Vigilante for Social Justice

(this was first published at NEED on June 6, 2009)

Eric Klein was mad as hell. On the December day in 2004 when the tsunami hit Southeast Asia, Klein was hit by a drunk driver. Klein didn’t realize it at the time, but the two events would change his life. Along with the rest of the world, Klein watched as billions of dollars poured into relief organization coffers for the devastated people of Sri Lanka. Six weeks later, little of the money seemed to be getting to the people on the ground, the villagers whose lives had been swept away by the storm. “The biggest relief effort in history, over $7 billion, and we had no idea how the money is being spent.” Klein says he couldn’t find Sri Lanka on the map, but was determined to help out with some of the settlement money he got from the car accident. He and two of his buddies would go there to help however they could. He asked himself, “How hard can it be?” What he found were untouched stacks of supplies in a warehouse across the street from needy villagers. What was intended to be a 5-day trip turned into a 4-month relief effort. He worked with several villages on things they needed: he helped build houses and public bathrooms; he bought simple necessities for the hospitals, shoes and toiletries for the villagers. He helped them organize to rebuild their communities.

From that experience CAN-DO, or Compassion into Action Network-Direct Outcome, was born. CAN-DO has helped communities by supplying provisions in the wake of the hurricanes that have slashed the gulf coast, flooding in Iowa and Rwanda, and power cut-offs in South Dakota, on the Crow Creek Reservation. On the reservation, Klein says he saw the worst poverty, where people earn less than $4000 a year, a place where the average life expectancy is 44 years. The utility company in the region had begun to shut off the power of residents during days of extreme cold – even against the company’s own cold-weather policy – because residents were overdue on their power bill. “I’m not some white guy going in saying, ‘here, take this, do this.’ They say what they want.” Lisa Lengkeek, whose brother worked with Klein to expose the power cut offs, said Klein came to them through an “act of the universe.” He wasn’t able to get the company to give the residents any breaks, but he is helping them to realize a dream: CAN-DO and a tribal organization called Tree of Life are partnering to build a women’s crisis center that will also house a commissary that will provide essentials like food, diapers and other dry goods. They still need $7000 to complete the project.

Klein said in the beginning he used to fly under the radar, just go out and help wherever he could without looking for publicity. After competing on Oprah’s Big Give, he realized the value of self-promotion, that to get the attention of funders, you need to get noticed. “People think we’re this big organization, but we’re not,” Klein says of CAN-DO, which is made up of a few of his friends and his mother and father. When they hear about a community in need, they pool resources and jump in to help. “We don’t have a religious or political agenda. We don’t cut checks for salaries. We have a low overhead. All the [donated] money goes into the communities we serve. We get the community involved,” says Klein. Along with spending his own money, he has received grants or supplies from Oprah Winfrey, North Face, the Airline Ambassadors and other groups. To measure accountability for people’s donations, CAN-DO has created the Virtual Volunteer, “the first online, interactive real-time video web site which allows millions world wide to Watch LIVE and interact via chat as you personally witness your contributions make it into the hands of those in need.”

Klein can be reached at 646-228-7049

Tick, tick, tick

(This article was published in the summer 2011 issue of Lyme Times)

Anne Myre remembers the day she woke up with aching muscles and severe joint pain. It hurt to turn her neck. Within days, her feet were so sore, it hurt to walk, and an overwhelming fatigue set in, making it nearly impossible to drag herself out of bed. Although she showed her doctor the bull’s eye rash she had developed after being bitten by a tick, she was told she had arthritis, bursitis, flu, plantar fasciitis, and depression. Her job was threatened for taking so many sick days. She was 24.

She also remembers the day many months later when she saw Lyme Disease being discussed on a talk show and recognized her symptoms. It was a relief to be able to name it, she says, a relief to realize she wasn’t going crazy. After 10 days of antibiotics, her doctor told her she was good to go. And she did feel better – mostly. But foot pain, insomnia, fatigue and depression would return sporadically over the next 20 years.

Then, in 2005, Myre tested positive for Chronic Lyme Disease (CLD). Wanting to find others who were dealing with the frustrations of this confounding disease, she traveled from her home in Forest Lake to support group meetings in the Twin Cities, but only a few people attended. In her disappointment, she took steps to form her own support group. “I don’t know why I started it, because I’m not a public person at all. I was moved. I needed support myself and there just wasn’t anything around here.” Members of her parish, the Hosanna Lutheran Church, helped her get started and provided a meeting place. She hung flyers around town and posted an ad in the local paper that invited “you or anyone you know with Lyme Disease” to come to the meeting. Myre was nervous before the first meeting, fearing nobody would show up. “But when people started to come in I was exhilarated. I couldn’t believe there were that many people in this little town of ours” with Lyme Disease. “I cried the first several meetings because, finally, there was somebody out there like me.” As Myre sees it, the support group’s growth has gone far beyond the initial hope that she could learn more about the disease with others. “It’s just been phenomenal.”

That was three years ago, when Myre founded the Minnesota Lyme Action Support Group (MLASG). Based in Forest Lake, one of Minnesota’s epicenters of Lyme Disease, the group draws membership from a wide radius: Milaca, Duluth, Hudson, Taylors Falls, Osceola, Hayward, Stillwater, Woodbury, the Twin Cities. And today it has become a locus of activism. Membership has grown from 15 at that first meeting to its current mailing list of 276. MLASG is known by people in the Minnesota Lyme community as a leader because of their efforts to raise awareness of this misunderstood disease. They have hosted seminars that feature Lyme experts for the public and health professionals, and hold a once-monthly support group meeting. To fund these efforts, they organize an annual 5K walk/run, which, last year, brought in $10,000.

The Minnesota Department of Health (MDH) reported 1,239 cases in 2007, the most recent reporting year. Those who study or treat Lyme believe the true number of cases, including those that go unreported or misdiagnosed, could be 12 times higher. Melissa Kemperman, an MDH epidemiologist, said suburban sprawl has created ideal tick habitat with lots of forest edge, such as the area in and around Forest Lake, where ticks thrive in the cool, damp shade of the underbrush and leaf litter.

This is what we know: When someone is bitten by a black-legged tick in Minnesota, they have at least a one in three chance of being infected with the bacteria that causes Lyme Disease. An MDH survey of black-legged ticks (in Minnesota, these are mostly deer ticks) once found mainly in eastern Minnesota, finds them moving across the state. Doctors agree that a person who is infected by a tick bite has a good chance of warding off disease if they are treated within several days of the bite. But here’s where the issue gets thorny: Many doctors either don’t know what to look for, and some don’t even believe in CLD. For one thing, they are conditioned to expect to see the tell-tale bull’s eye rash, but not all Lyme rashes display this characteristic. Thirty percent of those infected never develop a rash at all. Because ticks carry other bacteria that may complicate a Lyme infection, symptoms vary from person to person, often mimicking symptoms of other diseases. For these reasons, Lyme can go for many years without being properly treated, compounding the symptoms as the bacteria multiply and invade many systems of the body, including tissues, organs and brain. This is the late stage known as CLD.

Dr. Elizabeth “Betty” Maloney is the group’s advisor and a frequent speaker at MLASG’s public presentations. She devotes most of her waking hours scouring the Lyme research and findings of doctors who have treated CLD. Maloney’s self-imposed education mandate also extends to the medical community. She has developed classes for registered nurses and physicians to make them aware that CLD is real and rampant in Minnesota, and that the Infectious Disease Society of America (IDSA) guidelines for diagnosis and treatment – the accepted law of Lyme Land – are inadequate and inappropriate. For starters, the diagnostic blood test most commonly used doesn’t detect all forms of the disease. It is based on the assumption that, if a person is infected, they will develop antibodies that can be detected. However, the test only searches for a selection of the antibodies, those that would be present in Lyme arthritis, and not others that are present in other manifestations of the disease. These antibodies take time to build up. In some patients, the antibodies themselves elude detection because they’re bound together in so-called immune complexes. And patients with neurological symptoms, such as dizziness, numbness of limbs, blurred vision and headaches – common in CLD – tend to have a muted immune response. The tests could miss patients at any state of the disease.

Maloney and other Lyme-aware doctors, believes Lyme Disease is best detected by clinical diagnosis. “Diagnosis of Lyme . . . should be done by listening to a patient’s history, knowing that they live, work, play in an area where Lyme is, by doing an exam. People always think that tests are infallible, because, by gosh, it involves technology and technology is great! But the Lyme tests were created by people and they are not perfect. Unlike the HIV screening test, which has . . . to catch 95% of all HIV cases, the Lyme tests don’t have to prove it and they aren’t catching it.”

Treatment protocol is another dispute. Dr. Joseph Burrascano, an icon of the Lyme community who has been treating CLD in New York State since the early 80s, admits in his 2008 treatment guidelines, that while long-term antibiotic treatment has been effective, the type of drug and dosage will “vary for different people based on multiple factors.” These include how long the person has been sick, whether they have co-infections or immune deficiencies, whether they have taken medications that can aggravate the Lyme infection (like steroids, which are often prescribed for arthritis), their age, weight, tolerance to antibiotic treatment, and other factors. The IDSA calls for a single, short round of antibiotics and contends that long-term therapy is dangerous.

With all this disagreement, it’s no surprise that insurance coverage should become another bramble, causing long-term antibiotic treatment to go underground. Insurance companies have placed doctors who defy the IDSA guidelines on state medical board watch lists. Burrascano himself was brought in front of the New York State medical board and forced to defend his treatment protocol. Unlike others who have been similarly persecuted, he did not lose his license. Because of this threat, it’s not easy to find a doctor who will administer antibiotics long-term. For this article, I spoke with a dozen people being treated for CLD. Not one wanted to “out” their doctor.

A main driver behind MLASG’s work is Jan Thietje, who came to the group when she learned that some family members where diagnosed with Lyme and was looking for information on the disease. Immediately she saw the need for more organization. “They were very open to suggestions, very willing, very tired, very ill.” She recommended the group form a board of directors, register as a nonprofit for fundraising purposes, and get on their legislator’s radar. She explained, “I come from Illinois, and in Illinois if you want to get anything done you have to get close to your legislators.” The first guest speaker Thietje brought in was Pat Smith, the national Lyme Disease Association’s president, for a three-day symposium, which she coordinated with the Forest Lake mayor. Both state legislators from the district were in attendance.

Ray Vandeveer is the state senator for district 52, which envelopes parts of the suburban counties of Anoka and Washington, containing Forest Lake. He knew people who were dealing with a variety of health issues that seemed unrelated to each other, and if “they went to three different doctors they got three different opinions.” Some of them believed Lyme might be the culprit. So, when he was invited by MLASG to learn more about Lyme, he readily accepted. At group meetings he has attended since then, he has talked to many people, who, prior to long-term antibiotic treatment, had to quit their jobs, “quit doing things most of us do. When they got the long-term treatment [for CLD], they got better. Some were health professionals themselves with a lot of credibility. These people weren’t running around looking for ways to be sick. Their experiences were documented and very persuasive.” Vandeveer’s interactions with the group have convinced him that long-term antibiotic therapy works for many CLD sufferers, and that doctors need to be able to provide that treatment. At the group’s request he has co-authored a bill, currently awaiting a committee hearing at the state legislature, which would provide doctors protection to do just that.

The hope for the legislation is that doctors who are now cautious about long-term antibiotic therapy won’t feel so at risk, which would increase the number of doctors willing to provide much-needed treatment. Brenda Morency, the board treasurer, was given the run around by doctors who failed to connect the dots of her various ailments, which included extreme headaches, Bell’s palsy and blurred vision. Allowed to go untreated, the nerve damage to her left eye and left side of her face is irreversible. Finally, five doctors and 14 months after the symptoms began, she started antibiotic treatment for CLD. Morency was given treatment for five months and declared “cured,” when most of her symptoms went away. But within two months she started to lose feeling in her legs, or they would feel as if they weighed “a thousand pounds each,” causing her to fall a lot. She went back on antibiotics, which she credits with keeping her out of a wheelchair. But she can’t always depend on being able to get in for a doctor visit. There are so few in Minnesota who treat so many CLD patients, waiting lists can be six months long or more. Plagued with fatigue, Morency wonders, “How can I drive three hours north or south for treatment without falling asleep behind the wheel?”

In addition to being debilitated by sickness, many CLD sufferers are also devastated by the money they shell out for their expensive treatments. Kim Mitchell, whom I met at a MLASG event, is a well-paid engineer and business entrepreneur with good health coverage. He and his wife, who also has CLD, have been on intravenous antibiotics as well as oral dosages, natural remedies, like probiotics to offset the effects of the antibiotics, and vitamin supplements. Insurance companies don’t pay for these alternative treatments, and Mitchell figures his out-of-pocket costs in 2008 were $40,000.

Eight women currently serve on the board of MLASG, and all but Thietje struggle with CLD’s confounding symptoms. Despite their various disabilities, the women work doggedly toward their educational goals. They have hosted public events that showcase experts from the Minnesota departments of health and natural resources and experts from around the country, and they staff booths at home shows and physicians’ conferences. To increase the number of doctors who recognize Lyme and know how to treat it, they have sponsored attendance for two doctors at the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society (ILADS) annual conference. ILADS recognizes CLD and works to improve the standards of treatment for the disease.

It’s a Thursday night in the Forest Lake Area High School media library. Forty or so men and women and a couple teenagers sit around rectangular tables, many furtively taking notes of Maloney’s presentation about the diseases ticks can inflict and what to do if they get bit. Myre, Morency and three other board members sit together by the door, greeting people as they arrive and handing out literature. They are wearing last year’s 5K T-shirts, lime green with “Tick Tick Tick Lyme Disease!” printed in black across the front. Because high-season for ticks in Minnesota is June through August, Maloney suggests that if anyone gets what feels like a summer flu, they should get to a doctor. A young woman who was recently bitten by a tick asks, “If you get treated for Lyme, are you guaranteed to get better?” Although optimistic that research will lead to better treatment, Maloney pauses, and, with resignation in her voice, responds: “No. There isn’t a guarantee. I think your odds are very good, but no, there is no guarantee.”

Lyme Warrior

(I'm still trying to get this published . . . )

About 15 men and women are stretched out on brightly-colored sticky mats in a carpeted meeting room in which chairs and tables are stacked in a corner. A woman with clear blue eyes and sand-colored hair pulled back with a head band speaks with a conversational lilt as she warms up the class with a few seated asanas.

It’s Monday at the University of Minnesota and this group of students and staff is releasing the stress of their day in a free lunch-time drop-in yoga class. Jeanne Bain, who has taught yoga here for five years, informs the class they will work up to a headstand today. The attendees look around uneasily, but Bain assures them they may only do as much as they feel capable of doing today, building strength and correct posture to accomplish the full pose . . . eventually. “The intention is to get to the full headstand, but that may be next week, next year, or in the next life.” Bain demonstrates how to “build the pose,” starting from dolphin pose. She quickly falls over laughing, explaining that she can’t actually hold the pose for very long, but assures the class it can be done. Bain then hops cheerfully from person to person, helping each one through various stages of the headstand.

By all appearances, Bain is a healthy, joyful, enthusiastic woman. This is a good day. But on a bad day, she can’t drag herself out of bed. Bain has Lyme Disease, a tick-borne bacterial infection that causes a seemingly endless array of symptoms, from muscle and joint pain to dizziness to disabling fatigue. Taken alone, these symptoms could signal any number of common ailments. But Lyme Disease victims suffer from a combination of these symptoms and more, which can compound and worsen if not properly treated. If one is lucky enough to find a doctor who will prescribe the needed antibiotics, treatment can stretch on a year or more.

Although Bain was only recently diagnosed, she believes she has been sick with Lyme for half of her 44 years. She has seen a slew of doctors over the years – an endocrinologist, a neurologist, a cardiologist, acupuncturists, chiropractors, and a hormone OB/GYN/menopause expert – to figure out what was wrong with her. They told her she was just anxious. “I had a major personality change,” she says, recalling the time when she was 20, when she believes she contracted Lyme. “I went from being totally bubbly and full of life and joy to being Goth.” On the bad days she describes herself as “Masha Jeanne,” after the dark, despairing character, Masha, in Chekhov’s “The Seagull.”

Bain may feel dark on the inside, but from the outside people see light; she smiles often and moves at a clip from one task to another. She and her husband, Robert Haarman, decided not to replace their car after it was totaled in an accident, and Bain used her bike to get around for almost a year, logging about 15 miles a day. In addition to teaching yoga at several venues, Bain, with a theater degree and a master’s in human development, facilitates creative writing classes of 4^th to 12^th grade homeschoolers, and is a contributing writer to a Minneapolis women’s magazine. She also raises two sons, four and 12, with Haarman, who is a dancer, waiter, singer and clown. Both boys have Lyme, adding guilt to her burden, because she suspects she passed the disease to them in utero.

The clash of the drugs with the bacteria can be more painful than the disease. Known as a “herx,” (from Jarisch-Herxheimer reaction), Bain describes the die-off of the bacteria as going “backward through your life with Lyme,” experiencing all the symptoms you’ve had in your life in reverse. “There is a squeezing pain in random places. Then depression waves. Then anxiety. Then the ankle goes out. Can't put any weight on it. Then it passes. Then my blood hurts. Feels like it isn't flowing. Pains in my rib cage. Is it my heart? Then the hip seizes up and I can't walk.” She has been on the drugs for three months and doesn’t know if or when she will feel completely well.

Since being diagnosed, Bain has become aware of dozens of other people with Lyme, all who have faced similar obstacles trying to get to the root of the problem. Haarman calls Bain “the Erin Brockovich of Lyme” because she has fervently researched Lyme at the library and on “Dr. Google” and shares her findings through a Lyme support group. She recently arranged a screening of “Under Our Skin,” a terrifying documentary that follows a hand-full of Lyme sufferers for several years through their battles with the disease and the stonewalling of the medical establishment that insists their symptoms are all in their head.

Through it all, yoga has been an antidote to the sickness, which Bain practices at least four times a week. “I feel like I’m pulling a sled around, 24 hours a day, even while I sleep. And my arms are broken. On that sled are my two kids, my husband, all the doctor appointments, the supplements, the drugs,” Bain explains. “Without yoga, I wouldn’t have the strength or courage to continue.”

Vigilante for Social Justice

(Posted on NEED Magazine blog June 4)

Eric Klein was mad as hell. In December 2004, on the same day that a tsunami crashed into Southeast Asia, Klein was hit by a drunk driver. He didn't realize at the time that these two events would converge to shape his life's mission. Along with the rest of the world, Klein watched as relief organizations collected billions of dollars to help the devastated people of Sri Lanka. Six weeks later, little of the money seemed to be getting to the villagers whose lives had been swept away by the storm.

Klein determined to help out with some of the settlement money he got from the car accident. He and two of his buddies would travel to Sri Lanka to support the community however they could. When they arrived, they found untouched stacks of supplies in a warehouse across the street from needy villagers. What was intended to be a five-day trip turned into a four-month relief effort. Klein helped build houses and public bathrooms in several villages. He bought simple necessities for the hospitals, and shoes and toiletries for the villagers. He helped them organize to rebuild their communities.

Because of that experience, Klein founded CAN-DO, or Compassion into Action Network - Direct Outcome. CAN-DO has helped communities by supplying provisions in the wake of the hurricanes that have slashed the gulf coast, flooding in Iowa and Rwanda, and power cut-offs on the Crow Creek Reservation in South Dakota. On the reservation, where people earn less than $4000 a year and the average life expectancy is 44 years, Klein says he saw the worst poverty. The utility company in the region had begun to shut off the power to residents' homes during the extremely cold weather - even against the company's own cold-weather policy - because residents were overdue on their power bill, for amounts less than $100.

As he did in Sri Lanka, Klein asked the tribe how he could help. Peter Lengkeek, the Crow Creek member who brought the power cut-offs to Klein's attention, said, "What CAN-DO is doing is incredible and is the right way." Lengkeek said many people have tried to exploied the tribe for self-promotion or worse. "CAN-DO is coming here and working beside us. They have given us a voice we've never had before." Unfortunately, the power company denies they are doing anything wrong, and campaign to find a solution is ongoing. To spur economic development on the reservation, CAN-DO, Lengkeek and others are partnerning to build a thrift store, among other projects, where residents can purchase at low cost essentials like food, diapers and other dry goods. Another project is a greenhouse, which viewers can watch take shpe via live webcam June 7th through June 15th.

"People think we're this big organization, but we're not,"Klein says of CAN-DO, which is made up of a few friends and his mother and father. When they hear about a community in need, they pool resources and jump in to help. "We don't have a religious or political agenda. We don't cut checks for salaries. We have a low overhead. All the [donated] money goes into the communities we serve. We get the communty involved." Because he founded CAN-DO out of outrage over the inefficient use of relief money by some large relief organizations, he is committed to open communication with his organization's supporters. To measure accountability for people's donations, CAN-DO created the Virtual Volunteer, "the first online, interactive real-time video web site which allows millions world wide to watch LIVE and interact via chat as you personally witness your contributions make it into the hands of those in need."

Lots of work and nothing to show for it

I know it seems like I'm just slacking, not having posted anything since forever. But really, I have been working my ass off in my magazine writing class (for which I got an A, tyvm). Besides the Barbie essay, I have written a profile of a yogi with Lyme Disease and a long feature (almost 3000 words!) on a Lyme support group in Forest Lake, among other tidbits. I am trying to get them both published, so they won't appear here until I know one way or t'other.

But suffice it to say I have learned a lot about Lyme Disease!

Here is a primer:

*Lyme Disease has been reported in every state in the US, and is the fastest-growing infectious disease in the country (maybe the world!)

*Black-legged ticks carry a spirochetal bacteria, a cousin to syphilis, that carries Lyme and other nasty infections.

*In Minnesota, 1 out of every 3 black-legged ticks carries the infections.

*Summer is Lyme season, so do your tick checks every day

*If you get bit, get to a doctor for some doxycycline (or similar) asap. Make sure you get at least a month's worth.

*The Lyme spirochete, Borrelia berdorferi, is the DEVIL. It can change shape and escape detection. It can infect every system in your body -- blood, muscles, tissue, organs, brain.

*There is evidence showing that LD can be passed from mother to child in utero

*Many people suspect it can also be passed to sexual partners, like its cousin, syphilis, but there isn't enough time or money in the world to do the research that would prove it.

*There is no guarantee that antibiotics will kill all of them.

*Conventional wisdom would have you believe that a bull's eye rash is a sure sign that you have LD. That is not wisdom but a MYTH. Some people who contract LD don't get any rash, and they are not all bull's eye-shaped.

*Very few doctors know how to recognize LD symptoms because the symptoms mimic those of a lot of other diseases. But if you get a combination of any of these and you have been in tick habitat (which is almost anywhere these days), suspect LD.

*Prevention is the only guarantee - DON'T GET BIT!!

*There are products to repel and/or kill ticks before they can bite you. Use them!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, I've started an internship blogging for NEED Magazine. My first story -- possibly posted next week -- is about a guy who uses his rage at the ineptitude of relief organizations to fuel his own humanitarian/social justice efforts in the US and around the world.

Barbie and me

Barbie and I are the same age. We both turn 50 this year. I don't generally find kinship with Barbie, believing her to be an anti-feminist symbol that promotes the objectification of women as pretty, plastic play things with little substance. But what kind of feminist would I be if I judge a girl on her looks and reputation alone?

So I considered a less superficial characterization of Barbie and compiled a list of attributes that Barbie and I share. We were both born blond but appreciate the freedom to change our hair color whenever the mood strikes. We have flashy convertibles and love the beach. We are independent-minded and have changed jobs many times in our lives, always following our aspirations for more meaningful, fun work. We have both been a teacher and flight attendant, among our many careers. We both love a party. We are fiercely loyal to our friends, counting some ex-lovers among them (Ken and Barbie broke up several years ago but still see each other casually). We have both traveled the world and speak a few foreign languages. We don't cook or do our man's laundry.

But here is where I still have a problem with Barbie: She has remained wrinkle-free for half a century, while I have not. I have tried just about every product known to woman to slow the inevitable decay of the flesh, but the wrinkles keep multiplying. When I was in my 30s, I believed by 50 I'd have moved beyond the superficial and not care what I look like. I also believed in my early 20s that nobody in their right mind would want to live beyond 30, when they would sell out and become part of "the establishment," so there you go.

It's not like 50 hasn't forced on me more practical concerns. I have to stretch every morning before I can stand upright. It's impossible to relax my hips in downward-facing dog while trying to clench my butt cheeks against my now-chronic flatulence. Even the sub-zero Minnesota winters can't cool my frequent hot flashes. But the wrinkles are what keep me up at night.

The first wrinkle treatment I tried was something I found in a book of natural beauty secrets. It had me heating a spoon under a hot water tap, dipping it in olive oil, and "ironing" my forehead and around my eyes and mouth. I was 19 and didn't have any wrinkles yet, but that didn't stop me. I started wearing sunglasses when Reagan became president, not because those Foster Grants made me look like a movie star, but because they would keep me from squinting, keeping the crow's feet from creeping in.

In the past 30 years or so I've been bamboozled, as my husband puts it, by every huckster selling anti-aging miracles. I'm a sucker for infomercials with celebrity endorsements of skin care lines that promise to restore that coveted youthful appearance. When channel surfing between PBS documentaries, if I land on such an infomercial, my husband switches channels and hides the remote and credit card. I have tried umpteen skin care lines, all touting their miracle ingredients: albumen from bird eggs, squalane from deep sea sharks, ionic stimulation, the miracle make-up secrets of the stars.

When I heard Paul Newman's secret to gorgeousness was washing with cold water, I incorporated that into my cleanse-tone-moisturize routine. I can't remember where or when I heard about facial exercises, contorting into all manner of convoluted expressions to firm and tone the skin and muscles of the face, but I do them while driving -- without shame. I take vitamin E daily. No, not to enhance my sex drive, but for the antioxidants that fight the free radicals lurking out there, invisible, gunning for my skin. There are antioxidants in red wine, too, so I make sure my diet contains plenty of that.

There are some things I won't do, though. One of my girlfriends uses tape to keep wrinkles at bay. She puts pieces of stiff brown packing tape between her brows and near the edge of her eyes to keep creases from forming there while she sleeps. OK, I admit I tried it once, but the tape just ended up on my pillow.

I know it boggles the mind that a reasonable woman would spend so much time and money combating the inevitable. Come to think of it, worrying about wrinkles is probably self-defeating. Not to mention the contradiction of a self-proclaimed feminist buying into the mainstream culture's obsession with youth and beauty as a valid measure of self worth. But I will not be deterred. Barbie knows the secret to vanquishing wrinkles, and, damn it, I'm going to find out what it is.

Hard Body, Yoga Mind

As an exercise fanatic, Shannon Leavitt has pushed herself to extreme tests of strength and endurance like long-distance cycling, triathlons and body-building. As a yoga instructor, she has incorporated strength training into her classes, calling the synthesis "YogaLift." With 20 years experience as a certified personal trainer, Leavitt knows the positive effects strength training has on bone density and metabolism.

At first, Leavitt worried that yogis wouldn't embrace weight lifting, but she feels her conscientious approach has convinced many of its merit. "Strength training is about noticing, honoring and becoming aware of your body," Leavitt says. But strength training alone can cause people to "get very tight and muscle bound." Leavitt believes that strength training is yogic, too: "Effort and letting go, this is the balance of yoga." Reaching out while grounding toward the earth, ascending and descending energy --these are common to both disciplines, she explains. "I can extend myself, but it's more effective because I'm grounded." This principle has practical application in our daily lives, where we can extend into the world, knowing we always have a safe place to come back to, Leavitt says.

Leavit begins and ends her classes with meditation, with roughly 40 minutes of hatha yoga and 10 minutes of strength training in between, focusing on correct posture. She believes in honoring the classic poses -- "our body weight is enough," she says -- and brings the weights our toward the end of class to work on muscles is the back, shoulder and arms that support good posture. Leavitt's theory is "Everyone needs to work on their posture. Most people have desk posture."

Leavitt now believes yoga is more about being than doing, but admits, "It took me a long time to notice that there was a spiritual component. I'm just beginning to understand how powerful that can be," she said. "We use the physical to teach us the emotional and spiritual. What do we need to be in touch with our spirit? we need balance. We need strength. We need tenacity. This is what's cool about yoga; it's conscious exercise."

A new day in America

Inauguration Day, Bar-style

January 20, 2009, was a momentus day for us all. About a week ago a friend from the Tavern said he was planning a little party at the Muddy Pig, and had convinced owner to open early enough for a small crowd of us to watch the inauguration. Since election night was somewhat anti-climactic for me, I was excited for the chance to proudly watch our new president be sworn into office in a more celebratory atmosphere. When those plans fell through, I started searching the web for other locations to watch where I might also enjoy the fellowship of joyful citizens. As of yesterday morning I thought I was going to be watching it at my desk when I received the Secrets of the City daily email with a list of the days events around town that included the notice that The Bulldog would open early for us anxious Nordeasters.

I approached the door at 10:35 and asked a staffer who was going back inside after her cigarette break if they were open. "Nah, but we're letting people in anyway. Just drinks, though, until 11:00." Inside, the place was sparsely populated with about 10 people, situated at tables and angled to best take advantage of one of the seven large, flat-screen tvs that circled the room. I pulled out a stool at the bar that was, so far, vacant. I exchanged some frets about not having enough quarters for the meter with the black man who entered behind me. We each got change, fed our respective meters, and then bellied up to the bar side by side. More people came through the door, filling up four-tops and bar stools. The man beside me said, "I hope you don't mind if I sit here next to you." I responded, "I'm glad you did. That's why I'm here. I didn't want to witness this alone." He introduced himself as Earl and apologized in advance for getting emotional. "If I start crying, don't think I'm a wimp. Don't be surprised if a few tears start falling down my face." I nodded and said I was feeling pretty choked up myself.

By the time the first and second families began to make their way through the adoring throngs to the podium where they would be sworn in, there were about three dozen people settling in, ordering drinks, and getting ready to toast the new administration. When Obama pledged to uphold the constitution, the bar was packed as a Friday happy hour . . . and dead silent.

The mostly white, mostly Gen x and Baby Boomer crowd remained quiet, rapt with attention and awe while Obama gave his inaugural address, applauding when our new president said things like, "Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America - they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics." The camera was turned on Bush at that moment, and I think I saw him slink down in his chair.

I don't think I heard ever word of the speech. My head was filled with the awesomeness of the ocassion and my heart was brimming with pride and joy and love and hope. Then came is closing words:

"So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]."

America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

The bar erupted in whoops and applause. Everyone raised their drinks and clinked their neighbors or held them up in a cheers gesture to folks not within their reach. Smiles and tears flowed in abundance. Then the normal hubbub of bar chatter took over as everyone turned away from the tv screens and engaged with their companions. A table of about 8-10 boomers with greying hair donned floppy red, white and blue Uncle Sam hats. Blue metallic pointed party hats appeared on other revelers, and I'm pretty sure I heard a noise-maker or two honk above the din.

A couple had taken seats at the bar to Earl's left. He introduced himself and found out that they had take the day off to celebrate the event. I asked the bartender, John, whether they were prepared for this many customers, if they were usually this busy on a Tuesday. He said, no, not on Tuesday. They had opened early on purpose but didn't really have enough staff. He said there were people waiting inside the empty bar when he arrived to get the bar set, the manager having let them in when she arrived much earlier. "Do you think most people are here to watch the inauguration?" I asked. "All of them," John said emphatically.

Some time later, when the Bush's stood waving on the stairs of the whirlybird that would whisk them from the White House lawn, the bar crowd huzzahed and hollered "good riddence" and let their own big middle finger birdies fly! John flashed a crooked grin and said, "I think that got a bigger reaction than Obama's speech!"

Opie

Meet Opie.

Opie is our new puppy, my first dog. I didn't think I was a dog person, but Mason convinced me otherwise.

Sometime after Mason left, we fostered a little pug, whom we called Betty. She was really sweet and funny and cute, and we really loved her, but I couldn't get my mind around having a dog full-time. But after 2 weeks the only reservation was that my neighbor and friend, Anne Marie, is highly allergic to animals. She can come into my house for short periods, but if we were to add a dog, she would not be able to come in at all. She was in a house with a dog and cat recently and her throat swelled up and she lost her voice for 2 weeks. Her allergist confirmed that it was allergy-related. So I was really torn about making a decision that would keep her out of my house permanently. I even had a talk with her about it on the day Betty went to meet a potential family, before I knew that was my last day with her. She just laughed and said, "of course you wouldn't base your decision on me" but that was really weighing heavily on me.



Once Betty was gone to her permanent home (with a new big sister, another pug named Emma, so that helped me to feel like it was the right thing), I missed her like crazy. I was literally pining for her for several weeks. During that time I was talking about her to another friend, who told me his mom had 2 pugs and, yes, they were all that sweet and cuddly. I think that's when the deal was sealed. I got online and started searching the rescue websites for a pug, and I found a pug-terrier cross. I emailed the foster mom and found out that he was calm and good with cats (which, I understand, most fostered dogs are), and she had me fill out a pre-adoption form. Then we went to meet him at a pet adoption event at the nearby PetCo. There were dozens of dogs and even more people crammed in their parkas and boots, filling up the joint. I found him immediately and we held him and walked around with him; he was quiet and still and didn't seem scared but probably was overwhelmed. And when Pat started crying at the sight of all those homeless dogs I knew I wasn't going to be leaving without Opie. Learning that Opie was found with another puppy in a recycling bin by the garbage of a "humane" didn't make it any easier to leave him behind.





BROTHERS

There's some conflicting information about his age. We heard 8-10 months, 3-4 months and 9-12 months. He just lost a baby tooth, so I guess that makes him young yet. But he is already neutered, has had most of his vaccinations, and we are trying to get him into a potty-training routing. Some luck with that, but also some "accidents." We are pretty happy with him, although it's still scarey to think about having all that responsibility. Cat's are so easy by comparison! I'm hoping that, with the terrier blood, he can avoid some -- if not all -- of the ailments that pugs are prone to.
Brothers

He sleeps a lot and is very cuddly, which from what I have read is a common pug trait. As he gets more comfortable with us he is getting more playful, too. He's already learned how to sit (for payment, of course). And when he was told repeatedly that he couldn't chew his rawhide on the couch he chose to leave it on the floor and chew on us instead. What a smart dog!

We've had him a little over a week now, and the rescue folks say they will be adjusting for up to 4 weeks. He hates being crated and cries and barks as I'm walking out the door in the morning, even though they also said that foster dogs are crated most of the day. I guess in a new home it all starts over for them.

Monday morning commute

This is the view from the new 35W bridge, which I cross everyday on my way to work.

This is our new ward.

We are fostering her for a while. We have been calling her Betty (Betty Boop). Betty is a sweetie, even Buster likes her, although he is a little resentful of all the attention she gets. They are about the same size, except that Buster weighs more (he's 15 pounds!) and Betty's head is bigger.



I've been online learning about the care and feeding of pugs. They are very sensitive dogs that cannot tolerate chills or heat above 80 degrees. They have delicate constitutions and are prone to all kinds of ailments, foremost among them breathing issues and obesity. Betty snuffles and huffs and wheezes and snorts and snores. The information I have been reading suggests that there is no way to avoid life-threatening or quality-of-life illnesses, which makes one wonder how the breed has survived these last several thousand years. They even require a special diet (Pat has refused to cook for the dog).




They sleep a lot, about as much as a cat, which is half of the day. But she gets very excited and squirrely when I walk through the door, and she loves her 4 or 5 short walks a day.


Who can resist?

My two cents

Yesterday on Talk of Nation, Neal Conan asked, "Where does the Republican party go from here?" The guests were Michael Gerson, ex-Bush speechwriter and current op-ed columnist for the Washington Post, Rick Santorum, who so famously had some human excretion named after him by gonzo sex-advice columnist Dan Savage (Santorum, the "frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex") and Tom Davis, whom I don't know a thing about except that according to what I read on Wikipedia he was probably considered the moderate of this panel.

They were going on and on about getting back to "conservative values" and puttin forth policies to match instead of fighting the culture wars with issues like abortion, and blaming Bush for being so unpopular that they were bound to be caught up in his sinking, stinking dragnet, blah, blah, blah.

I missed the first 10 or 15 mintues, but during the rest of the show NOBODY mentioned their complete abandonment of the concept of the "fair fight;" their Malcolm X-style politics of winning by any means necessary, using fear and smear tactics, voter disenfranchisement and purging voters from the rolls; their myopic loyalty to the party above all else, shredding many constitutional protections and the thorough politicization of the justice department being the most blatant examples.

I dialed and redialed and redialed only to receive multiple busy signals until the producer finally answered and said in rapidfire, "I'msorrywe'verunoutoftimethankyouforcalling, -- click."

Listening to John McCain's concession speech last week, I perceived a glimmer of the man who earned the nickname "Maverick," a man who, at times, has joined with Democrats to pass laws that were for the good of many instead of the few:

"My friends, we have — we have come to the end of a long journey. The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.

A little while ago, I had the honour of calling Senator Barack Obama to congratulate him.

(BOOING)

Please.

To congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love.

In a contest as long and difficult as this campaign has been, his success alone commands my respect for his ability and perseverance. But that he managed to do so by inspiring the hopes of so many millions of Americans who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving . . .

I urge all Americans ... I urge all Americans who supported me to join me in not just congratulating him, but offering our next president our good will and earnest effort to find ways to come together to find the necessary compromises to bridge our differences and help restore our prosperity, defend our security in a dangerous world, and leave our children and grandchildren a stronger, better country than we inherited.

Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that."

McCain's words that night reflect a sentiment I stupidly believed would convert all cynics, myself included. I said to my husband, "Maybe now the devil will give him back his soul."

Then last night I watched "Boogey Man: The Lee Atwater Story." Man, was that a powerful Frontline episode! Now I see where Rove got his dastardliness. Apparently he is a forefather of smear and fear politics and a mentor to Turd Blossom. I was too young or not paying attention to know about Atwater, but I do remember the Dukakis character assassination, the Willie Horton ad and the revolving door ad. He had the gall to not only deny manipulating white folks' fears of scarey black guys but also denied being behind the ads at all. Except that one of his friends and allies told Frontline that Atwater himself showed him an advance of the tape.

There is some question as to whether Atwater was sincere when he repented at the end of his life those mean-spirited and divisive acts when he developed a brain tumor that would eventually kill him. One guy said he began reading the Bible, and that one passage particularly haunted him suggested that the attainment of power through less than scupulous means was an empty achievement and comes at a high cost. Atwater wrote that, in the end, relationships, not power, are what's important. Apparently he sent letters of apology to anyone whom he thought he'd hurt, even Willie Horton. But another guy, in helping to clean out his stuff after his death, found Atwater's Bible still wrapped in the plastic it came in. He accused Atwater of spinning to the end.

Now that we can see light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel, assessing the legacy of such scorched earth tactics is important for Republicans if they are to move forward in the spirit of cooperation, reparation and renewal of our planet, our politics and our policies. With a few exceptions (Retired OK Congressman Mickey Edwards, who wrote in the Huffington Post earlier this year, "Republicans in the House and Senate (have) repeatedly humiliated themselves in their willingness to toss aside the most important elements of American constitutional government"), I don't hear many of them doing that. It doesn't seem like they have learned a thing.

Obsession

During the Halloween festivities of the past week I saw someone dressed as a pilot and remembered, HEY! I could wear my old flight attendant uniform next year! So I went home and went to the closet where I was sure I would find it. It wasn't there. I went to another closet, no sign of it.

We only have 3 closets, and I went through each of them twice. I searched my memory bank. I hadn't seen it in a long time. My husband of 14 years said he has never seen it. I decided I must have gotten rid of it in a fit of closet purging before we moved. But I was sure I would have kept my wings, so I went looking in every nook and cranny of my house.

I have pulled out and picked through every drawer, every box, every bag and satchel and found stuff I can't imagine ever needing again, but no wings.

I am gripped with nostalgia and longing for my Pan Am history, even though I haven't given it any thought for years. I'm going as a flight attendant next year if I have to create the costume from scratch.

So I went on ebay.

I know I'm late coming to this party but I've become completely obsessed. I have purchased two things from that site in the past but I did not bid for them, and this bidding thing is whole new drug.

When I got on the site on Tues, to distract me from the election fervor, I found a treasure trove of Pan Am memorabilia: posters, postcards, replica airplanes, ash trays, clocks, t-shirts, time tables, menus, advertisement reproductions.

I have so far bought 2 old ads and And replacement wings?

There was one set of the style of wings I wore - I was outbid. There are a couple of the metal ones that were given away to kids - I'm still in the running but have competition, so I'm "watching" those.Watching apparently means checking the website every 10 minutes even though the bidding doesn't end for another day.

I had to set up a separate "ebay" folder in my email inbox to track of my bids.

There are a couple of groovy scarves from the 70s - I'm also in the running for one of those.

My heart is racing, my breath is short and fast. I'm reviewing all the stuff on the watch list in my dreams. Which do I really want? How high am I willing to go? Or have I just gotten caught up in the fervor of competition? If this keeps up I'll have to check myself into treatment.

I've already bought 2 advertisement reproductions -- one with a beach scene of Impanima and the other and ad for in-flight movies -- and a blue Pan Am globe ornament.

The big ticket item? Original, mint condition wings from the 1960s. Yes, I bid on those, too. I'm out of control. My husband would freak, and I think I will too if I'm the winning bid, so I can't say how much.

I guess this is what political junkies do when they no longer have a campaign to occupy their attention.

UPDATE: I won the pin pictured above!! Next up: this scarf from the 70s uniform:

Halloween Memories

I had recently quit my flight attendant job with PanAm and was back working at Sweeney's full-time. I had bought a 1-bedroom condo (15-foot ceilings, walls painted turquoise and cranberry -- very hip) that was conveniently situated a block and a half away.

It was Halloween, I think it was a Friday, and it started snowing. I must have worked the lunch shift (odd) but I feel like it was around the time residents, in their cars, were returning to the neighborhood from their work day. Snow had started to pile up at least a foot. The then head cook, Duke, and I got bundled up in our parkas and Sorel boots and headed out to play in the storm that seemed to come out of nowhere.

We didn't know it at that moment, but that event would come to be known and remembered fondly as the Halloween Blizzard of 1991. A real "where were you when . . . ?" or "I survived the . . . " event.

The snow was heavy and clingy and cars were getting stuck, so Duke and I jumped in to help push a few out of their snow-bound ruts. The snow kept falling for most of the evening. Such circumstances are considered by neighbors and bar regulars occasions for drinking, so everyone within walking or snow-shoeing distance gathered at the bar to drink hot chocolate with Rumplemintz or some other ear-reddening beverage.

Sometime around midnight I decided it would be a good idea to get in my car and drive to Minneapolis to track down a lover who didn't have a phone, and got my own car (a late 70s Dodge Colt with a hole in the passenger-side floor) stuck on Lake of the Isles Parkway. It was dark and there was no other traffic, nobody around to help.

I eventually worked my car out of the rut and got myself home. Yes, I was sufficiently humiliated by the stupidity of my impetuousness (but equally proud of my winter driving skills).

The city was shut down for a few days. Nobody would get in their cars. Most of the neighborhood denizens were smug about being such hearty Nordic specimens and eager to hunker down and wait out the winter just like that. There was talk that the bar would run out of booze because the vendors would be unable to reach us to make deliveries. Since I lived so close, some of the Sweeney's gang spent the next couple nights on my floor.

But within days the possibility of being snowed in lost its charm. Eventually, the streets were cleared, life returned to normal, cars returned to the roads, and my ad-hoc roommates stopped showing up.

This morning, Mark Seeley, U of Mn climatologist and regular weather guru on MPR, had this to report:

"For many Minnesotans the most memorable Halloween was that of 1991 when a blizzard started and began to paralyze the state well into the first two days of November. At least 30 communities reported a snowfall of 20 inches or more from this storm, including a record 28.4 inches in the Twin Cities, and 36.9 inches at Duluth. A 180-mile stretch of Interstate 90 was closed as winds up to 60 mph produced snow drifts of 10 feet or higher. Snowfall intensity at times was equivalent to 2 inches per hour during the storm."

Fall Color

It's a beautiful if bittersweet time of year, when the colors are so vivid they break your heart wide open, and you realize they signal the coming of winter, when all color disappears.

Enjoy some random photos of our beautiful metropolis:

Once upon a time

Once upon a time in a land called St. Paul, a group of bar workers formed a group called the Vulcanettes. The Vulcanettes were an answer to the vulgar Vulcans, who, in their red jump suits, black&red capes and goggles, stormed through bars and parades during Winter Carnival, disrupting carnival events, getting drunk and smearing grease paint kisses on everyone in their path, willing or not.

The Vulcans were founded in 1886 as a legitimate group of the Winter Carnival, a foil to King Boreas, who is enchanted by the beauty and glory of winter. "The King of Fire.Vulcanus Rex is the TRUE KING of the St. Paul Winter Carnival. Vulcanus battles to end the cold of winter, and seeks to bring the warmth of summer back to the beautiful City of Saint Paul."

Anyway, in 1991 I was working at Sweeney's Saloon when the owner decided it would be fun -- and no doubt a good marketing tool -- to form a group of his own mischief-makers, whom he dubbed the Vulcanettes. He had a small van painted with the Vulcanette logo, outfitted about 10 of us in red satin jackets, capes and masks, and set us loose on the town.

Those were some fun times. I don't remember details -- it was an occasion for much drinking -- but I do recall storming into bars in a cacophony of screeching whistles and giving out candy to enraptured children on the sidelines of parade routes.

This weekend one of the girls on that original squad had a costume party. I pulled my old costume out of the closet and was surprised to find how easily it all came together. I figured she would be the only one who would know what I was dressed as, the only one to laugh, and I was right.

So here we are, 17 years later. Fellow Vulcanette Shamala is dressed as a Vikings cheerleader, "Roxie."

Tram City

I just submitted this to the Strib, but I'm posting it here to enlist the help of the universe and cyberspace to get it published!

"Help keep Melbourne a butt-free city" read the sign atop the tram from which we disembarked. The sign spoke directly to one of my pet peeves – litter – and to the growing awareness of our collective responsibility to tidy up the planet. Melbourne, in the southeastern corner of Australia, in the state of Victoria, is indeed a clean and amiable city, melding old world charm with a modern sensibility.

My husband, Patrick, and I had just arrived in Melbourne, Australia, after an 18-hour flight; we left LA on a Tuesday and somewhere over the Atlantic we jumped over Wednesday and landed in Thursday. I had been making and cancelling plans to come to Australia for over a decade, but I was hooked after reading the hilarious Bill Bryson’s “In a Sunburned Country.” Bryson wrote, “When finally I made my first trip Down Under . . . I was actually able to be astounded to find it there at all. I clearly recall standing on Collins Street in downtown Melbourne, so freshly arrived that I still smelled of (possibly even glistened from) the insecticide with which the flight attendants sprayed the plane before arrival, watching the clanging trams and swirl of humanity, and thinking ‘Good Lord, there’s a country here.’ It was as if I had privately discovered life on another planet, or a parallel universe where life was at once recognizably similar but entirely different.” Now that friends were living here on a work visa, I snatched the opportunity.

Our friends had a natty little apartment across from the boardwalk, on the wide mouth of Port Philip Bay, and, if you craned your neck just so, you could just see the masts of boats at St. Kilda Pier. They insisted we get out and walk and see the sights and try to stay awake until evening, so we decided we could handle a not-too-strenuous tour of Melbourne by tram. They lived two tram connections away from where the action was in the CBD (central business district); once there we would take the City Circle tram to the Victoria Market to get some souvenir shopping out of the way.

Melbourne came of age during the gold rush of the mid-1800s, right about the time Minnesota was becoming a state. I wasn’t expecting a western-style frontier town, but I wasn’t prepared for old Europe either. In the stupor of jetlag, I had the suspicion that we had bought tickets to Australia but the plane was diverted to the other side of the globe to, say, Antwerp. The Victorian gables, Italianate columns and the pointed arches and spires of neo-Gothic buildings blend into the skyline beside Art Deco and 20th century glass, cement and steel styles.

Melbourne’s population is about the same as the Twin Cities’, 3.8 million. The city is graced with lovely parks and gardens, wide boulevards, and a multitude of outdoor cafes and world-class restaurants, to which smartly-dressed Melburnians flock on their two-hour lunch breaks. In its heyday, Melbourne overshadowed Sydney in size and importance. To move all those important people, a tram system was built beginning in the 1880s. The present electric tram network, one of the largest in the world, makes up the core of the public transportation system in and around Melbourne.

Our tram to the CBD headed away from the harbor, squealed eastward around a corner park, and then ran along the center median of a wide boulevard. Modern glass office buildings swallowed and spit out suit-clad types with cell-phones pressed to their ears. Cars sped to and fro’ on either side of us – on the wrong side of the road – and, given our weariness, made me grateful I was not driving.

Because it was early June – the beginning of winter Down Under – the tourist count was as low as the sun; the days were short and the shadows long. It was jacket weather, high 60s, yet locals were clad in coats and scarves, and some even wore gloves. Walking to the next tram stop, the food stand Lord of the Fries caught my eye. French fries are my weakness, especially those “tossed with sea salt” so we stopped and ordered a cone-full. On the menu board there was a long list of sauces in which to dip the fries: “Belgian - our famous euro-mayo; Indian - spicy mango chutney, sour cream; Vietnamese - thick sweet chili mayo; Thai - golden satay sauce; Aussie - rich tomato sauce, vinegar; American - southern bbq sauce.” “American-style bbq sauce” was an everyday condiment here, as would learn, even as a topping for eggs.

We waited for the City Circle at a common Melbourne meeting place, “under the clocks” of the baroque Flinders Street Station. Built in the early 1900s, it is the oldest station in Australia and one of the busiest, a bustling hub where trains hustle passengers to and from the outer suburbs and beyond. Around the nape of the ornate, imposing bust of the station dangled the glistening Yarra River, bejeweled with glitzy shopping malls, elegant government buildings, a casino, and restaurants opening onto the quay.

The City Circle, which runs in a rectangle around the CBD, would take us past many of Melbourne’s notable locales, including the serene Fitzroy Gardens, to the largest open-air market in the southern hemisphere, the Queen Victoria Market. We planned to buy the obligatory souvenirs to bring home to family and friends. Along with T-shirts, hats and key chains embroidered with “Australia” or adorned with illustrations of kangaroos and koalas, we were also hoping to find a didgeridoo for a musician friend.

The Vic Market takes up 17 acres on the edge of the CBD. The market may be over 200 years old, having grown up along with Melbourne itself, but the electricity it uses is very 21^st century: the largest urban solar panel installation on this half of the globe was recently set up on the roof. The market and many city buildings use the power generated by those 1,328 solar-harvesting panels.

We bought the didgeridoo from a stall run by two Aboriginal men. The older, lankier man sported cowboy boots and an Elvis pompadour and claimed to be a singer/songwriter of country music. We declined the offer to buy his CD and asked to examine his collection of didgeridoos. He explained that the instruments, some of which look like a giant’s walking stick, are naturally hollowed out by termites before being carved and painted. To help us decide which one to buy, Elvis “played” a few of the didgis to demonstrate their unique tones, treating us to that eerie serenade that falls between a sustained hum and a groan.

Shopping made us hungry so we headed toward the deli stands. Our friends had recommended a particular ethnic lunch-time favorite, borek, a Turkish bread roll-up stuffed with a savory ground of lamb, cheese and spices. That’s what I decided on, while Pat chose a crusty French bread sandwich of bratwurst and onions. We sat in the sun at a ubiquitous sidewalk table and traded bites of our satisfying fare, quenching our thirst with cold beer. Erected near the curb was a six-feet-high glass wall, allowing us to feel a part of the bustling street scene without having to consume exhaust from the passing cars. Melbourne was treating us well so far.