DwmHo49I89l_T4CIkOEQiU/s1600/Sugar_Beach_in_the_snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMToVTuO-SOc07jkJ6mXdgviNNzqtEcL0xJYcXj37xJL0U5UZZsKbfZi3_I3jqqK2Ysj-iK5AVr4CAxFY6Ii-rcVG0oImopwHSEhOyh8rCjGKxswGJxsm-DwmHo49I89l_T4CIkOEQiU/s1600/Sugar_Beach_in_the_snow.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> TORONTO – Sometimes my trips are so quick that the biggest
challenge for a run is finding the time. Toronto proved especially tight. We
arrived at our downtown hotel here at 9:45 p.m. We were leaving the next day at
11:30 a.m. – less than 14 hours in all.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> When we arrived, I still had several hours of writing to do,
so I wasn’t going out. The next morning, meetings started at 7 a.m. and
continued until departure. I went to bed at 1:30 a.m., and set the alarm for 5
a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> If I wanted to run in Toronto, that was my slot. The only
reason I did it: What’s the difference of sleeping an hour longer? I still
would be tired. And I wouldn’t see a slice of Toronto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I was out of the hotel at 5:15 a.m. and adopted my usual
strategy when I don’t know a city: Out and back, run on one road and then retrace
my steps. I couldn’t get lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I headed east on Front Street. Construction crews were on
almost every block in the first few minutes; they wore hard hats and orange
safety vests and some drove little fork lifts. The streets, though, were mostly
empty, and I remembered why I liked running in cities before dawn – the quiet
and the absence of cars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> These early morning hours of peace in a city are a rare
treat, experienced mostly, I guess, by people who work overnight shifts, or
those who stay for last call, or runners or walkers with insomnia or an
exercise addiction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> At this hour, Toronto was a small town with skyscrapers. I
felt calm (if groggy) as I passed a shoe shop, restaurants, a pet shop, and the
Hockey Hall of Fame (a Beaux-Arts styled building). Even a local coffee shop
hadn’t opened. Nearly all cities are runnable at 5 a.m., but an hour later some
aren’t, and by 7 a.m., most are difficult because of traffic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> About a mile into my run, I saw a sign for the waterfront,
and changed my plan, turning right off Front. The road went under the Gardiner
Expressway and then dead-ended at Lake Ontario. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> But right in front of me was an odd-looking area: an expanse
of white sand, umbrellas and Adirondack-like chairs – a beach, but one that
didn’t seem to have access to the water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I saw a sign: Sugar Beach was its name, established in 2010
as a waterfront urban public space for relaxation (and not for swimming). I ran
on the white sand and sat down on one of the chairs. I had Sugar Beach to
myself. I resisted the opportunity to take off my running shoes and wiggle my
toes in the sand, but did close my eyes. I thought of myself on some distant
white-sand beach in the Caribbean. It was a very pleasing thought, and I could
feel sleep coming. So I wrested myself out of the chair, bid farewell to Sugar
Beach, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ran a bit more on the waterfront,
took some turns, found Front Street, evaded an attack black squirrel that
seemed for a second would bite my leg, and arrived at my hotel. Six o’clock
sharp. Blood flowing. Better to have run than slept.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-77555099802373838492014-01-26T12:01:00.002-05:002015-01-20T15:10:15.084-05:00Davos: Mary J. Bilge, Bono, and dark woods<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkwSMMHGaOJMIqF1cfdhtsbkPQUID0umRxi1RiAAS7m609Xn18VLofDQ8yrhmqPZVMHoX9ywnYQIB3YDq0jjNDUz2reafhi_GFf9ZMZxlV7-Y3gmXHaoeoVAsR_mE_YQWn0kjVSsCD7s/s1600/MJBlige+images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkwSMMHGaOJMIqF1cfdhtsbkPQUID0umRxi1RiAAS7m609Xn18VLofDQ8yrhmqPZVMHoX9ywnYQIB3YDq0jjNDUz2reafhi_GFf9ZMZxlV7-Y3gmXHaoeoVAsR_mE_YQWn0kjVSsCD7s/s1600/MJBlige+images.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>DAVOS,
Switzerland – Davos’ brand is truly global. Come here and see 40 heads of
state, 350 senior public officials, and 1000 industry titans, or Eric Schmidt,
Bono, and Bill Gates. Or walk into a small bar off a hotel lobby (if you're wearing the exclusive wrist band, which grants entry) and listen <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to Mary J. Blige belt out </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6ZjBPXSmnE&feature=kp"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">“Just Fine.”</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
reality of Davos is that, plus this: Deals in the side rooms, grumpy stars on
stage, parties atop mountains, broadcasters on a rooftop in white tents, pure
white snow-capped peaks against blue sky, and, for me, a few moments away from
all of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
was my first trip to the World Economic Forum and all I really knew ahead of
time was that it brought together entrepreneurs, rock stars, development
leaders in an atmosphere of sheer excess. That excess (some took a $10,000
helicopter ride from Zurich to Davos to get here; not me) was tempered by what
organizers said was a record of results – new ideas were cooked at Davos that
ended up doing great good.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
year’s Davos focused on battling income inequality. There was a great deal of
talk around inequality, and there was a great deal of head-turning in the
hallways: In a span of 10 minutes, I saw Iran President Hassan Rouhani , a
phalanx of Israeli Shin Bet security, Mary Robinson, and Bono. The truth: It
was hard to stay focused.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwc9ACs6LmZa_nYdLUDtmmYoYPkTJSTsxl7xkBx-x2fPRLbHGxj-T6ULF8x650Kuu4jMH_FmA0EmQPqVwMtOis3a_lGpqJyAg1gAl3B4rYU_ZZE7x3aUYekFD_FhVAUZLcOZzZxA59tEM/s1600/Rouhani+photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwc9ACs6LmZa_nYdLUDtmmYoYPkTJSTsxl7xkBx-x2fPRLbHGxj-T6ULF8x650Kuu4jMH_FmA0EmQPqVwMtOis3a_lGpqJyAg1gAl3B4rYU_ZZE7x3aUYekFD_FhVAUZLcOZzZxA59tEM/s1600/Rouhani+photo.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Walking
through the hallways had the feel of speed dating your exs, or attending your high
school reunion, with a maximum of 20 seconds per person, no time to get beyond what
you were doing or where you were. The smart Davos-goer had
back-to-back-to-back, all day long, 15 minute meetings (max), with five minutes
in between to get to each meeting. Bartenders served non-stop double cappuccinos
and espresos; other patrons seemed high on something else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the
end of the work day, 8 p.m., all I felt like doing was lying down in bed. But I
knew at night, the World Economic Forum week at Davos picks up. Parties sprinkle
the town. You could crash a dozen, drink until dawn. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t have the tickets to the hottest parties – the ones thrown by Google that
featured Mary J. Blige in a small bar off my hotel lobby, or Bono’s and Bill
Gates’ mountainside shindig. I had other prospects, but I also had an anti-Davos
idea: a night run through the valley.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At 9
p.m., I laced up my shoes, put on my windbreaker, winter-weight running pants,
hat, and gloves, and made my way off our little hilltop onto a hard-packed
trail that I had run in the morning a day earlier. Hours ago, cross-country
skiers swooshed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>past on perfectly
groomed tracks, while walkers (many with dogs) walked on a parallel packed
trail that skirted Davos’ small downtown. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At night,
though, with patchy clouds overhead revealing a bowl of mountains around me, I
was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>alone. I ran across an open field,
the only sounds being the crunch of my shoes and my light breath. The trail
hugged a fast-running stream and then I veered off onto a trail that went
straight up into the forest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
dark. Icicles hung like sinewy beards from pine trees. The trees formed a crown
over the path. The only light was the snow underfoot and that was dim. I felt almost
blind. I came to a downhill and quickened my stride, a gamble, but it felt good,
and I ran even harder, taking long strides.. I trusted the snow and my balance,
and I stayed upright into the valley.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even in
the wide expanse, the clouds cast shadows, and I felt invisible. To my right, I
sensed something near, some motion, and I turned my head. Suddenly, large black
objects swooped near, 30 feet away, closer still. I stumbled. In a moment, I
knew could see their outlines – deer. Huge deer. Four of them. They charged
right past me.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dUeQV631sg3Mbye0QakQOKbV56JW7Heg99tWCcdRH1QE1AiArkQ33KY0G8Hk0KKSRr5d3ZQ2MuUd_Bwlqgj2LR1EjQNyuGzMydWgeiUFTTg0nVX9TttpMr6jO8ILGFjxVsTXJkXJc0A/s1600/Deer+at+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dUeQV631sg3Mbye0QakQOKbV56JW7Heg99tWCcdRH1QE1AiArkQ33KY0G8Hk0KKSRr5d3ZQ2MuUd_Bwlqgj2LR1EjQNyuGzMydWgeiUFTTg0nVX9TttpMr6jO8ILGFjxVsTXJkXJc0A/s1600/Deer+at+night.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
hundred feet ahead, they stopped. One turned to me. I ran toward them and,
spooked, they headed to higher ground, night monsters fading into dark shapes,
then gone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ten
minutes later, I was back outside my hotel. Swiss soldiers checked my ID. (5000
came to guard Davos this past week, including snipers on roofs). I asked one about
the deer and he said to his friends: Where’s my gun! They laughed as I headed
inside. A hotel porter told me that he had seen deer from time to time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was
good you exercised,” he said. “Otherwise, you would not have seen them.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
true. I failed to have the true Davos experience. No Mary J. Blige for me. My highlight was a moment of running with four deer in the dark.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-17455978827250485212014-01-11T06:33:00.002-05:002014-01-11T06:33:33.051-05:00Running in Beirut: Weighing the risks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2ySR3V2Oc9ydpeXOoRe7Cq-XxkbjWQgVLyzU5dtgNmv6cLz0bA_wbnfvplbOA8FzpaULJfBdbcQpbY1IGmD9HqqfU3x5gGEveAcKKAqgD21WXSqIKH5UOUF-p-y6mLoBfHB3xu6Tmss/s1600/beirut+corn+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2ySR3V2Oc9ydpeXOoRe7Cq-XxkbjWQgVLyzU5dtgNmv6cLz0bA_wbnfvplbOA8FzpaULJfBdbcQpbY1IGmD9HqqfU3x5gGEveAcKKAqgD21WXSqIKH5UOUF-p-y6mLoBfHB3xu6Tmss/s1600/beirut+corn+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">BEIRUT, Lebanon – I thought the
bombings here in recent weeks would put me on a treadmill.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when I asked security experts
here about going out for a run, they immediately said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No problem. Go to the Corniche.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Corniche, a seaside promenade
built during the French Mandate period of present-day Syria and Lebanon
following World War I, hugs the coastline for about five kilometers. It is
lined with palm trees that are pock-marked by bullet holes from the Lebanese
Civil War, which lasted from 1975 to 1990.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today, Beirut is experiencing no
shootouts (Tripoli, in the north, is another matter), but there are bombings,
including one that went off in south Beirut about three hours before landing
here. I learned of it when I switched on my Blackberry as I walked toward
Immigration. As my driver would say, “Welcome to Lebanon.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Syrian conflict is spilling
into Lebanon in multiple ways, including more than 1 million refugees fleeing
across the border (a quarter of the population now here is Syrian); air strikes
along the border line; rebel fighters going back and forth; and bombings and
assassinations carried out in Beirut – tied, of course, to actions taken in the
war next door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People are resilient in Beirut. People
famously go out to bars and nightclubs soon after an attack. But the feeling in
Beirut today is tinged with fear. After only a few days here, it is clear that
many are shaken by the frequency of the bombings, and the unpredictability of them.
My driver, for instance, whose apartment is near the most recent bombings, has
two girls – a fifth and first grader – and the first thing he tells me in the
mornings is an update about talks with a relative in Dubai. He is making plans
to send his girls there. “You are here one day, five days, 10 days,” he said to
me one morning. “But my daughters are here every day. I can’t risk it.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So why run here?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each morning, over the span over a
few hours, hundreds of people walk, run, and bike along the Corniche. Teams
play aggressive badminton with wooden paddles, the sharp sounds echoing above
the traffic. Old men share small cups of espresso. Middle-aged moms speed walk,
their white little dogs struggling to keep up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fishermen lean over the railings with 20-foot-long poles and long for a
bite. Polar-bear swimmers take brave strokes in the frigid ocean; some yelled
in Arabic to the heavens after their plunge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="st"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Alhamdulillah!
Praise to God.</span></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a place of life and
exhilaration. And it’s a place where many others weighed the risks of running
or walking and decided to go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m traveling with my daughter,
Paige, who came to work on a project involving Syrian artists in exile. She is
a much faster runner than I am – she’s in the midst of training for her college
track team – and we decided to venture out together. The safety factor evened
the scales in my favor. She would slow down so that we could run together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We just finished our fifth and last
day of runs along the Corniche, sticking to the same route each day. The air was
not the best; the cars passed close. The pace was good, mine. At dawn, the view
was memorable – pink streaks over the Mediterranean to the west, and
snow-capped Mount Lebanon to the east. We dodged groups of walkers, who are
bundled up in the 50-degree mornings, wearing hats, gloves, sweatpants, and
sweatshirts, chatting so much they don’t notice us. They were often five and
six across, linked arm in arm, comrades perhaps.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After each run, we returned feeling
physically great, blood circulating, muscles stretched out. Yet we also returned
with some wariness. On the Corniche, I was not only looking for beauty or a moment
that said something about the place. My eyes also searched for anything amiss
that signaled danger; I stiffened once when a group of young men walked toward
us from the street. I knew there was a risk, even if miniscule.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was great to be out in Beirut,
not a place like most to explore by running, but rather a run that explored a
sliver of a place. Still, I gladly accept my blessings. We were given a few
here.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-87447284067562845022013-12-31T14:34:00.001-05:002013-12-31T14:35:26.236-05:00The joy of running in storms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRB1A_ybJDNrrX1NRbPBNbyWIhrjmnvXAII2-h3dMu718HibUUtDNXGdhb0QozGLX1tycvUTi2AdwzEt1cmdQ0hnhqZvVOAuXBvQBOLLMjopgGn7kwQdeQ_PyRWN0jEp1SehX95s6mZv4/s1600/running+in+rain+image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRB1A_ybJDNrrX1NRbPBNbyWIhrjmnvXAII2-h3dMu718HibUUtDNXGdhb0QozGLX1tycvUTi2AdwzEt1cmdQ0hnhqZvVOAuXBvQBOLLMjopgGn7kwQdeQ_PyRWN0jEp1SehX95s6mZv4/s1600/running+in+rain+image+1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>BRUNSWICK,
Maine – I am a preacher when it comes to running in bad weather. For years I
have cajoled friends to get outside during pouring rain, sleet storms, blizzards,
or even run-of-the-mill high winds. (I draw the line when it comes to extreme
heat waves, hurricanes, lightning storms, and seriously icy roads.) Too many of
us look outside at sheets of rain and say to ourselves, ‘Not today.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I recently
ran in two storms back to back – one here in Maine during a snow storm and the other
in Chevy Chase in a 43-degree rain. I’ll acknowledge that I hesitated a minute before
running in cold rain. But years of preaching had its rewards: You say something
too many times and you start believing it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I always tell my friends they
should run in rains and snowstorms because they always will feel better
afterward. During these recent runs, though, I started examining why that is
so. Five reasons came to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No. 1: You are almost always alone.</strong>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Think about it. During many runs,
especially in populated areas, trails are full of other people exercising; the
constant line of people becomes part of your focus. But in a downpour, you can
go miles without seeing anyone. And when you do see someone, there’s almost a
kinship, as in, <em>another crazy is out here</em>. You may even wave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This difference in a routine can spur
creativity. Patterns of thinking change. The focus at first may be inward,
thinking about how your body is responding to the rain or sleet or high winds.
Gradually, though, in my experience, the thoughts while running in storms turns
to mounting other obstacles in your life, and this is an opportunity to explore
why you haven’t had success – and what you can do to find a solution.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No. 2: You have to know yourself
well.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To run in extreme weather, you have
to prepare both physically and psychologically.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the 43-degree rain, I opted to
wear thin nylon wind pants, for instance (along with a T-shirt underneath a semi-rain-proof
running jacket, light leather gloves, and a running cap with a head band to
keep my ears warm). If it were 47 degrees, I would have run in shorts. If it
were 37 degrees, I would have put on my insulated running pants. Know what you’ll
need, even to the level of five degrees difference in temperature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the snow in Brunswick, I prepared
myself psychologically as well, knowing that while it was beautiful to run
through snow, my footing would be unsure; I would slip backward slightly with
every stride. I ran slowly. I was careful not to give myself a hard time for
running at such a pace, knowing that the experience of being in the snow was
more important than the pace of my run.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No. 3: You are on an obstacles
course.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad weather can close off paths. In the rain
recently, my run took me past three brooks, which are leap-able in normal
weather. But the brooks had risen high, and I was forced to stop and look for
new passages. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In one case, there was no way to
clear the brook without getting wet. So I looked for a way <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>least likely to injure me – a deliberate jump
in the brook with one foot while maneuvering with my second foot for mud on the
other side. That brings me to ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No. 4: You’ll get wet, get over it.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the best things about
running in a hard rain is that you are drenched in two minutes. In 20 minutes,
you’ll still be drenched. So why not enjoy it? In a hard rain, with nylon pants
clinging to your legs, it’s one of the few times you’ll be aware of the strong
muscles in your thighs and calves. Let that be a moment of inspiration.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No. 5: You will laugh.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How many times in life can you feel
like a five year old? Running in bad weather brings out the inner abandon, and
the pure joy, of a child playing in the rain. So when you splash in a big
puddle, and your foot feels the piercing cold wetness almost immediately,
instead of saying, aaaarrrgghhh, why not laugh about the ridiculousness of
being outside in a hard rain in the first place? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On runs in bad weather, I will
laugh out loud a dozen times. Fair-weather runs are boring in comparison. So
the next time it is truly awful outside, and there’s not a threat to life or
limb, dress for it and get out in it. You’ll feel better for it. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-73370186604324993202013-11-17T17:10:00.001-05:002013-11-17T17:12:46.301-05:00What happens after a fall during a run<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5zaYlJKtIT73YRcZ7EoHrhgiW6BmdJPZPYJWB6gSuTHf4-fRdQzZFDgsNzB1ZEFE43w8Ekf3K30lvKDk5yc1BYHdnBb_29T0Q0pHzRRYnjtMIxDJWomXlaUAjYw-IvcJIRmdvfJIYRY/s1600/fall+down+image+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5zaYlJKtIT73YRcZ7EoHrhgiW6BmdJPZPYJWB6gSuTHf4-fRdQzZFDgsNzB1ZEFE43w8Ekf3K30lvKDk5yc1BYHdnBb_29T0Q0pHzRRYnjtMIxDJWomXlaUAjYw-IvcJIRmdvfJIYRY/s1600/fall+down+image+4.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> W<span style="font-family: Calibri;">ASHINGTON,
D.C. – This blog usually is about runs while traveling. This time, I’m writing about
traveling while running. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On a
recent autumn morning, I went running with my friend Ellen on the trails in
Rock Creek Park in DC. It was cool, crisp, and dry. A thick blanket of leaves
covered the path, and both of us talked about it as we set off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> We didn’t talk about its beauty,
even though our path was a carpet of natural colors. Instead, we saw danger:
The leaves obscured rocks and tree roots. And that, we knew from experience,
meant it would be easy to trip and fall.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Rock Creek trail cuts through miles
of wood and follows a stream that roars by after hard rains and is tame the
rest of the time. On this day, the water was low.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Halfway through the run, I tripped
and caught myself. Then I tripped a second time, again barely avoiding a crash.
We slowed the pace a little. But I tripped again and this time I flew through
the air and landed hard on the ground, falling on my right knee and thigh and stopping
my momentum with both hands. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZV113VBdawZ_0Yp9tgjc-RlT78rYhWHpx-wXMUKvQyet0hX9YkwVMcVmjW12oMw-F0P1uwkV1AVOItqWo_OYTJ45HztJaOeUxWCt6H8qtS_xJFj2fSrAAzJ8q6XtyKXDKG514Jkzf2o/s1600/fall+down+image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZV113VBdawZ_0Yp9tgjc-RlT78rYhWHpx-wXMUKvQyet0hX9YkwVMcVmjW12oMw-F0P1uwkV1AVOItqWo_OYTJ45HztJaOeUxWCt6H8qtS_xJFj2fSrAAzJ8q6XtyKXDKG514Jkzf2o/s1600/fall+down+image+1.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
immediately felt pain on my right knee and left hand. My knee was bloodied. When
I looked at my hand, I gulped: the base of my pinkie was nearly double in size.
I thought I must have dislocated the finger. And so I yanked it. The finger popped
back into place, and the bulge disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I carefully wiggled my fingers and
felt some pain. I started walking and both knees ached. But there were miles to
go still, and we continued onward. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few minutes later, I was on the
ground again – a second fall. Again, I landed on my right side, sliding in the
gravelly surface. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Now the embarrassment hurt more
than the wounds. How could I trip four times and fall twice in one run? Ellen tried
ordering me to walk, fearing (perhaps knowing) I was about to do real damage to
myself. But after a minute, we were running again.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We made it back without further
falls, but I felt the after-effects for some time. I had to deal with some pain
– it was hard to type for a few days, my knees ached, and my toes had turned
nearly purple and were complaining. But the mental impact of the falls was far
greater. For a couple of weeks afterward, I felt off-balance, as if I could
fall in certain situations. I bike to work every day and I started to travel at
a slower pace. For my runs, I kept to pavement. All the while, I wondered what had
happened back on that run. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Perhaps the leaf cover was
inherently dangerous – but I had tripped four times, Ellen none. Perhaps I
wasn’t lifting my legs high enough (obviously true!), because I was exhausted. I
buy that last explanation. I had just returned from a flight to Asia. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">What’s the moral of the story?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChnQZyetLkUtXBaPFOD_i0IRxSp4EcNDNAe6B4RTeUD8l7ByJWBUH_18qKW2QeAHXya7h2GeqWAlh6BudAot9vv769gNlFp0ZWkynooJFv6EVL9PaL6QPMGh1S5Q4FMgN85NvQMqBBs0/s1600/fall+down+image+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChnQZyetLkUtXBaPFOD_i0IRxSp4EcNDNAe6B4RTeUD8l7ByJWBUH_18qKW2QeAHXya7h2GeqWAlh6BudAot9vv769gNlFp0ZWkynooJFv6EVL9PaL6QPMGh1S5Q4FMgN85NvQMqBBs0/s1600/fall+down+image+3.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Not sure about that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Don't run in the woods after a flight from Asia? Stay off leaf-covered trails
when tired? More like it. I’ll be more careful. But I bet I run again when tired. I’m
too set in my ways. Falls are in my future. It’s an awful thought as I replay
the crash scenes. At least I’ll know how to deal with a dislocated finger.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-81900517275669582612013-11-11T06:28:00.000-05:002013-11-11T06:28:05.845-05:00A run in Paris, a flood of memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRcfebpJR10pQMpvGsFRJCNtmRzDlRGchnZ7DniPccUVgTcgJNDaa-kiGBjfFQPs0HK7q3qoBoeqFM7MMQli8KlIOFcc4RYPzW7UiviI7sjWkeE8Kl8v6nwFiG18CViaJR7j8iKAVQRk/s1600/Paris_Tuilerie_un_bassin_et_le_Louvre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRcfebpJR10pQMpvGsFRJCNtmRzDlRGchnZ7DniPccUVgTcgJNDaa-kiGBjfFQPs0HK7q3qoBoeqFM7MMQli8KlIOFcc4RYPzW7UiviI7sjWkeE8Kl8v6nwFiG18CViaJR7j8iKAVQRk/s320/Paris_Tuilerie_un_bassin_et_le_Louvre.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">PARIS –
Paris in mid-November: rain, a chill in the air, clouds low and gray. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">In other words, perfect for a run.
A hotel doorman told my work colleague and friend, Ed, and I that we should try
running in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuileries_Garden"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Tuileries
Garden</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">, just steps from our hotel. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We started at 6 a.m. in a light
rain along the walls of the garden and turned a corner onto Les Champs Plaza.
Amid the deep puddles, we spied an opening into the park.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the gray light, we entered. Ed
wondered if it would be dangerous. I said the only danger was the puddles – our
feet were about to get soaked from splashing into one. We ran ahead, passing statues
and tree-lined walkways. We kept zig-zagging, saw a large archway ahead, and
started talking about various trip details. Suddenly, someone started yelling
in our direction: Arret! Arret! Stop! Stop!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked to my left and a high-powered
flashlight was trained on us, moving up and down. The man was running at us. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">He started yelling in French. I thought
he was saying something about the park being closed, and probably that we
should get out of there. Still, I wasn’t 100 percent certain he was police or
security (after all, it was dark and he was yelling in a language I didn’t understand), so I
told Ed we shouldn’t wait for him and we quickly retraced our steps, splashing into puddles as we went. I looked back and the man had stopped behind us.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We exited the park. Drama over, I remembered
that the hotel doorman also had said we could run along the Seine River. That
thought made me happy. It brought back memories of reading the Madeline books
to our daughter Paige when she was a little girl, and a trip that we took to
Paris when Paige was four and Gavin only one. (Wyatt would be born 18 months later in Jerusalem.) In one of the books, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Madeline’s Rescue</i>, <span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Madeline falls into the Seine River
and is saved by a dog. The orphanage director Miss Clavel allows Madeline and the
girls in the orphanage to keep the dog, until they find her real owner. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujWZgyrs5ADywpIjHJv7Wz85Dev41tNM2RaLK722m5SE-XrOUIRKKpdE9HdTYsmD-kpC2uGMXklCGFqQ7h5G_gUHzN0c0dQAzNfqWxyxaZaUB5CTeBapnkxXVmO2h-rYF8oUImhrizR4/s1600/Madelines_rescue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujWZgyrs5ADywpIjHJv7Wz85Dev41tNM2RaLK722m5SE-XrOUIRKKpdE9HdTYsmD-kpC2uGMXklCGFqQ7h5G_gUHzN0c0dQAzNfqWxyxaZaUB5CTeBapnkxXVmO2h-rYF8oUImhrizR4/s1600/Madelines_rescue.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">All during our trip to Paris, Paige kept asking, “Will we
see Madeline?”</span><span lang="EN"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We said we weren’t sure, but we should go to
the Seine to look. And so we did, several times, Paige looking for a French
girl who looked the part.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ed and I headed toward the Seine. We
crossed a bridge and followed the river on the other side. Soon we came to a
narrow wooden bridge, and I looked into the distance. Ahead was a sidewalk along
the river, where I remembered we had bought prints of flowers, ducks, and fish.
The bridge was the same one on which I had pushed Gavin in a collapsible stroller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoBbLrMkbBSnlqxrVkpyPj-bYeoUrt6hLXw_jPyL_66KxC7A1iFG6m4g0lwmHU-aHEI1HlMjWzkzQ-qIKpSbYyuD3kQl1COTTiElqVav2RKpuhoZoBUbXnEeAWcTIK7R97ch88Bvm5X4/s1600/John+and+Gavin+Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoBbLrMkbBSnlqxrVkpyPj-bYeoUrt6hLXw_jPyL_66KxC7A1iFG6m4g0lwmHU-aHEI1HlMjWzkzQ-qIKpSbYyuD3kQl1COTTiElqVav2RKpuhoZoBUbXnEeAWcTIK7R97ch88Bvm5X4/s320/John+and+Gavin+Paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ed and I stopped to walk. He noticed
that both sides of the bridge were now covered by thousands of locks of all sizes,
many with messages on them. Others had sprayed-painted in black their love for
another over the locks. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I knew just where we were. We ran
to the end of the bridge and descended a narrow flight of stairs to the banks
of the Seine. We tip-toed along the cobblestone path, a somewhat treacherous decision
because the water was high, the cobblestones slanted toward the water, and it
was dark. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s go slowly,” I said. We did,
dodging puddles. Ahead, the Seine spilled over onto the sidewalk, leaving just
a narrow passage. We slowed even more, lest we meet Madeline’s fate, and decided
to go up to street level. We found stairs. I heard a rustle near our feet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A rat!” Ed said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked around, but saw nothing. “It
was big,” Ed said. “The size of a chipmunk, but with a longer tail – the tail
of a rat.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I believed him. We raced upward,
keeping an eye out for other rats, and soon we were along the streets.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: large;">Within
minutes, we had come to Louvre Museum, first built in the late 12<sup>th</sup>
century and now housing nearly 35,000 objects. It attracts 8 million visitors a
year – the world’s most popular museum. But standing near the museum’s glass
pyramids (designed by I.M. Pei and built less than 30 years ago), we were
nearly alone.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sky had lightened
slightly, the day was beginning, and I was transported back to a moment when
the children were so young and tender. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to Cairo.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0wNExJHN76uE4HTDak13x4GuEDGvHjIln-7G39-lMSW2-RDdvoTLmoHvZb4h5Oox2tMMt44Qgf6kMsxATT_EYlTDj8DZ6XYWaRAsBDb8mCU8SfPX5hVOFUbqJ9tALVkGrJxcuRx6rMc/s1600/Paige+in+Cairo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0wNExJHN76uE4HTDak13x4GuEDGvHjIln-7G39-lMSW2-RDdvoTLmoHvZb4h5Oox2tMMt44Qgf6kMsxATT_EYlTDj8DZ6XYWaRAsBDb8mCU8SfPX5hVOFUbqJ9tALVkGrJxcuRx6rMc/s320/Paige+in+Cairo.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nwoiXPTIj0UBh00w7uW4qf0s6Ft05_B4fplNuUTVKXKYDlNgk0PJ5BbEnfJ2PqlSbXTuNajI2ssBzpI2YYdhPammTisFG38rTARC2EoJBAh1guTUhnsrD3nHRZBDKQCqPV8dPizCCv4/s1600/Gavin+in+Cairo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nwoiXPTIj0UBh00w7uW4qf0s6Ft05_B4fplNuUTVKXKYDlNgk0PJ5BbEnfJ2PqlSbXTuNajI2ssBzpI2YYdhPammTisFG38rTARC2EoJBAh1guTUhnsrD3nHRZBDKQCqPV8dPizCCv4/s320/Gavin+in+Cairo.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to Jerusalem.</span></span></div>
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoBk0ozHX2bRJxjoTlKglbf-4mKQmjsyxrh2QTkpsCb_0m-ADgEMClLbm_PwqZYLPgXUb9ka2ZpkRLb_-AsA9n8wf7xHszYsg9ata3tGO2NuYQZj3sR0MsK9I0fmN4m_E7rfUMfjXSjE/s1600/Paige+and+Gavin+Jerusalem.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoBk0ozHX2bRJxjoTlKglbf-4mKQmjsyxrh2QTkpsCb_0m-ADgEMClLbm_PwqZYLPgXUb9ka2ZpkRLb_-AsA9n8wf7xHszYsg9ata3tGO2NuYQZj3sR0MsK9I0fmN4m_E7rfUMfjXSjE/s320/Paige+and+Gavin+Jerusalem.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Back to Petra.</span><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEReszO47QPQkVjX3LfiEzbcDPLml2HxjkuVi5lnOenk6vB6otHo-h_4WSUJKODKc0FuwSSCzHMMrjh9q6jzseFs8uB0-HyxJUuKIT99xDYcKkgZt56x8th2uMt9dmAUnhyBVuCh3UgxA/s1600/Paige+and+Gavin+Jerusalem+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEReszO47QPQkVjX3LfiEzbcDPLml2HxjkuVi5lnOenk6vB6otHo-h_4WSUJKODKc0FuwSSCzHMMrjh9q6jzseFs8uB0-HyxJUuKIT99xDYcKkgZt56x8th2uMt9dmAUnhyBVuCh3UgxA/s320/Paige+and+Gavin+Jerusalem+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> <span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to violin lessons and face
painting in Ireland.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UfitMfv5LWRvr5yrh9Vdxmohoe3xJEHyJd8rdxaKPt1jMfGLjUPZWKONrPczztyva-kN4suhfM5V09clEUvuKoL1YQKYZ6o7GyubzfTgXUAzhd-XgbOtdYlZkVIJdIFXXiBQExmCmro/s1600/Paige+violin.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UfitMfv5LWRvr5yrh9Vdxmohoe3xJEHyJd8rdxaKPt1jMfGLjUPZWKONrPczztyva-kN4suhfM5V09clEUvuKoL1YQKYZ6o7GyubzfTgXUAzhd-XgbOtdYlZkVIJdIFXXiBQExmCmro/s320/Paige+violin.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeFQJYshkC9A0RENlOJEEtTI-6dcoA1yD5nNsML3sFqvA1nBlRhiQeaRKS5bhf0auIL6o-vzBOo5wjLhKE0cGhhZOp-t3V8FRaHJtw2wyPd_0AmZ2ashyphenhyphen14T7jpbbxBX0SOCGwROL6EU/s1600/Gavin+facepainting,+Ireland.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeFQJYshkC9A0RENlOJEEtTI-6dcoA1yD5nNsML3sFqvA1nBlRhiQeaRKS5bhf0auIL6o-vzBOo5wjLhKE0cGhhZOp-t3V8FRaHJtw2wyPd_0AmZ2ashyphenhyphen14T7jpbbxBX0SOCGwROL6EU/s320/Gavin+facepainting,+Ireland.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span><br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I could have stayed in that moment
for a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-47381288154610644472013-11-09T14:19:00.000-05:002013-11-09T14:24:14.218-05:00Running in the world’s best-named capital: Ouagadougou<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgjMNrHs4IkhIiLnXLYOcrphqFjAIqaDY_-mGVFv_PtMFSaFrV_cY3A8kvPxzyhP73wDplld2y37CtO4FPLbQl2YwNrjPr2a_kSPivS3rlYmcU_kUEiE7uEI2fufBKCBll88uCcwSXwE/s1600/cheetah1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgjMNrHs4IkhIiLnXLYOcrphqFjAIqaDY_-mGVFv_PtMFSaFrV_cY3A8kvPxzyhP73wDplld2y37CtO4FPLbQl2YwNrjPr2a_kSPivS3rlYmcU_kUEiE7uEI2fufBKCBll88uCcwSXwE/s320/cheetah1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">OUAGADOUGOU, Burkina Faso -- I have
always dreamt of running here. Just to say I had.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">What a name! Ouagadougou
(pronounced Wa-ga-do-gu), and often shortened to Ouaga, was named by the <span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Yonyonse tribe. It means </span>the
place <span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"where people
get honor and respect."<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The mystery and remoteness about
this place interested me. It’s the central African version of the Central
African Republic, or the south Asian version of Bhutan, or the South American
version of Paraguay.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">All are landlocked. All are places with
relatively few tourists, or even Western business people. But Burkina Faso’s
capital had it on the competition in one respect: Its name. No other capital
can beat Ouagadougou.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The trouble was I had just 18 hours
here. Work took nearly all of it. We arrived at the airport at 7:30 p.m., and
on the ride in, I looked out the bus window, seeing little. With a police
escort and roads largely cleared, it seemed a deserted city.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">First stop was a state dinner. At
the presidential palace, we walked past guards dressed in red uniforms. They
stood erect, not moving, not even allowing their eyes to take a sideways
glance, holding swords so that the tip nearly touched their nose. I wondered
what they were thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We walked into a seating area with
sofas and coffee tables, and there guarding the entrance was two stuffed
cheetahs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">They looked ferocious. I walked slowly
around them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Others, like me, kept turning back
for a glimpse. A few brave people walked over to them. I followed. Some took
pictures. I thought, why not, without a picture I might later think I was making
this up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two hours later, after a dinner
that featured quail from the president’s farm, I was back in my hotel room, a
few hours of work ahead of me. I went to bed at 2 a.m. Less than 12 hours left.
I put my alarm on for 5:10 a.m. How could I not run in Ouagadougou?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 5:30 a.m., I left the hotel and
started heading up the highway. Our 12-story soulless hotel, built by Libyan construction
companies during Muammar Ghadafi’s heyday (West Africa is dotted with Libyan
hotels), sat in what must be one of Ouagadougou’s wealthier areas. In a country
where 40 percent of the people live on less than $1.25 a day, all the houses
nearby were nearly mansion sized. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Street lights provided pools of connecting
light. The road was empty. Every so often a car would pass, or bicyclers, or
the stray runner. I turned down a side dirt road and ran in front of houses
with the flags of various countries – all personal resemblances of ambassadors,
I was sure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I turned back, crossed the highway,
and started noticing small birds fly just in front of me, some darting close to
my feet. I stopped and looked and several of the male birds had bright red
heads and gray bodies. The birds were sparrow-sized, no bigger than my thumb. I
marveled at their bright color. </span> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the way home, I turned off the
road again and could see an animal pulling a cart, dust in its wake. As it came
closer, I could see it was a donkey, and the driver was a young woman wearing
sunglasses. The sun was just coming up, a pink ribbon stretching along a
half-moon of the horizon. She was prepared for the day, the sun, and the heat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was temperate now, though, the air
dry. I had run for 40 minutes and barely had sweat. I showered and dressed, and
at 7:40 a.m., my work began. We sped off in a motorcade, moving from one
official event to the other. At 1:30 p.m., we were on a plane, headed for
Paris. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I barely saw Ouaga. I could say I
ran there. Along the way, I saw two stuffed cheetahs, scores of tiny red birds,
and a donkey driven by a woman in sunglasses. Ouagadougou remained mysterious, more runs needed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><em>Next running blog: Paris.</em></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-47363474052431748122013-10-01T21:33:00.001-04:002013-10-01T21:33:01.151-04:00A run in St. Petersburg: Breaking from routine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>ST.
PETERSBURG, Russia – I wonder sometimes about routines, about how they develop
and how it’s possible to have several. At home, my routines include just about
everything from how I pack my backpack to preparing meals to cleaning up at
night. I even brush my teeth in the same pattern, twice a day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I travel, I adhere to another
set of routines: the packing of my carry-on suitcase; the mix of work (writing
or editing) and fun (reading or watching a film) on a plane; and writing emails
on my Blackberry during the short breaks in between meetings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When it comes to running, I feel
like I have a split personality. At home, I run early, sometimes at 5 a.m. I
set out almost exactly 30 minutes after I get up. I have certain set routes. (When
I go on a different route, it seems to take much more effort.) On the road, though,
I run whenever possible. It could be soon after arriving at the hotel. Or I could
go when there’s an opening in the middle of the day. And almost every run is a
new route; finding my way doesn’t seem to bother me a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At home, I am rigid; on the road,
flexible. Maybe my routines on the road are simply a matter of taking advantage
of time. But why can’t I do the same at home? At home, my routines both give me
comfort (peace of mind in establishing a known rhythm of a day) and restriction
(there’s almost no way I’ll run at the spur of a moment.) On the road, I’m free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was just in St. Petersburg, and
after a meeting, I found out that I had exactly one hour before <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>our group were going to dinner. I wasted no
time. I ran up the stairs in our boutique hotel, changed in my room (called the
Bangkok Room for its Thai motif), and was out the door. I turned north along
one of St. Petersburg’s many canals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had the luck of being here in
fall, and the temperature was about 60 degrees. It was 6 p.m. with still
another three hours of light, and the sun felt soft and warm as I headed toward
the old part of the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Guidebooks call the city the Venice
of Russia for its canals, and it was easy to trace a run along them. They
criss-cross every four blocks or so, and I found myself going up and down foot
bridges like an old goat might. If sun fell on the canal path, I followed it, turning
every few blocks or so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had wanted to come to St.
Petersburg since I was in high school in the town of Springfield, Vermont, a
place also dominated by water: The Black River ran through the town, and machine-tool
shops were built along its very edge. In high school, I wrote a paper about
Leningrad, then the city’s name, relying heavily on a National Geographic
article as my source. I still remember the beautiful pictures of the city; it
was described as a gem behind the Iron Curtain and I wondered whether I would
ever have the chance to see such veiled beauty. And so it was especially
thrilling to me to have a stolen hour in this city, turning corners and seeing
architectural wonders that were just pictures in a magazine to me before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I ran past cathedrals, the statue
of Alexander the Great, the Hermitage Museum. I stood by the main waterway that
ran through the city, the Neva River, and marveled at what was all around me.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_1819564345"></span><span id="goog_1819564346"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> T<span style="font-family: Calibri;">he park along the Neva stretched
for blocks. Couples posed for cameras in front of the statues. Two kids
wrestled in the grass. Four women wearing head scarves and black abayas averted
their eyes from me, perhaps because of my bare legs. It was a splendid late
afternoon in St. Petersburg, and I couldn’t quite believe my good fortune to be
in the middle of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I looked at my watch. I had been
out 25 minutes. With 25 minutes to get back, that gave me just 10 minutes to shower
and change. I reluctantly left the river and the majestic buildings from
another era, and started running back along the canals, scooting in and out of
traffic at crosswalks, a little extra spring in my well-traveled legs, so happy
to have had a break from routine in a city I had dreamed of.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-15156089525401647772013-07-21T16:32:00.002-04:002013-12-07T11:02:11.382-05:00In London, a find unlike any other<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">LONDON – I went out for a run in East London’s Canary Wharf
fairly recently, and I wasn’t in a great mood. I had hoped to run with a friend
(hello, Megan!) but she was injured and couldn’t make it. And the area seemed
to be surrounded by industrial parks and highways along the River Thames. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Indeed, I started out along the Thames for five minutes
before hitting a highway and then reversed course. I hit a few more dead-ends
after that, and finally smartened up: I spied another runner and followed him away
from the river; local runners always know the best routes. He led me through a
warren of narrow streets, until finally I was running along the river again, in
an area with a great name:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Isle of Dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The name alone put me in a better mood. I knew there must be
great convoluted history behind it, likely going back centuries (and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_Dogs"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">there is</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">), and kept
running alongside working-class-looking apartments that I was sure likely went
for a half-million pounds each.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I passed a little park (with a few dogs) and then came upon
a mini-brick domed structure, which rose about three stories high. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It looked like the top of a buried building. As I stopped, a
couple of bicyclists emerged from one side of the building. Then a few more
came out, and a few more, totaling eight or nine in all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Where had they come from?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The round building had an elevator with a wide door, as well
as an internal spiral staircase. I descended down the stairway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went down, down, down, for two minutes, until I reached a
landing and then turned a corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There, in front of me, was a tunnel! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I realized I was underneath the Thames. So I ran. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I felt like I was entering a time from an earlier century.
The tunnel was not high – maybe eight feet at most – and it was dank and poorly
lit. It was wide enough – maybe nine or 10 feet – for two lanes. That was a
good thing as a string of bikers was headed my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tunnel descended and then ascended – it must have been a
quarter mile long, long enough so that I couldn’t see the end – and I raced
through it with the joy of a boy who had just discovered something magical. (And
perhaps the fear of a man who can feel slightly claustrophobic.) I reached the
end and ran up the spiral staircase and exited on the other side of the Thames.
I had to see the view. The brownish river was in front of me, a park behind me,
and more bikers headed my way. I reversed course, and ran through the old
tunnel again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two weeks later, I was telling the story to our neighbors,
Gerry and Deb, both Brits. Deb knew about the tunnel immediately, and Gerry pulled out his iPad and confirmed where
I had been: </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greenwich_foot_tunnel"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">the
Greenwich foot tunnel</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We learned
that tunnel construction started in 1899 and was finished in 1902; its purpose
was to replace an “expensive and </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and sometimes unreliable ferry service” for workers on
the south side of the Thames to get to London docks and shipyards around the
Isle of Dogs. The person who pushed it through was a politician with the memorable name of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Will_Crooks" title="Will Crooks"><span style="color: blue;">Will Crooks</span></a>.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjderHu1R8gwP-DoSKOe9buVmY-f1lHF-OFlyFxUB_TE9FKGO0HqyYLwXVuF0nyV1WmrX3x75GzX2qfi5APSBmuN30MALA6Ai0av_5x48OO_Wxeg7oiDsuBU1mky96gL6-Gg3CsqDEgzY4/s1600/Portrait_of_Will_Crooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjderHu1R8gwP-DoSKOe9buVmY-f1lHF-OFlyFxUB_TE9FKGO0HqyYLwXVuF0nyV1WmrX3x75GzX2qfi5APSBmuN30MALA6Ai0av_5x48OO_Wxeg7oiDsuBU1mky96gL6-Gg3CsqDEgzY4/s1600/Portrait_of_Will_Crooks.jpg" /></a></div>
</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you, Mr. Crooks. Your long-ago political maneuverings have benefitted many on a daily
basis for more than a century, including giving me an unexpected find on a summer morning.</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-79626169549572685402013-07-10T07:34:00.001-04:002013-07-10T07:48:54.833-04:00The difference of 25 years: Backpacking then, presidential palace today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRchj8k_lth82ML7X09e1grPlU447rRaWtJH77UsQ8WyAmw0jT2feyHno_Z6SrnObx7FXjLIRwJxErqfvfg5khSoDLwI0GDIzFXbvaTqHYVsW3M7Bn7vljGB-rImP11Usn2Cva2BTW4A/s1600/Chile-Maponcho+river.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRchj8k_lth82ML7X09e1grPlU447rRaWtJH77UsQ8WyAmw0jT2feyHno_Z6SrnObx7FXjLIRwJxErqfvfg5khSoDLwI0GDIzFXbvaTqHYVsW3M7Bn7vljGB-rImP11Usn2Cva2BTW4A/s320/Chile-Maponcho+river.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">SANTIAGO, Chile – The temperature in early morning was no
more than 40 degrees Fahrenheit, as I put on a long-sleeve shirt. It felt like
an indulgence after weeks of hot weather in Washington. But it was cold enough
that I pulled the sleeves over my hands to keep them warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I crossed a highway and a bridge over the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mapocho_River"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Maponcho River</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">, which ran
fast and was hemmed in by concrete walls, a protection against flooding. I ran along
the left bank, heading in the same direction as the river, toward the city
center.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At 6 a.m., it was dark, and I was on guard, for my
footing and for people in the shadows. The path was uneven close to the river
and I could make out shapes of men along the way. I couldn’t tell what they
were doing so I maneuvered to a path to my left, which was close to the road.
Near one intersection, three rangy, old German shepherds crawled out of
makeshift tents and barked at me. One hobbled after my heels, his barks as
menacing as a 90-year-old man, <i>woof woof woof</i>.
Still, he made me scoot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I eventually found a straight path with picturesque
little lanterns on poles every 10 yards lighting my way. I could almost imagine
myself running in a Parisian park. More than that, though, the light freed me
to think about something other than falling or falling in the hands of others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As my mind wandered, I remembered my first trip to Chile
– some 25 years ago with my wife, Laura, on our honeymoon. We backpacked for
about six months along the spine of the Andes, starting in Quito, Ecuador, and
eventually ending in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torres_del_Paine_National_Park"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Torres del
Paine</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> in southern Chile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The two of us stopped in Santiago for a few days,
arriving on a long-haul, air-conditioned bus that we boarded near the desert
region along the Peru-Chile border. At the border, we were reminded that we
were entering the Pinochet dictatorship; the guards pawed through all our
belongings, pulling out our books and leafing through them. They took one –
Richard Brautigan’s </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trout_Fishing_in_America"><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Trout Fishing in
America</span></i></a><span style="font-size: large;">. Maybe they thought Brautigan, shown in the cover photo, looked
subversive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSh5pMurojAMCR30ozagzX1T-uZbdEScqhSccH9n4-mhKtWVHNd_YxPWlqU76VZ1GRL_8A9s4WmFIgrSvegvFCBfNVUG4H4t5Avkfxyqo0CbsKoM-vjXEUQEdHAmDa9l-Zybf_mE1wWE/s1600/TroutFishinginAmericaBrautigan.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSh5pMurojAMCR30ozagzX1T-uZbdEScqhSccH9n4-mhKtWVHNd_YxPWlqU76VZ1GRL_8A9s4WmFIgrSvegvFCBfNVUG4H4t5Avkfxyqo0CbsKoM-vjXEUQEdHAmDa9l-Zybf_mE1wWE/s320/TroutFishinginAmericaBrautigan.PNG" width="198" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">In Santiago, we checked out a couple of hotels. At the
first one, we asked about the rate, and the person behind the counter said: How
many hours? I thought I heard him wrong, replying, “Well, 24?” He looked at me
oddly. “We rent by the hour,” he said. We looked more closely at our
surroundings, at the bustle in the lobby, and burst out laughing. We went
looking for a place that rented by the day. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Santiago was gray and dirty then, but it had newsstands
that sold some American newspapers, and a colorful movie marquee advertising
recent blockbluster action films. We loved the countryside outside of the city,
where we had picnics of cheese, fresh bread, and wine in a cardboard box,
something we had never seen before. While the city was fast-paced and full of
army and suspicion, the countryside was leisurely and lovely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On my run, I returned to the present moment and replayed
arriving in Santiago from Lima the day before. A police escort took us straight
to our hotel and then to an official meeting in </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Moneda_Palace"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">La Moneda</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">, the
presidential palace. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4TxBf3yMn2zeagvIFyI0pJy93TVl_q49Z82mOq1aB9GFFsnGkfolKVYmS2aAIivRsF50_JNkXkoJgymGSSbtslhbW5fOVRhPwV-3VAdsnnzgTKsYq1cyR64FOyhnedTgk5Q_6azt2D0/s1600/Santiago_-_La_Moneda_-_Janvier_2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4TxBf3yMn2zeagvIFyI0pJy93TVl_q49Z82mOq1aB9GFFsnGkfolKVYmS2aAIivRsF50_JNkXkoJgymGSSbtslhbW5fOVRhPwV-3VAdsnnzgTKsYq1cyR64FOyhnedTgk5Q_6azt2D0/s320/Santiago_-_La_Moneda_-_Janvier_2010.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a press conference in the palace and later we
were guests at a dinner hosted by the finance minister and the captains of
industry. (Almost all were men; there were just three women among the group of
75.) In a grand room, with a ceiling 20 foot high and walls painted red and
adorned with over-sized life portraits of Chile’s leaders in the 19<sup>th </sup>century,
white-gloved waiters served us fine Pinot Noir wine (in glass bottles).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I thought: boxed wine in the park when we were young, and
Pinot Noir in the presidential palace in middle age. I thought again: arriving
unawares into a house of ill repute, and being escorted into the house of
power. The contrasts made me smile. The experiences were both memorable. As I
finished my run, with the first light appearing to the east above the Andes, I
thought that I likely will still remember the visit during the days of
Pinochet, the visit with the shared wine poured from a cardboard spout, more
vividly. That wine, among other things, was a revelation.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-81974599554918925462013-07-08T14:37:00.003-04:002013-07-08T14:37:41.654-04:00Running with surfers on my left<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhSuUsni4EKX5Yt28DxG39860yJXaHQ4_vAPQSLlxY4Kiueu17-QNA2aGpErWmrkeghF7zC-3e5s-zkRI0wkLnASVvTlrMxU25rKIDoorX1a5lCxzRDWd30HvCsoSaklv8k2SQDvjgUM/s1600/Latin+America+trip+2013+013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhSuUsni4EKX5Yt28DxG39860yJXaHQ4_vAPQSLlxY4Kiueu17-QNA2aGpErWmrkeghF7zC-3e5s-zkRI0wkLnASVvTlrMxU25rKIDoorX1a5lCxzRDWd30HvCsoSaklv8k2SQDvjgUM/s320/Latin+America+trip+2013+013.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">LIMA, Peru – It is winter here, which means a series of cloudy
days and temperatures in the 50s and 60s. But this morning, as I wiped the
condensation from my hotel window overlooking the Pacific Ocean (see the view above), I saw a
startling sight: the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I quickly got out the door and headed north, knowing it was
so because the ocean was on my left.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We are staying in Miraflores, a wealthy part of a city in a
country that seems to get wealthier by the year. As a taxi driver told me: “The
middle class in Peru is exploding.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It certainly felt that way on the running trail high above
the Pacific, built by the city to include parks, exercise stations and even
fenced-in places for dogs to run. Scores of runners, bikers, walkers, and
groups doing Tai Chi were everywhere (I always want to stop and look at groups
doing Tai Chi – there’s something spellbinding about the concentration and
deliberate movements.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wearing shorts and a T-short, I could see a few miles ahead of
the Pacific Ocean, dotted by surfers in wet suits paddling out to catch winter
waves. The path zig-zagged from the road into small parks that had sculptures
and exercise benches as their centerpieces. One sculpture, called “The Embrace,”
showed a larger-than-life couple intertwined. (Still, it was nowhere near as compelling
to me as those doing Tai Chi.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">These fast city runs, to be honest, are usually fairly grim.
Sometimes, like on a day in London recently (more on that soon), I run along a
mixture of industrial parks and busy highways and wonder what am I doing here. Sometimes
I take a third or fourth turn on a run and wonder if I ever will find my way
back. Sometimes I stumble on curbs. Sometimes dogs bark and I jump. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Almost never is the ocean on my left, the temperature just
right, and the early morning sun casting a long shadow of my silhouette, making me
seem much taller (and thinner) than I am. So no wonder this is my third morning
in a row running in Miraflores, cooled by seaside breezes, pretending I’m on
vacation, and dreaming of the old days when I could run for hours.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>Next: Chile.<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-1133541352689013832013-06-15T17:41:00.000-04:002013-06-15T17:43:34.098-04:00Montreal: A run that could kill me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkVOzTj4D2jUtO8xxQkEwA0c3yu18deTAEx1rNTTbEbEblPGHq1Hj9pctlpaKfsPZ5zGnPwjR8DaFyAY6zuCxn_7ToTP07YP00dv9YAqH8cidy5naohmxHZaULCtYLm5w_TdQKbrwk70/s1600/Montreal+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkVOzTj4D2jUtO8xxQkEwA0c3yu18deTAEx1rNTTbEbEblPGHq1Hj9pctlpaKfsPZ5zGnPwjR8DaFyAY6zuCxn_7ToTP07YP00dv9YAqH8cidy5naohmxHZaULCtYLm5w_TdQKbrwk70/s1600/Montreal+river.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> MONTREAL – On rare mornings, I wake up and think: A run would
kill me. I either had a little too much beer, or pulled an all-nighter, or felt
horribly sick. Sometimes when I made the decision to go anyway, I not only
survived, but ended up feeling somewhat cleansed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
sometimes I felt worse. Sometimes, the run was deadly. I can remember on a few
times I ran, showered, and crawled back in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On a
recent morning in Montreal I woke at 5:30 a.m., eyes blinking, thinking maybe I
should just pass on the run. I simply had too much to eat the night before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At a
Chinese restaurant, one friend ordered for a group of us. Jellyfish and duck
tongue. Shark fin soup. Filet mignon with pea pods. Peking duck. Vegetables
with shrimp and octopus. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
food was delicious. It was one of the best meals of my life. And it was so much
more than I ever eat. I felt so full.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At 5:30
a.m., I still felt full. It was as if I had just finished the dinner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, I
rolled out of bed. I hadn’t run in Montreal for five or six years, and so I got
myself to the hotel lobby. I asked a clerk for a route, and he gave me a small
map and recommended that I run past the old city and go along the St. Lawrence
River, along the city’s Vieux Port, or old port, which was first used by French
fur traders in the early 17<sup>th</sup> century. “It’s a great way to see the
sun rise,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
stepped outside, his optimism washed away: Rain was coming down in sheets. It
felt like 50 degrees. I would have shivered if I wasn’t so full. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
stepped out and put one foot in front of the other. Luckily, the first few
blocks were downhill, and I tried to bend at the waist and lean forward. I
thought if anyone saw me (and it seemed I had Montreal to myself), they would
think, “That guy looks full.” Or, perhaps, rough.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I kept moving.
I passed steak house after steak house, restaurants with pig drawings on signs (what
is it about this city that makes it so in love with meat?), and cafes with breads
and pastries. Ugh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the shops ended
by the St. Lawrence. In the rain, the boardwalk almost shone. The river opened
wide and I ran along by myself, the only sound the rain and my footfalls. I
turned back at the Jacques-Cartier Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt
full no more. I felt like myself. The pleasures of running in an empty city, by
a broad river, and then along the narrow Rue de Notre Dame and its magnificent
square with the glowing Notre Dame Basilica, took over. I forgot about
everything for some moments. Montreal had given me a great meal and then a
morning that allowed me to run it off.</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-31031609808298243172013-05-27T11:54:00.001-04:002013-05-27T11:56:36.191-04:00Running along the mighty Congo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhcSbNBfyYJcQSTM-1PDF-0b4R4P8k5Cikx2sFzBt6JIG_zRRQ-_nYkX1oAMXit-EBffmTkMQRI3qoyu54Y496Z20n7ywIFJCwhWSqrX0HkjuyOj0cPCk8DiADIzrdfv-FLnBof4wbyQ/s1600/Congo-River-pix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhcSbNBfyYJcQSTM-1PDF-0b4R4P8k5Cikx2sFzBt6JIG_zRRQ-_nYkX1oAMXit-EBffmTkMQRI3qoyu54Y496Z20n7ywIFJCwhWSqrX0HkjuyOj0cPCk8DiADIzrdfv-FLnBof4wbyQ/s320/Congo-River-pix.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> K</span>INSHASA,
Democratic Republic of Congo – We flew into the other Congo, capital Brazzaville,
at dawn, and then took a slow boat across the Congo River to Kinshasa. It had
been five or six years since I had been to Kinshasa. I remember the trip well. On
the way in, I walked into a mob scene at the airport (like everyone else) and paid
a $50 fee to a service that got me out of there in one piece; on the way out, I
walked into the airport with a leg pouch containing $1400, and by the time I
was on my flight the leg pouch was no longer on my leg, the money gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I
liked arriving by boat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was no crowd to greet us -- just dignitaries and their security details -- and
we slipped into waiting cars and raced through the city with a police escort to
the Hotel du Fleure. The building rose 22 stories on a high point above the
Congo. My room was on the 19<sup>th</sup> floor, and I looked down on the city from
the vantage point of a hawk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I eyed
a running route under the canopy that hugged the river, laced up my shoes, and
I was off. I felt almost wobbly – I had slept the last two nights on planes (Washington-Geneva
and then Geneva-Paris-Brazzaville). But I figured I should follow </span></span><a href="http://articles.washingtonpost.com/2013-04-22/national/38729181_1_jet-lag-time-zone-red-square"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">my
own advice about running in the morning after a long flight to fight jet lag</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">,
or pay the price (of jet lag or scorn from my friends).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">After a few minutes on a main road,
I took a left, then a right, and I settled on an easy pace down a near-empty road
of privilege. Cut grass lined the road. High walls obscured properties. Every
50 yards a man or a woman, wearing blue uniforms, swept the road with a palm
frond. Tiny leaves went skittering under my feet. I was running on clean
asphalt in a city with few functioning sewers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I passed the British Embassy, then
the German, and soon came upon a roadblock. I waved to a soldier, who stood up and
greeted me with a rifle. “Go back,” he said. “No passing.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hung
a left and as I crested a hill, the Congo spread out before me. It was muddy brown,
seemingly a mile wide. Parts of the river are 700 feet deep, and there are more
than 700 species of fishes in it, and scientists say there surely are many,
many more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even from the road, the river,
which passes through the Congo rainforest, seemed extraordinarily powerful and
dangerous. It is Africa’s second longest river (the Nile is first) and is
the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>largest by volume (which has helped
spur dreams and plans to build a hydroelectric dame called Inga III that could
power most of sub-Saharan Africa.) I am not a good swimmer and I started
imagining preposterous scenarios like falling off a boat in the middle of the
Congo and trying to swim to one side. I was sure the current would sweep me
away and I would be gone forever. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept to the middle of the road.
Ahead, I heard a commotion and saw dozens and dozens of schoolchildren dressed
in identical blue and white uniforms. They were crossing the road, and as I
came closer, several shouted out at me. I ran into their midst, skirting them
slowly, and some giggled and took a few steps as if to follow me. But the gaze of
a stern headmaster spoiled those plans, and soon I had the road to myself again.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran for a few miles more and was
about to turn toward the hotel when a tiny blue bird darted in front of me. I
stopped and looked into the grass. There it was – an indigo bird. I watched it
hop and flit around the grass, and then it settled next to three others. I
stood and watched them, transfixed at their beauty.</span> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXrHlFblhqCsHgfw4yn1tfzV1E_BYmM_9ZPl2mz-qlzfM2Hm9qmLu_JGB1xe0ynE_XNx7mtsQqSfZbtJqEu_mTc1HRz-bWBAUfo55W9AxZvaJ-gadJVLSrY-EBEi_2FYsgLkGwbfHlLz8/s1600/indigo+bird-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXrHlFblhqCsHgfw4yn1tfzV1E_BYmM_9ZPl2mz-qlzfM2Hm9qmLu_JGB1xe0ynE_XNx7mtsQqSfZbtJqEu_mTc1HRz-bWBAUfo55W9AxZvaJ-gadJVLSrY-EBEi_2FYsgLkGwbfHlLz8/s320/indigo+bird-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The indigo birds flew off, and I
started off again. I didn’t know when I would see such birds or the Congo River
again, but I was feeling more euphoric than sad. I had stolen some wonderful moments by
the river, some balm perhaps to temper the memories of my last trip here.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-8561392641402162162013-05-11T12:15:00.002-04:002013-05-11T12:18:33.002-04:00In Romania, a boy on the streets at 5 a.m.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhVbJ3Fdvaey1Sk-M39CfM5IMLYzn2LtJMaAo8d8D3GG7Sf3xpofLknczmEIH-G91OpHQpyOkYQ9iIEs-McPjLShXcvwEj3EVfQm1cwx-BcN6ycsLcdLLOS5mb3hvWdZiq2kYefXZgOo/s1600/bucharest+at+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhVbJ3Fdvaey1Sk-M39CfM5IMLYzn2LtJMaAo8d8D3GG7Sf3xpofLknczmEIH-G91OpHQpyOkYQ9iIEs-McPjLShXcvwEj3EVfQm1cwx-BcN6ycsLcdLLOS5mb3hvWdZiq2kYefXZgOo/s320/bucharest+at+night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: large;">BUCHAREST,
Romania –The sight of the boy shocked me. Maybe it was because of the focus of our
trip. Maybe it was the hour, just 5 a.m. Or maybe it was how he smiled at me. All
I knew was that just five steps into my run here, I stopped when I saw him. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was of Roma descent; his clothes
were a dull color, dulled by dust. His eyes almost shone. He couldn’t have been
older than five. Nearby, a woman and a young girl were sitting on a large piece
of cardboard, their bed, against a building. All were fully alert. I stood just
a few feet from the boy, expecting him to beg for money. He didn’t. We just looked
at each other, and he smiled. In a few seconds, I started again, and he gave me
a shy wave. I waved back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had traveled to Bucharest partly
to learn more about the Roma people, also known as gypsies. The night before we
had met about 10 Roma college graduates who had received scholarships and who
spoke of their great aspirations to succeed in a variety of fields – diplomacy,
architecture, development, law. We left feeling very hopeful of their futures. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the boy was another story. I
turned a corner and I saw another family of Roma, and then a third, all awake,
and several children moving around with great ease as if the streets of Bucharest
were their livingroom, even at 5 a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I turned off the narrow streets and
descended down a darkened path into a park. Birds called out from the trees,
frogs from the ponds. Birds always seem the noisiest just before dawn;
Bucharest’s birds were deafening. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And yet, on park benches along the
way, many homeless slept right through the calls of the urban wild, blankets
pulled to their ears to ward off the chill, and perhaps the sound. There was
other movement here, too. Every few minutes, men emerged from the shadows as I
ran by, and it felt like I was in a medieval European city with the darkness
hiding secrets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In my back pocket was a map of the
city, which had large areas of green, delineating the city’s numerous parks. I
stopped under a light to find my location. I had gone from one park to a second,
making several zig-zags, and yet I felt strangely at home. I felt confident of my
way even though I had never been here before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPb7Q37Z6Vzsi6Ld7oBYx5nUWKrNFjRj-WmZBcU2R3YFzoUAe8GIFlbhs79YD4BIt5s9-7OAAM8LgeiafiHgK5HHawOOSLBVSTwzkTskWw-GKksvTi-CmT0qnuuAsOySLqRLWytjO6cdo/s1600/bucharest-romania+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPb7Q37Z6Vzsi6Ld7oBYx5nUWKrNFjRj-WmZBcU2R3YFzoUAe8GIFlbhs79YD4BIt5s9-7OAAM8LgeiafiHgK5HHawOOSLBVSTwzkTskWw-GKksvTi-CmT0qnuuAsOySLqRLWytjO6cdo/s320/bucharest-romania+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I ran around the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palace_of_the_Parliament"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Palace of the Parliament</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">,
a grand structure in neoclassical architectural style (and built with thousands
of tons of marble from Transylvania) that sits atop a hill, surrounded by a
park and wide boulevards. Weeds grew on the lower lawns. There wasn’t a guard
in sight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, I headed back to my hotel, taking
solace in the parks. The birds had mostly gone quiet. The sky had started to
light up. I looked up and saw a long bright pink contrail from a plane. It was
a startling vision, like a dash of lipstick on the sky, and I ran on, looking
up every few seconds. I was getting used to unusual sights in Bucharest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Near my hotel, I passed the spots
where I had seen the Roma families. They had left, removing all evidence of
their presence, including their cardboard. I wondered about that boy. I wished
I had seen him again. I’m not sure what I would have done, or why seeing him
would be better than not. But it felt like a loss. Perhaps because the shock of
seeing him had worn off, and I knew his future, like that of so many street
kids around the world’s cities, was bleak. I returned to my room with my
thoughts stilled and my mood saddened.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-79808767303950445742013-02-18T21:22:00.001-05:002013-02-18T21:33:56.394-05:00‘Stop! Stop! That’s the Kremlin!’<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkdDiNSRA4K2pQ6xDqCNwiSJiHvaOONHucZ2JCdV8PsKdnWmT1KcM7F2ANZR08aSf0FQP-3X6AO7N-RuJ_OI2KgQAF54FlkFF0hDZ3xMNA6E-35XLdi1JYo5eZ2KprQxU87QtRO-o29k/s1600/RedSquare_(pixinn_net).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkdDiNSRA4K2pQ6xDqCNwiSJiHvaOONHucZ2JCdV8PsKdnWmT1KcM7F2ANZR08aSf0FQP-3X6AO7N-RuJ_OI2KgQAF54FlkFF0hDZ3xMNA6E-35XLdi1JYo5eZ2KprQxU87QtRO-o29k/s320/RedSquare_(pixinn_net).jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFoSJew53Ao5RQwYZFMuEwfUCFQTSTmVOoDFHkGwAsAJL9CtelIzA_31xkjF5qcL5Rylu5XtWrfv_puXrKqNs5ggWro-YIiDZI07bxO78A9Yh0Tfn6ZapAY9A01ZjpMEOLzZOKGhkFDo/s1600/1000px-Panorama_360_Red_Square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">MOSCOW
– We arrived at the hotel at midnight, and I went straight to bed. I wanted to
start out for a run around 6 a.m. On this trip to Russia, I had just one
destination in mind: Red Square.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
hotel was about two miles from the Square; a colleague gave me directions. It
was basically one turn and then head straight, passing through two underground
tunnels. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The air
was cold, not cold enough to freeze eyelashes, but cold enough to make me run
hard for the first mile. The boulevard was lined with high-rise buildings that
flashed purple and red neon. On one building, white neon lights gave the illusion
of snowflakes falling. Almost no one was on the streets.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After the
second tunnel, I emerged near one of the entrances to the Square, and ran under
an archway. Ahead, two groups of people wearing fur coats and fur hats took
pictures; one woman held an iPad. In front of her was the eternal flame of Red
Square, commemorating those who died from World War II.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">The two
groups faded away and I made a turn up a hill on an uneven brick path. At the
top, another section of the Square opened up: a giant white dome, which covers
Lenin’s Mausoleum, now closed to the public for repairs (though the body of
Lenin remains inside) because of a roof leak; and the Saint Basil’s Cathedral,
which literally stopped me in mid-stride.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The structure
is a fantastical collection of almost whimsical spires, or domes, painted in
vivid blue and white, red and green, yellow and green, and red and white, to
name just four. Near the tall red walls of the Kremlin, back lit by flood lights,
and with the only others in the Square a few soldiers in the corners, I walked
toward it spell-bound. I’d never seen anything like it.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBGMOdAkvKrXxGxMZGU0uQwdOaHMAQMcQoYrzHHMxewzQNTxbGKcwb2MT72WSZ4wksUbtXePjp907UAWPn4LmuT8FefekDlx1pwn6XSbIokX2wWwAJJE0i_1x5X_IRb3-MuDCAdVxhb8/s1600/398px-RedSquare_SaintBasile_(pixinn_net).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBGMOdAkvKrXxGxMZGU0uQwdOaHMAQMcQoYrzHHMxewzQNTxbGKcwb2MT72WSZ4wksUbtXePjp907UAWPn4LmuT8FefekDlx1pwn6XSbIokX2wWwAJJE0i_1x5X_IRb3-MuDCAdVxhb8/s320/398px-RedSquare_SaintBasile_(pixinn_net).jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nearly alone in the Red Square, I
stopped, just taking it in. A few minutes later, a chill ran through my body.
Cold crept in. I gave Saint Basil’s one last look and then returned back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran past the eternal flame, past
the archway, and past tall red walls until I came to a major highway. This didn’t
look right. I didn’t remember a highway. I stopped and looked around. I ran to
a couple of walkers and asked if they spoke English. None did. So I retraced my
steps to look for the tunnel, my way home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran back to the eternal flame, and
then slowly followed the line of tall walls. I ran for 10
minutes, maybe 15. I started to worry. Our meetings back at the hotel were starting
soon. I was lost. I saw a Russian soldier and ran to him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">He spoke a little English. I showed
him my room key card. He didn’t know the hotel. He said something over his
walkie-talkie. He waited. No reply. To my right, I saw a gate
open – it looked like a tunnel entrance. I thanked the soldier, and started
running to the tunnel. He yelled at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Stop! Stop! That’s the Kremlin!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stopped and walked back to him. I
started to pantomime running in a tunnel. The soldier said, Metro. I said
maybe. He said, “Look for M.” He drew the letter in the air, and then he
pointed the way, toward the eternal flame. I followed his
directions, found an M, and ducked into the tunnel. It was the way back. I
almost crossed myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The tunnel was a maze, and it was
busy now with commuters and bread sellers, but I danced among them and emerged on a street that looked familar. Soon, I was running along the neon-lit high-rises, making a turn, stopping
to stretch at my hotel. I looked at my watch. Ninety minutes – double what it
should have taken. I didn’t care. I was no longer lost in Russia, I had run to the Red
Square, and a Russian soldier had set me right.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-83001722406185596552012-12-13T07:15:00.001-05:002014-01-24T17:21:27.461-05:00In dark, in light snow, a run in Stockholm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbWU6LwevK9La2bgTzUSGFOvUrEdvUJ_wSKio3iXyjd9aZLtnxa1YrT1tkJxVrhX2be9_zV53y24c-DL7jlUeVaR9E85VcKyPK_cz6nS0QJ0HffM4Grp111kW3fBtQDmWcLVmAQQavWw/s1600/stockholm+in+winter1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbWU6LwevK9La2bgTzUSGFOvUrEdvUJ_wSKio3iXyjd9aZLtnxa1YrT1tkJxVrhX2be9_zV53y24c-DL7jlUeVaR9E85VcKyPK_cz6nS0QJ0HffM4Grp111kW3fBtQDmWcLVmAQQavWw/s320/stockholm+in+winter1.jpg" height="268" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">STOCKHOLM,
Sweden – Windows of time are precious on these trips. They happen usually at
the ends of days, well after dark or before dawn. Here, in Sweden, in blustery mid-December,
running in daylight was unlikely to happen no matter the schedule: It’s dark
for more than 18 hours every day; the sun sets about 2:30 p.m.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So when
we checked into our hotel at 5 p.m., with a few free hours ahead, the first
thing I did was unpack my running shoes and winter gear and asked the hotel clerk
for a route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kindly gave me a map and
showed me the way to run onto one of the city’s many islands, connected by
bridges to the mainland.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I
prepared to go, a few colleagues in the lobby asked why I would bother. Two
days earlier, nearly two feet of snow dropped on Stockholm, and what was left
was four to six inches of mushed-up semi-packed snow, the kind where you slide
back half a step with every stride. “Wouldn’t you get as much exercise if you
just walked a few blocks?” one person asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Actually,
no. The hotel was near the sea, and so I ran to it, and then kept the sea on my
right (a variation of the Vermonter advice of not getting lost in the woods:
Keep the river on your right). It was below freezing, a light snow was falling,
and many people were walking along the path under street lights. There were a
few runners and even a biker, who kept a certain pace in order not to topple.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
thrilled to be in Stockholm, running in snow on snow, and stealing a view of
the city in my window of time. I turned right on a bridge that crossed a canal,
and then, less than a mile from the city center, found myself running alone on
a snowy sidewalk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It felt
like I was back in a small New England town – the snow lightly falling, street
lamps illuminating the snowflakes, emptiness ahead, silence, Christmas lights
on houses, candles lighting windows, shadows of figures moving from room to
room. I passed a young couple walking home. In their wake, they were tugging a
bundled-up one- or two-year-old in a red sled. The bearded man and long-haired
woman talked excitedly; the child in a snowsuit in back sat mute, eyes wide
looking at me. I blurred past her, waving but getting no reply. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I ran on
a plowed path in a city park lined with tall trees (the benches had humps of
snow, no one had sat on them since the storm); to a ferry landing, where a sign
said a ferry arrived every 24 minutes to take people somewhere in Stockholm;
and then back toward my hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One trick
in running in a foreign place is not only to find a route, but also to find the
route home. So when I left my hotel, I looked around and found my landmark: a billboard
advertising “Dirty Dancing.” It was in pink neon. On the return, I could see it
from a quarter-mile away, and I shuffled to the hotel, Dirty Dancing a hot-pink
beacon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I checked my watch: just 35 minutes.
But it seemed like I had escaped for hours and had entered a hushed Nordic
world during the Christmas month. My cheeks were cold. My hat was white. I
stretched next to my hotel door, and I felt the tightness ease from my calves.
It felt good to run in the dark, in cold, in Stockholm. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-2738017604760202542012-12-02T19:38:00.000-05:002012-12-02T20:04:06.628-05:00Under a full moon, a run to Tiananmen Square<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUUJr62G3dHSJSsgyTZYBcn0Ks1frV5dTWqTbV97L2yuFjgIIgDEuggByAWmdZRL7dM_frP0rcPPg5fUcPZ__3osonwbmVD4RDt0pm6ZUwTNRRamajdWHK8DsH069uK-H8J6ZJ-VARX0/s1600/200401-beijing-tianan-square-overview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUUJr62G3dHSJSsgyTZYBcn0Ks1frV5dTWqTbV97L2yuFjgIIgDEuggByAWmdZRL7dM_frP0rcPPg5fUcPZ__3osonwbmVD4RDt0pm6ZUwTNRRamajdWHK8DsH069uK-H8J6ZJ-VARX0/s320/200401-beijing-tianan-square-overview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: large;">BEIJING
– I didn’t expect to run here. I expected the smog to make running counterproductive.
I expected work schedules wouldn’t allow it. And I expected that I wouldn’t be
interested – not in an intensely urban, polluted city.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
wrong on all accounts. As I set out one morning late last week at 6 a.m., the
air was cold and clear. It was so clear that I looked up and saw a full moon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
moon would lead me, I thought. Where? How about Tiananmen Square, the third
largest city square in the world and infamous as the site where the government violently
quashed the pro-democracy movement in 1989, some 23 years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I started down a sidewalk
illuminated by street lights and right away I saw a highway sign: Tiananmen
Square 4.5 kilometers. Doable, I thought – as long as I didn’t get lost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The temperature was 20 degrees Fahrenheit,
and the wind blew at my back – a worrisome sign because it meant I’d be running
into it on my return. But I was so excited about the thought of running in
Beijing, running to Tiananmen Square, just running in general, that I blocked
it out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Other obstacles, though, appeared quickly.
I immediately came upon major intersections; I learned that cars turn right on
red here, along with multiple motorcycles and bicycles outfitted with tiny
motors. I stepped out at one intersection and one of the swift soundless bicycles
almost ran over my toes, causing me to leap back. One lesson learned in Beijing
traffic: don’t depend on your ears. Three kilometers into the run, the wide
sidewalk became full of large groups who wore red hats and carried red flags.
Was I running into a demonstration of sorts? Why were so many walking in the
cold in the dark?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept going, dodging the groups,
trying not to trip, watching out for the bicycles, all under the full moon,
which was sinking lower, still bright. And then I arrived at the Square, the
sidewalk opening up to a walking boulevard, with Tiananmen to left.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Square is treeless, a vast
expanse of stone. It sits between <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">two
ancient, massive gates: the Tiananmen to the north and the Qianmen to the south,
and alongside it are the Great Hall of the People and the National Museum of
China. I ran up to a giant portrait of Mao.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Traffic from </span>the highway blocked my way to the Square. I asked two Chinese
military guards for directions, using various types of pantomime, but they
shyly turned away. I was the only Westerner in sight – the only runner as well
– and so I had to find my own way. It wasn’t hard. Just a block away was an
underground tunnel and the Chinese wearing red hats were all going that way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">After the tunnel, I crossed a
smaller road to get to the Square, where I ran to a large group of people who
were standing in front of a line of soldiers. Others were running toward us. I
asked several people if they spoke English and found none. What was going on?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">A police car with a loudspeaker approached.
It said something in Chinese and then followed in English: “Welcome to the
national flag-raising ceremony,” it said. “Please stand back. Do not push. Stay
calm.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Alongside more than 1,000 Chinese
people, I had arrived in time to watch the country’s official raising of the
flag, which I later found out happens every morning at sunrise. I had to get
going, though. It was almost 7 a.m., and my first meeting started at 8.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7Kaa9dwx6H4FY4P_hCA-haSQpxuIh3RfE6TmBNEIssJJAyaKjpZbr0wfZKY-j2JHeb35CHy_dk0WKE_B1kW9vMOOrpdEo46NStvsYFTLyo2H9MqxnNL8MJgC-YRBZZFv3itO3oEGalo/s1600/Tiananmen+square+flag+raising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7Kaa9dwx6H4FY4P_hCA-haSQpxuIh3RfE6TmBNEIssJJAyaKjpZbr0wfZKY-j2JHeb35CHy_dk0WKE_B1kW9vMOOrpdEo46NStvsYFTLyo2H9MqxnNL8MJgC-YRBZZFv3itO3oEGalo/s320/Tiananmen+square+flag+raising.jpg" width="230" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I retraced my steps, crossing
the road, taking the tunnel, and then running back along the sidewalk. The
sinking moon was at my back, the sky ahead turned orange, and I felt warm and
excited. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I had run to Tiananmen Square.</i>
I picked up the pace.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09145128634963196312noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026787782872090910.post-54041299787985048362012-10-13T23:19:00.002-04:002012-10-13T23:19:12.047-04:00Surprises in Tokyo: Mad swan, bird punt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHcvP8oy3Ld8ElcFGiikQkZgYnO16bradct95EXheLLV2qy5qy6_Txfkc2nlio5LXM3ukghTWM-zrzFT3POEPwip-YZx67N6qvXjf5teGUZFr50QzHtBWhxoql5zg-WfO0RxgFb8V-gA/s1600/imperial-palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHcvP8oy3Ld8ElcFGiikQkZgYnO16bradct95EXheLLV2qy5qy6_Txfkc2nlio5LXM3ukghTWM-zrzFT3POEPwip-YZx67N6qvXjf5teGUZFr50QzHtBWhxoql5zg-WfO0RxgFb8V-gA/s320/imperial-palace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">TOKYO -- In the last few weeks, I have gone on runs in Abidjan, Cote
d’Ivoire (through a rough slum area); Pretoria, South Africa (around the
majestic Union Buildings on a cold morning); New York City (three wonderful
at-dawn loops around the reservoir in Central Park); Seoul, South Korea (in
such a daze I barely remember); and numerous runs around Chevy Chase, my home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not running all the time. But I am moving all the time.
My new job at the World Bank has me traveling in short intensive bursts (four
days to two countries in Africa, one day to Seoul, five now to Tokyo). I was
concerned that with this kind of travel, I wouldn’t be able to run much. That
hasn’t been the case. But I haven’t found much time to write about running.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have almost an hour this morning in Tokyo, where I’ve run
the past four mornings, and I have a bit of a story to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve found a Starbucks to sit and write and
drink black tea, and where a Japanese man with a wispy beard and a heavy pack
on his back just walked in and started telling me, in rapid English, about his
10-day bike trip to Tokyo, a narrative interrupted by the kind clerk, but as he
left he said over his shoulder, “I look forward to seeing you again.”) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>No running by the Palace<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everything here is a little hard to comprehend at first.
Maps are impossible. Rules confound me. (About crossing streets --I’ve been
chastened by a couple of policemen already for jay walking, and have since
stopped; about running near the Imperial Palace -- it’s apparently illegal in
certain sections; you have to walk.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it’s been wonderful to explore a completely different
city and culture, and the runs have been a huge part of that. For three
mornings, I ran around a park near the Palace for 35 or 40 minutes, but today I
took a chance and ran a longer loop around the royal estate, hoping I wouldn’t
get lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You don’t actually see the Palace. But in the midst of a
landscape of skyscrapers, the Palace grounds are an oasis of green, rimmed by a
wide moat. When I grew up in Vermont, I was always told when in the woods to
“keep the river on your right.” Here, in order to not get lost, I just kept the
moat on my left, which did the trick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><strong>Menacing fish</strong></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The moat is full of large coy fish, and I stopped in one
section to look at them but quickly backed off. The fish seemed pretty
menacing, their huge heads rising well above the surface to open and shut their
mouths at me, almost as if they were saying, “Feed me, feed me.” I scooted away
but then moved close again to see a majestic swan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The swan, like the fish, moved to the edge of the canal.
After a few seconds, the swan started squawking at me and snapped its beak in a
kind of menacing fashion. These moat dwellers apparently are used to being fed
upon demand, and upset when not. I bid farewell, and made my way around the
loop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Bird in flight<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I had another unusual animal encounter – not what I
expected in Tokyo. I came upon a grouping of tiny sparrows and thought nothing
of it, but I felt my right foot strike something, and suddenly a little sparrow
shot up in the air. I had punted the little thing, not unlike a football
kicker. The sparrow seemed to right itself after a momentary wobble, and shot
off to the left. I was so stunned that I stopped. I have run for 30 years and it
was my first punting of a bird. I kept my eyes out for other birds after that, just
in case other Tokyo birds were asleep on my path.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I finished the loop, I ran down a hill and a vista opened
up: the moat wide below me, the Palace forest to my left, the city skyscrapers
to my right. It was a moment of natural beauty, only the latest of surprises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m off. Hour’s up. Maybe I’ll run into the man who biked
for 10 days to Tokyo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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