Dancing for the Health of It

Last Thursday afternoon, I left home late in the afternoon feeling besieged by deadlines, denials and disheartening news. Rode two buses to Pacific Heights. Walked into dance class completely in my head, all sensations of the body fully blocked – not a comfortable place.

Dance class was exactly where I needed to be.

I needed to dance, to whirl and stretch and twirl my way through the dimly lit room, past the wooden shelves that hold rolled and folded yoga mats and blankets displayed like bolts of colorful fabric, past the windows that reveal calla lilies blooming in the healing garden just outside, past the words of wisdom painted on the pale green walls.

I needed to dance among the other women in the class, women whose names I do not know but women who every Thursday danced away the cares of their day, first conjuring up personal disappointment, delight and everything in between -- and then shaking it all off to begin anew.

I needed to experience once again what I had dubbed the “kinesthetic touchless car wash,” where the dancers send waves of energy and affirmation toward one person in the middle of a circle. We took turns, of course, and everyone moved out of the circle reinvigorated.

I needed so very much to get out of my head, to return to inhabiting my entire body again.

Thursday was the last night of an eight-week class at the Institute for Health & Healing called 5Rhythms®, a remarkable “movement meditation” that encourages freestyle dancing to music that embodies the following five rhythms, or “states of being,” as founder Gabrielle Roth describes them:

FLOWING – the fluid, continuous, grounded glide of our own movements

STACCATO – the percussive, pulsing beat that shapes us a thousand different ways

CHAOS – the rhythm of letting go, releasing into the catalytic wildness of our dance that can never be planned or repeated

LYRICAL – the rhythm of trance, where the weight of self-consciousness dissolves, where we lighten up and disappear into our own uniqueness

STILLNESS – the quiet emptiness, where gentle movements rise and fall, start and end, in a field of silence

 

Some 245 teachers are registered to teach 5Rhythms, and it seems as though that is not enough. Here’s a remark I overheard the first night of class: “A friend of mine on the East Coast has to drive three hours to take a 5Rhythmns class offered just once a month, but here in San Francisco, you can find a class five nights a week.”

So it’s popular. Before I signed up, I was assured that anyone of any age, size, or physical ability could be in the class. “Do we dance together?” I asked. I had to ask. I can’t count, so I can’t dance as part of an ensemble. Trust me on this. Once, three decades ago, a professional dancer spent hours over the course of several weeks, trying to help me count the beat so I could dance in a show. I ended up with a solo.

The IHH brochure spells it all out: “There are no steps to follow, no choreography to learn, no way to do it wrong. The only requirement is a body that is still breathing, a heart that is still beating, and mind that is still curious!” So after a free sample class that left me exhilarated and exhausted, I signed up.

The remarkable Sylvie Minot teaches the class at IHH (see www.cpmc.org/services/ihh/classes/5rhythms.html), and she incorporates Caroline Myss' energy anatomy work into the 5Rhythms movement practice. Sylvie recommends the class for “anyone who would like to increase their physical and emotional health, joy, vitality, and overall well-being.” Among the benefits are stress relief, improved physical fitness and emotional health.

Roth, who founded 5Rhythms in the 1970s, says you “put the body in motion in order to still the mind.” Thursday, it worked.

Anyone for Cocktails?

Running for a bus about 10 days ago, it hit me: This is how I am spending the cocktail hour of my life.

That marvelous phrase is not original. Ken Page, the personable actor and cabaret performer, said it some years ago at the Kevin Kline Awards show in reference to his own life. I embraced the phrase and ran with it – yes, sometimes for the bus.

“The cocktail hour” – how “Mad Men,” how decadent, how glamorous. Taken literally, the phrase conjures up images of a welcome transition between the rigors of full-time work and the free evening yet to come. 

Listen, and you can hear the clink of martini glasses (thank you, John Carney) and see the gleam of the burnished wood on the bar. Or maybe the cocktail is something frothy and tropical (thank you, Baja Discovery), enjoyed in a beach chair. Perhaps it’s a sip or two of a Negroni (thank you, Ross) before beginning preparations before dinner.

In my life, a literal cocktail hour takes place once a month when I join friends (thank you Susan, Judy and Denise) on the night of the full moon for an extravagant alcoholic beverage and lively conversation. We also order a burger or crab cakes -- or both -- to share, along with salty truffle fries. Some nights, we get to watch the sun slide into the sea (thank you, Cliff House), and we always look forward to finding the moon later in the night sky. Still, the highlight of the event is reading the elaborate descriptions in the bar menu, choosing just the right cocktail and anticipating that first taste.

The figurative nature of "the cocktail hour" fits my life perfectly -- all the time, not just once a month. Sitting on that bus, not even out of breath after running, I settled in and looked at the other riders. I saw many different kinds of people, as that’s one of San Francisco’s strengths. I saw young people, and in their faces I could see what they will look like when they are old. I saw old people, and in their faces I could see what they had looked like when they were young.

At one point, I saw my own face reflected in the window across from where I sat. I saw me as I am, but I also saw me as younger and as older. I smiled at my reflection. “I look good,” I thought. "I'm so happy to be right here, right now." Then I began to consider exactly how I am spending this, the cocktail hour of my life.

The most important moments right now are those when I hold a baby, a baby I seemingly have waited my whole life to meet. He is my grandson, a huge source of joy for his entire family. Right now, my sense is that he thinks of me as a friendly, soft, overstuffed chair. One day when I was holding him as he slept, I said to my daughter-in-law, “This is what I want to be when I grow up, this is what I want to do.”  She smiled and pointed out that I what I want to be is exactly what I am – a baby holder, and so happy to be just that.

I spend time with my extended family, which is always a pleasure. I work a little, or a lot if deadlines require it, and then it’s right back to a little. From my living room window, I watch ships of all sorts come in and go out of San Francisco Bay, and when I can't see them, I listen to the mournful fog horns. I hang out in familiar neighborhoods and I explore neighborhoods new to me, popping in and out of stores, sampling restaurants and relaxing in coffee shops. I ride the streetcar to the beach and meander along the edge of the continent.

Usually, I work out three times a week and go for walks other days – unless it’s cold and rainy, and then I stay in, drink hot tea and read. One of my hobbies is checking in with the Social Security benefits calculator, to try to determine when to claim what’s mine.I go the theater, I visit museums and walk around the zoo. I take biscuits to the dog that works at the insurance company on the corner.

Of course I keep up with friends in St. Louis. I’ve even gone to four or five parties there, via Skype. It’s always great to spend time with the Five Favorite Female Friends. They put the laptop in the middle of the table at the home of the hostess and I sit at my desk. We all nibble on snacks and enjoy drinks while we talk, just as we have done for decades. I also send cards to cheer people on (thinking of you, Bryan), to express heartfelt sympathy (thinking of you, Ann) and to check in (thinking of you, Elliot). 

I make time to go play when friends come to town, which happens often. Gail was just here for four days. We went whale watching, toured Half Moon Bay, shopped at a flea market, visited seven tee-shirt shops and downed Irish coffees at the Buena Vista. Judy and Scott stopped for brunch Monday, on their way from Las Vegas to Portland. Michael is here now, and we’ll get together early next week.

And I do literally run for buses, the buses that take me just about anywhere I want to go. I’m so good at this now that usually I can quickly figure which of the three or four routes I prefer to take to get home from any neighborhood. True, riding the bus takes more time than driving, but I never have to worry about wacky traffic or finding a place to park.

Besides, I have the time, here in the remarkable cocktail hour of my life.

       

Smile -- You're in a Giants Commercial!

About 400 San Francisco Giants fans showed up Friday at AT&T Park dressed in orange, dressed in black and dressed in orange and black. One man sported a 7-inch high Mohawk; a young boy wore a shorter version, dyed orange. Another fan arrived in a black Wolverine costume festooned with touches of orange. One sported an orange jumpsuit, complete with matching hat, covered in Giants themes.

Beards were on display in great abundance (like the Mohawks, an homage to closer Brian Wilson) -- foam beards, fuzzy beards pasted on or held on with straps and even posters of beards, with cutouts for faces. One man sported an authentic Wilson-style beard. The parents of a three-year-old boy drew a beard on his chubby face. A few fans painted their faces the appropriate colors, including a mom and her four-year-old daughter, who sported orange and black paint “masks.”

Some fans wore orange wigs, panda hats or black feather boas. Others carried rally towels, foam fingers and signs extolling the virtues of individual players. Pre-teen girls from a school soccer team arrived in their own game jerseys but carried Giants ensembles, ready for a quick change. A dozen or so 20-somethings brought their cleavage, framed in low-cut, scoop-necked tee shirts; still others wore short black shorts and tight orange tube tops.

Anticipating a chilly wind off McCovey Cove, I dressed in layers: A black camisole, a long-sleeved black tee under a short-sleeved orange Lou Seal tee, a black hoodie with the orange “SF” logo, an orange neck scarf, a black fleece jacket, long johns under black pants, black socks under orange socks and my black Mary Jane shoes, which showed off those fuzzy socks. I wore my Giants earrings, and carried my Giants ball cap.

All of us, from that bearded little boy to the elderly woman with a walker, showed up at the stadium at 8:30 a.m. Throughout the day, the production team moved us from section to section, occasionally pulling out individuals but mainly concentrating on crowd shots. We all were there because we had answered a casting call, applying for the privilege of appearing in a Giants commercial. Here is what I wrote on my application:

“A lifelong Cardinals fan, I committed post-season treason after moving here from St. Louis in the summer of 2010, trading my extensive Redbirds wardrobe for all things Giant. I cheered the team on to the ultimate victory that year, attended Opening Day (Giants v. Cards on April 8, 2011), wore orange and black all season long (three tees, two hats, one sweatshirt, socks, earrings and a tote bag) and remain an avid Giants fan to this day. Friends share tickets with me for some games; most of them I watch on television. Timmy, Matt Cain, Buster, The Beard, Pablo Sandoval, even Lou Seal -- we're family now, and I am eager for the 2012 season to begin. I love baseball and I love the Giants -- of course I belong in a commercial!”

What I didn’t say is how reluctantly I embraced wearing orange and black. Oh, I had to change teams – you must love the one you’re with, or at least watch the baseball that airs on the channel where you live. But orange and black are my high school’s colors, and though I made some good friends there, I don’t have much good to say about the school. These days, it’s a cliché to hate high school, but at the time, we were always being told that high school represented the best years of our lives. I hoped that was a big lie -- and it was. 

Anyway, the producers liked what I wrote and invited me to the stadium. Some 600 people took part in filming on Thursday, and some of those fans came back Friday for more. Chatting with us newbies in the stands, they told us to expect a light lunch at 2, they told us to expect stars to be plucked from among us and they told us that Thursday’s session had lasted until after dark, ending close to 8 p.m.

What did we do all day? Keeping our eye on one particular guy on the field as the camera rolled, we clapped, we squealed, we cheered, we hooted, and we went crazy as instructed with various cues. When the member of the production staff with a megaphone first called out, “Look at home plate,” the woman in front of me stopped everything with her questions: “Who’s batting? What’s the score?” We all rolled our eyes and booed her, if only silently. Method actors!

For hours we were at it, pretending to be at the old ball game throughout the day. We all noticed how difficult it is to shout and wave your arms and hop about for three or four minutes at a time – especially for three or four takes. During a real game, everything happens quickly. Filming television commercials, not so much. They fed us about 12:30 or 1, handing out hot dogs, sodas and small bags of peanuts to everyone there. (“That was a twelve-dollar lunch,” my bus driver quipped later.) Then it was back to work.

At mid-afternoon, a handful of actual Giants – Tim Lincecum, Brian Wilson, Buster Posey and Matt Cain among them -- came out on the field and ran through warm-up exercises. We hooted and howled and a couple of them waved at us. The producers suggested that the players might come over and say “hi,” later but the folks who spent the day at the ballpark on Thursday said not to count on that.

Each time we were asked to move, I grabbed an aisle seat, so I was in several shots, including close-ups. I don't know how the footage will be edited, of course, but I may well end up in a Giants commercial or two. Still, that’s not the only reason I went. This week, someone tried (and failed) to break into my building and on Thursday a small moving van crashed into my parked car. I needed to escape for a day.

About 2:30 p.m., when the crowd had dwindled to about 125 people, I decided I’d had enough. Walking out past the palm trees, I said to myself, “Back to real life.” Then I laughed. Because apparently spending a day at AT&T Park shooting a Giants commercial is part of my real life -- and that rocks.

 

Miles and Miles of Smiles

How’s the baby? What’s new with Milo? Tell me Milo stories! That’s all I hear from my friends these days, and the questions make me smile.

Who wouldn’t want to talk about a three-week old grandson?

I tell everyone Milo is fine, settling in, helping his parents figure out what they are doing and what he needs, when he needs it. Mostly, of course, he eats and sleeps and makes those soft, endearing baby noises. Sometimes, of course, Milo cries. All babies do, and all you can do is pick them up and love them and hope the crying stops.

I also tell everyone that my role in Milo’s life right now is mostly to grin at him, either when I hold him and rock him in my grandmother’s golden oak rocker or when someone else holds him. Sometimes, Milo grins back, but mostly he dozes or relaxes. Hey, he’s only three weeks old!

Yesterday, when I was sitting next to Milo’s mom, grinning at him as he slept in her arms, she asked if I wanted to hold him for a few minutes before I had to leave. “I want to hold him for years,” I said. But he was settled in, so I let him continue to sleep in his mother’s arms, where he looked so cozy and happy.

Milo and I will have years to snuggle. I just know it.    

Heck, I knew a baby was on the way before I got the call on July 13. Eight days earlier, on my way to a Giants’ game on the streetcar, I was sitting across from a pretty red-haired woman holding a baby girl. I smiled at the woman. She smiled back. When I turned away, I had a strong impression, just a picture in my mind, a sunlit image of a little boy walking in between my daughter-in-law and son. They were all holding hands and smiling. The image was so real that it looked like a photograph.  

That was a heads-up from the wee one, I am certain.

After I got the official call on July 13, I sat at my desk, grinning. My mind was racing and every cell in my body was thrilled. A grandchild – my opportunity to pay back my kind and loving grandmothers and also to make the most of an experience my own mother wanted badly and missed. At the age of 58, my mother retired from her government job and enrolled in college, her way of preparing to be a better grandmother. Four months later, before I became pregnant, my mother died.

I have shared the experience with Carol and Beth and other friends. But now it would be my turn to be a grandmother – and oh what a grandmother I planned to be! Someone like Auntie Mame, always up for an adventure, but also a protector and defender and confidante. I couldn’t wait!

Fast forward to 11 a.m. on Saturday, January 7. I called my daughter-in-law to see when she might be available for some pampering. Susan -- her mom and my dear friend – and I had offered take the mom-to-be out for a pedicure. The phone rang and rang. The silence was louder than it should have been, but I ignored it. At first.

I started working on some newspaper story assignments. Suddenly I raced off to vacuum the bedroom. Then I ran downstairs to throw in a load of laundry. There, I ran into my landlord, grandfather of five. I told him I was jumpy and somehow deeply intent on cleaning everything right this minute. “You’re nesting,” he said, and we laughed.

Running up the stairs from the laundry room, I shivered. “He’s coming,” I thought. “The baby is  coming today.”

I went back to writing, and tidied up the apartment in between paragraphs. A few minutes before 3 p.m., I sent a text to my son saying I was cleaning like crazy and wondering if the baby was coming. He wrote back that contractions were underway!

I knew to say no more. I also realized that with first babies, sometimes contractions stop after they start. But four and half hours later, the call came – the parents-to-be were at the hospital. Just after midnight, another call: “We have a baby,” my son said.

That was just three weeks ago today. I am completely besotted with this little baby, and ever since he was born, I’ve been smiling all the time. Smiling when I am with Milo, smiling when I think about him and smiling when I look at the photo of him on my refrigerator door.

And of course I smile when asked about him, so ask away!

Memories of Plane Crash Still Vivid

Thirty years ago today, a plane hit the side of a bridge over the Potomac River and slid down into the icy water. Seventy-four people on the plane died. Only four were pulled to safety.

I was in an airport van on the opposite side of the bridge when it happened.

I was trying to get to the airport to fly home after attending a conference in Washington, D.C. The van also carried several pilots, all of whom were predicting an airport shutdown because of poor visibility and the icy sleet that was falling.

  

Sitting in traffic in that van, we heard on the radio that a plane had hit the 14^th Street Bridge. One woman screamed, “We are on that bridge!” We had not seen the plane or felt the impact on the opposite side. As we inched along in the van, we did see people on the other side leaping out of their cars and throwing their coats into the water. We saw emergency vehicles stuck in traffic. We saw military helicopters flying in.

Once across the bridge, I asked the driver to let me out of the van. There was no point in going to the airport -- the radio announcer had already said it was closed. No one else seemed inclined to leave the van, but I insisted that the driver get my suitcase and let me out.

I slogged up a hill through the ice and snow and walked into a hotel. I tried to get a room, but was told the hotel was fully booked. I walked into the bar and ordered a shot of Jameson's, straight up. A man sat down next to me, leered and offered to let me sleep in his hotel room.

I slid off the bar stool and went to the bank of telephones, where there was a line. “Phone service is spotty,” said a woman whose call went through and then was cut off. When I got a phone, I called a man I had met at the conference, a man who worked in Washington as a lobbyist for the educational consortium my company was part of. I asked what he thought I should do. He told me to head back to my hotel in the city, that he would call and get my room back.

Next, I asked at the front desk where to catch the Metro. The desk clerk told me there had been an accident on the Metro -- that it was closed. I asked the clerk to call a cab for me. “A cab?” he said. “There will be no cabs, not with the airport and the bridge closed. And now the roads are closing, because of the ice storm.”

I went out the front door of the hotel, ready to walk back to my hotel. Suddenly a lone cab pulled up. The driver rolled down the window and said a name to me, a name I didn’t hear clearly, so I did not respond. The hotel doorman looked at me and said to the driver, "This is your passenger." He opened the door and I got in. It was just after dusk. Every tree branch was covered in ice. I remember driving past the Iwo Jima statue, which also was coated in ice.  

Back at my hotel, I couldn’t stop crying. I called a psychologist who had edited a book I had worked on for my company. I told him I had turned on the TV, where newscasters were pondering how long a person plunged into an icy river could survive. The psychologist told me to turn off the TV, find a co-worker and get something to eat, to sit and talk quietly in the presence of another human being, to breathe. I called the front desk and found a co-worker still at the hotel, someone I did not know well. We ate in the dining room. We talked about John Waters' movies.

Overnight, the power went out in the hotel, so there was no food the next morning and no hot water for a shower. I found another co-worker at a nearby hotel, and went there to clean up. Then we went to the airport together, to head back to St. Louis. As we flew directly over the crash site, I remember that every person on board paid careful attention to the flight attendant’s patter about emergency exits.

When my plane landed in St. Louis, I took a taxi straight to the Post-Dispatch. The editors knew me, as I had done some freelance work for them over the years. I told my story, and the editor let me write a first-person account, originally scheduled to run alongside the main piece by the paper's Washington bureau chief. My story never appeared -- but it helped to write it.

Writing this helps, too. I was 33 years old on January 13, 1982. I will never forget riding in an airport van when a plane hit the 14^th Street Bridge and slid down into the icy waters of the Potomac River.

You can read about the crash here:

www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/the-buzz/post/air-florida-crash-washington-post-coverage-from-jan-14-1982/2012/01/12/gIQAVta5tP_blog.html

Banishing Regrets Before the New Year

I forgive me for not saving more money.

I forgive me for not losing more weight.

I forgive me for not going to the gym as often as I intended.

I also forgive me for spending time playing Scrabble on line, watching “Mad Men” reruns and staring at coral, burnt orange and purple sunsets over the water instead of lobbying to cure cancer, reading important books and occupying anything much more than my apartment.

That feels good! 

I am ushering in the new year in the spirit of forgiveness. Instead of burdening myself with prissy promises that I may or may not keep in 2012, I have decided to banish all regrets, past and present.

You know that song, “Let It Snow?” I’m singing, “Let It Go.” This is not a new song. In water aerobics class, for years my friend Bernice and I used to grouse first and then call out, “Let It Go,” stirring up a froth of highly chlorinated water at the same time. Our displeasures, our disappointments, our regrets -- out with all of them, all at once. Gone, down the pool drain.

Regrets keep us stuck in the past, wishing we could rewrite bad behavior, or at least edit it enough to make it look better when we remember it. Just as there is no broom big enough to sweep up debris accumulating in the future, there is no way to redo, undo or whoop-de-doo the past, so what’s the point?

This New Year’s Eve, I plan to forgive myself for all the unwise decisions I have made in the past – many of which I have forgotten -- and I plan to forgive myself for all the unwise decisions I made not that long ago, those that I remember clearly. Among them:

·      Bought a beautiful woven jacket that hardly ever makes it out of the closet because I rarely go anywhere that calls for beautiful jackets.

·      Ate not one but TWO malasadas (Portuguese stuffed doughnuts) in Hawaii and two days later I devoured a piece of passion fruit cheesecake on a crust made from macadamia nuts and dark chocolate.

·      Aimed to go the gym at least three days a week and then – often after putting on my gym clothes – still didn’t get there much more than twice a week.

I committed other transgressions as well, some of which had nothing to do with money or food or exercise, yet these are the ones that loom largest for many of us on the last day of the year.

It’s okay. I forgive me.

In 2012, I will recognize my standards of personal perfection as goals rather than realities. Then I will work toward those goals at my usual well-intentioned (if sometimes unsteady) pace, and carry on.

Knowing me, I will also buy an item or two that I don’t need but do want, eat the occasional outstanding dessert, play Scrabble, watch “Mad Men” (the new season starts in March!) and stare at breathtaking sunsets. And that’s okay.

You can play too. Forgive yourself -- and let it go. Then welcome 2012!

Highlights from a Whirlwind Hawaiian Trip

Swimming with spinner dolphins. Sipping a lilikoi (passionfruit) margarita. Relaxing in an immense lava rock pond filled with warm seawater. Falling asleep to the sounds of the coqui frogs and rain on the roof. Getting another look at the mesmerizing Kilauea, the most active volcano on the planet. Tasting guacamole made from avocados grown on the farm where the restaurant sits. Speaking with a green sea turtle on a black sand beach.

All that made my vacation on the Big Island of Hawaii spectacular – that and laughing every day with Peggy, an old friend from high school who works as a doctor in Pahoa, a small town south of Hilo. Every day was an adventure full of scenic vistas, wildlife sightings, terrific food and a chance to see the Big Island through the eyes of a local. This blog post hits the highlights, categorized for your reading convenience.

FAUNA. On a snorkeling trip with Sunlight on Water (www.sunlightonwater.com), we saw one “early arrival” humpback whale that breached by way of greeting and then moved on. We also snorkeled with spinner dolphins and manta rays, and got a close look at five endangered pygmy killer whales. Later in the week, two nene geese (the state bird of Hawaii) showed up exactly 750 yards from a roadside sign that promised just that. We also saw wild turkeys, that huge green sea turtle, one lone mongoose, northern cardinals (though no sign of expat Pujols), Brazilian cardinals with bright red heads and peahens likely of some quail species. We didn't see but certainly heard the coquis, small frogs that live in clusters of up to 20,000 per acre.

FLORA. Gorgeous flowers are abundant on parts of the island, and Peggy’s yard is full of tropical fruit trees. We also visited the Akatsu Orchid Gardens (www.akatsuorchid.com), which sells 50 natural species and 1,500 hybrids – and yet that accounts for less than half of one percent of all the orchids in the world! At the Hawaiian Vanilla Company (www.hawaiianvanilla.com) -- the only commercial vanilla farm in the U.S. – we learned that the orchid that produces vanilla blooms just once a year for four hours and must be hand-pollinated. A single bean goes for $11, and no wonder! The flowers are epiphytic, or in the words of a farmer, “They just lie there and live.”

WATER. My favorite place to be is below sea level – well, usually. The snorkeling trip involved lots of popping in and out of the water, but a couple days later Peggy and I spent over 90 minutes languishing at the Hot Pond near her home. (See    www.hawaiiweb.com/hawaii/html/beaches/ahalanui_park.html) This was a relief after a visit to a beach on Waialea Bay on the Kohala Coast, where the waves knocked me over and dumped me unceremoniously on the beach. Unfortunately, Peggy has photos…

OTHER NATURAL ATTRACTIONS. Volcanoes National Park -- home to Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess – is one of my favorite places on Earth, and our visit did not disappoint. (See http://hvo.wr.usgs.gov/kilauea/) One day, we spotted snow at the summit of Mauna Kea, some 14,000 feet above sea level. We also admired great views from a ridge overlooking Na’alehu, we saw a rainbow that ramped up into a double rainbow after leaving the rowdy waves and many birds at Waialea Beach, and the lava fields on the island are remarkable any time of day.

FOOD. Peggy’s hometown is known for great food, and we visited numerous other areas for island specialties as well, some recommended by my friend Joe, who visits the Big Island often. Highlights included taro “pancrepes” (one savory, one sweet) at U-Top-It, Big Myke’s blackened mahi BLT at Kaleo’s in Pahoa, malasadas (Portuguese doughnuts, filled or frosted) at Punalu’u Bake Shop in Na’alehu, POG juice (passionfruit, orange and guava) at Ken’s in Hilo, pulled pork at the Maku’u Farmers Market, a veggie stir fry at Sukothai in Pahoa, a fresh ginger cookie from the coffee shop in Haw’i and (last but nowhere near least) the lilikoi cheesecake on a macadamia and chocolate crust at Café Pesto in Hilo. We also popped in at Big Island Candies (www.bigislandcandies.com) to pick up some macadamia nut shortbread dipped in dark chocolate. Breakfasts of fresh papaya topped with yogurt and vanilla-flavored granola on Peggy’s lanai (it runs the length of her house) also rocked, as did my first tastes of rambutans and persimmons.

DRINK. That lilkoi margarita (Peggy calls it an “alcoholic slushie”) at Kaleo’s was outstanding, as was the aromatic vanilla lemonade at the Hawaiian Vanilla Company. Another great treat was the frozen Pacific Passion smoothie at What’s Shakin’ in Pepeekeo, north of Hilo overlooking Oleamu Bay. The drink is made from fruit grown on the farm – banana, papaya, guava – plus apple and pineapple juice. To go with that smoothie, we feasted on the best guacamole I’ve ever tasted. The macadamia nut honey wine at the Volcano Winery (www.volcanowinery.com/) went down easily, and we enjoyed a sip of Volcano Red, made from pinot grapes blended with jaboticaba berries. (What a fun word!)

SHOPPING. Did you know that Macy’s in Hilo sells muumuus? So does Sears! Shopping was not on the agenda for this trip, but we did stop at Hawaiian Arts in Hilo, where three years ago I bought a beautiful tie-dyed shirt. This time, I bought two shirts – one with Hawaiian petroglyphs ($5!) and one with a great octopus graphic that wraps around the shirt.

Home just three days now, most of all I miss the tantalizing aromas at the vanilla farm and the malasada bakery – and of course, Peggy’s terrific company and that of her cat, Pahoehoe, named for a form of smooth lava. What a great trip!