Taking a Break

I am taking a break from blogging because I am starting to write a book. I should return in mid June. Hope you will check out this site then. M.

The Joy of Seeing My Leg

Last Friday I went to a new orthopedist and he took off my old cast and gave me a new removable cast. He also said that I could now put weight on my ankle as long as I use the walker. It is great to be able to walk again. Every thing seems to work better -- digestion, circulation, and mind-- just because I can remain in an upright position for part of the day. I can also go up the two stairs to the kitchen, which means I won't starve to death if left alone for several hours.

But the best part of this transformation is getting reacquainted with my left leg. I missed seeing it. When the removable cast is taken off, there it is, like a long lost friend. My foot skin is pealing, but my incisions are closed and there is only a minor atrophy of the calf muscles. I am due to start physical therapy soon, but in the meantime, I love letting the sun shine on my leg and wiggling my toes. My ankle is really stiff and painful to move or rotate, but at least it is attached to my foot at a normal angle again, and I am hopeful that one day I will be on the track again without Comet II.

The happiness of seeing my leg has led me to consider, that for a fat person, I quite like my body. First of all, on a practical level, it seems to work. I have borne children, breast fed them, carried them on my back for long distances, and, more recently, camped and swam in ice cold rivers with my grandchildren. On the aesthetic level, I have pretty feet, fairly unwrinkled decolletage for a sixty year old, and thick wavy hair that shines in the sun. I don't sunburn. My skin turns a toasty warm color in the summer. I could list all the negative things about me, but I won't. I think that fat people, like all people, should be happy with the good physical attributes they are fortunate enough to receive.

But being in a wheelchair and now a walker is not as positive an experience. I have adapted reasonably well to the physical limitations ( I attribute this to an innate ability to spend hours on the couch engrossed in house shows and sports on the tube). But the emotional side has been tough. At first I tried being stoic and cheerful, but this lead to my family assuming I could be left alone for hours on end. Eventually feelings of not being able to express feelings overwhelmed me and I had a cry day. This alerted my family that I needed more TLC. Hence, I have a rotating schedule of family care with breaks filled in by a wonderful neighbor of Rose and Mario, who visits frequently bringing a burst of energy and optimism with her. She is someone who has overcome obstacles through perseverance, courage, and super organizational skills. Her personality is just what the doctor ordered.

So now I am off to the shower where I will wash my leg and rinse it for a long time with a stream of hot water. I never realized what joy a limb could bring.

Recovering at Home

I am recovering at home after spending about 2 weeks in hotels so that our downstairs bathroom could be remodeled into a full bath that is handicapped accessible. Mario, my son-in-law, rounded up a crew of his friends from the construction industry, and produced a little jewel. It must be the world's most elegant small, handicapped bathroom. In my wheel chair, which I have named Comet II, in honor of my favorite childhood horse, I can roll right in and use the facilities without assistance, which is great, since I am dependent on others for just about everything else.

After my surgery, I was told to stay off my ankle for six weeks. Since I am too old and heavy to use crutches, I can choose between using a walker with which I can hop on my good leg about 15 feet before resting, or Comet II, in which I can, glide nimbly around the lower level of my house including the new bathroom. You can see why I am fond of Comet II.

For the first few days at home I slept on the couch in the family room, which was very comfortable, but a little lonely at night, with Joe snoring loudly in the comfort of our king size bed upstairs. Then the Contour Bed arrived. Purchased for small fortune, it is a king size marvel with two extra long twin mattresses on the bottom. Each mattress has a separate control which can lift electrically the head or foot, and give a very ineffective vibrating massage. So now Joe is downstairs with me. I have my feet elevated above my heart (to reduce swelling), and my head raised slightly to reduce acid reflux. The sixties are obviously a decade of multiple health problems for me.

Being in a wheel chair with a broken ankle is a very interesting experience. I am able to cope with the pain with deep breathing, relaxation, and, truth be told, the occasional percocet. But what really bugs me is the loss of privacy. Between Mario's crew, visiting well-wishers, the kids and grand kids, and Allyson and Joe, I am surrounded by people during my waking hours. This is very difficult because I usually spend part of each day alone, thinking and daydreaming.

The other upsetting issue is coping with loosing the fitness I have fought so hard to gain. For the first few weeks after the accident, I had trouble eating, but now my appetite, especially for sweets, has returned with full force and I am fighting to control it. My upper body is getting pretty strong from lifting my weight around, but my core and butt muscles are deteriorating. Tomorrow, if the weather is nice, I am hoping to take Comet II to the track and do some cardio work. In the meantime, I must go lie on the couch with my leg above my heart and watch HDTV.

Broken Ankle in Orlando

This time I have a really good excuse for not blogging. On Friday, in Orlando Fl., I slipped on a non moving outdoor escalator while it was raining and landed in a hurdle position. My right leg went to the front and was fine, but the foot on the back, left leg was turned at an unnatural angle and the ankle immediately swelled to twice its normal size. I managed to get both legs pointing forward and worked my way down each step on my butt until I sat at the bottom. There, several passerbys helped me to a patio chair while Joe got ice and Allyson stood at the top of the escalator so no one would start down and fall on top of me.

We called 911 and two very friendly paramedics arrived and took me by ambulance to Dr. Phillip's hospital. Dr. Phillips was not a MD, but rather an agronomist who owned huge orange groves, which he had the foresight to sell to local developers before the Florida citrus industry was destroyed by citrus greening and citrus rust. He donated quite a lot of money to build a very pretty modern, private hospital, which seemed extremely clean and quiet compared to those in the DC area. Everything was done efficiently. Miraculously, M.D.s appeared as soon as I asked for them, and mobile X-ray and ultrasound equipment came and went on a moment's notice.

In the emergency room, the hospital orthopedist appeared quickly to examine my X-rays and tell me that on a scale of to 1-1o, my ankjle injury was a 12. He said I would probably suffer complications including blood clots and infections and would need mulitple surgeries to correct the multiple breaks, and broken ligaments. I would never be the same again because arthritis would set in.

He asked me if I would like a pain shot which I gladly accepted, hoping it would help me deal with Dr. Optimism. I asked him a few questions, saying that I generally healed well and was sure I would be able to sustain, at least a diminished life style after many months of painful healing. I asked him if he was a Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeon. He said I was asking the wrong quesions, but replied that he was, and produced a card that said he specialized on the knee. I joked between holding back sobs that I hoped he could extend his expertise a little lower on the body. By this time, Joe was furious and wanted to punch him for making me cry. I composed myself enought to ask about the timing of the surgery. He said this was a much better question and that the next day would be best. With this I signed the surgical conset form and and the upbeat bone man left the room.

Various technicans and a charming cardiologist then appeared to asses if my general health was good enough for surgery. I haven't had time to blog about it, but I had my annual physical last week. All the results were good. My coleseterol was down to 200 and my fasting blood sugar was 98. I had lost, according to the Dr.'s records, lost 10 libs in the last five months. So, fortunately, my general health is good. Several of the technicians and nurses who were coming in and out asked how I was doing, and I replied not bad considering the terrible prognosis I just received from the orthopedist. The EKG technician replied "Oh, he was probably just in a bad mood. Sometimes we think he is bipolar."

I was admitted to the hospital and after a sleepless night, prepped for surgery the next afternoon. Looking back on this, I wonder why I trusted Dr. Positive with my life and limb. The best I can explain is that something in his demeanor made me like him. Intuitively, I thought he was a nice guy, who just wanted to make sure I didn't go through life blaming HIM for my bum ankle. Or at the very worst he was trying to paint a bleak picture so I wouldn't be surprised with a bad result from surgery and and sue him. In short, I thought he was sensitive to criticism.

My surgery went well and Dr. Death was in a much better mood when I awoke. I only needed one plate and a few screws, and may not require another surgery he opined. I had a much better outcome than he had originally thought possible.

While I was leaving the hospital on Sunday night he dropped by to sign my discharge papers. "So, what do you think ?" I asked. "Will it be three or six months until I am more or less recovered? "

"I tell good looking patients like you three months," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh," I said grabbing his hand, "aren't you quite the charmer. Thank you so much for being such a good doctor and putting me back together."

"Well, you were a wonderful patient," he murmured as he waved and disappeared out the hospital room door.

The Snow Ball Effect

It has been a long time since I have written and I blame the snow. Since I returned from Miami we have had two gigantic snow storms and several mild ones. This is the snowiest winter in Washington DC history, and even now, several weeks after the last big storm, huge piles of dirty, plowed snow line the streets and hamper walking. All the high school jogging tracks are still covered. I guess clearing them is the last thing the beleaguered school system is concerned about.

My reaction to being snowed- in was normal. At first I enjoyed the snugly log cabin feeling of a roaring fire, and the camaraderie with Joe and Allyson, since none of us could leave the house. We never lost electric power, but Rose and her family, and Tami (Joe's sister) and her family took refuge with us when their power went out. We have a four wheel drive, so we were able to pick them up even though Tami and her family had to wade through waist deep snow to a main road since their street was impassable. It was great to have a full house. We all baked. Allyson made lemon meringue pie, Rose made her famous mince pie, and I made chocolate chip cookies "for the kids."

The snowed clear a bit. Rose's and Tami's power went back on, and they went home. We made a grocery store run, and then the second storm struck. It was a real blizzard with howling wind and blowing drifts. We dug out again. The second time it was a lot less fun. Thankfully it turns out that Allyson and Joe are both quite efficient with a snow shovel. I did a minimal amount of shoveling and made my self useful by scraping off the car and pouring warm water on the windows to help defrost them. Aside from this activity, I did absolutely no exercise during the storms and continued to eat whatever I felt like eating. As the second storm lingered, I began to feel lethargic and penned-in. Finally, when the main roads were opened, I took the grandchildren skiing, two hours from here in southern Pennsylvania. There, I walked around the snowy resort and got my first fresh air in days. It improved my mood, but not my eating habits. Since I no longer ski, I made myself comfortable in the lodge's Starbucks and sipped endless hot chocolates with whipped cream and non-fat lattes while eating cinnamon rolls and brownies. (Don't ask me why I even bothered with the nonfat part of the lattes.)

Since I staked out a table with a couch in Starbucks for the most of the day, a steady stream of strangers, who were taking a break from skiing, asked me if they could share my table. They all seemed eager to talk. I guess big snow storms make people feel sociable. My first table mate was Steve, a friendly computer guy, who's wife was on bed rest expecting their second child. I heard the very sad tale of how they had lost their first son because he was born extremely prematurely. We bonded over tales of bed rest and anxiety, as I told him about the troubles my daughters had had with their pregnancies. Steve was very happy to meet Kenny and Lawrence who came bounding in periodically for snack money, all pink cheeked and the picture of health. I think their presence helped Steve believe a little bit more that all might end well with his wife's second pregnancy. We are in e-mail contact and I am eagerly awaiting for news of the birth of their daughter, whom they plan to name Sophia.

Steve went back out for a few runs and my conversation with my next table mate seemed normal enough until she blithely told me, " I have a dead dog in my car." My eyes shot up from the book I was trying to read and I was all ears. It seems her beloved, huge (part Great Dane) mutt had had a seizure the night before and had died before they could get him to the vet. She and her husband struggled to get the 100 plus pound seizing beast into the back of their station wagon, when he expired. She called her vet and asked if they could bring the dog's body in to have him cremated, but the vet 's office was closed for a few days due to the snow storm. After discussing the pros and cons of removing the dog's body, they decided it would be OK to leave it in the car since it was so cold outside. That morning her husband was able to dig out and go to work in their other car. She was overcome with sadness and decided to cheer herself up by going skiing. So she drove the station wagon with the dog's stiff, straight-legged body to the ski resort and parked it in the parking lot.

My immediate reaction was to be concerned that a parking lot attendant might spot the body and assume that some negligent pet owner had left a live animal in the car and it had frozen to death. But she assured me that she had covered him with his favorite blanket. After skiing she planned to drive over to an open space near Gettysburg, so he could visit, one last time, the field where he loved to run.

After the ski adventures, things have gradually started to return to normal. The kids are finally back in school and both Allyson and Joe have returned to work. But, my eating habits have not changed, and I have consumed a whole box of Girl Scout thin mints, purchased from Gabriela, and a half of a very good carrot cake, purchased from Kenny's school fund raiser. Fortunately, the school misplaced the banana cream pie I also ordered. (If it is in the school building, I assume they will find it when it starts to smell.)

I have, however, returned to exercise, even though it means walking up and down hills in my neighborhood on the street because lots of the side walks are still not cleared. I am stretching to get the kinks out from the hours I have spent on the couch watching the Olympics. It is great to be retired since I can stay up watching until after midnight every night and then sleep in each morning. During previous Olympics, I had to call in sick some days due to sleep deprivation.

So now, like most Washingtonians, I can't wait for Spring. I want to start jogging again, and hope my healthy eating habits will fall back into place too. It is about time for my annual physical, the first since my retirement, and I am hoping that, despite my many setbacks, I am healthier than last year. I certainly feel a lot better.

Swimming and Yoga

I have just returned from a mini holiday in Miami with Joe. We stayed in the Eden Roc hotel. I would recommend this hotel to anyone, but be sure to ask for a room in the new Ocean Tower, where every room faces the incredible ocean. I love Miami Beach primarily because of the color of the water. It is light turquoise and really feels like you are in the Caribbean. Even a few miles north in Fort Lauderdale, the water begins to turn blue gray, foreshadowing the blah color it will be when it reaches the shores of Maryland or points further north. The Eden Roc has four swimming polls that are kept at 88 degrees. I can imagine that in the summer months this might seem a bit warm, but in January it is heavenly.

In Maryland, we are having an unusually snowy winter. My wonderful daughter Rose agreed to house sit and care for our dogs, while we were gone. (Allyson was at her daughter's house because her granddaughter, Genevieve, was having a successful tonsillectomy). Joe kept taking photos from our balcony and e-mailing them home, until we got a message from the snowed-in Rose, "DO NOT SEND ANY MORE PHOTOS." Poor Rose suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder, so the photos of sunshine and water were just too much for her.

I made full use of all the warm water the hotel could offer. Each day I spent at least two hours submerged, swimming, and doing water walking forward, sideways, and backward. I stretched in the water and was incredibly limber because my joints were toasty warm. The odd thing for me is that when I am exercising in warm water, I totally loose track of time. Every other type of exercise makes me count the seconds until I can stop, but in the pool hours pass without me noticing. I think I enter a meditative-type state in which a lot of the conscious functions of my brain, including anxiety and the Executive Center function, finally shut off. It feels so good to be without thoughts, and only feel the water pressure against my body. I need to go to hot places frequently so I can enter this state of mind regularly.

When we got home there were several inches of new snow on the ground. I tired to go to the track with the boys before taking them to swim practice, but it had not been cleared and was covered with snow and ice. At home, Allyson suggested that we try yoga. Molly, Allyson's daughter, gave me a beginning yoga CD for Christmas. After struggling with three remote controls ( how I hate electronics), we managed to get it going. We selected the first section, "Poses." Although the two people on the CD were moving very slowly and calmly explaining the common mistakes people make in the beginning poses, I had a hard time doing the standing positions. My feet cramped and my legs shook, and I had to take frequent breaks. It is not only my weight that makes standing poses difficult, it is because my legs and feet naturally "turn-out" from the hip down and form a perfect first position for ballet class. I think they must have been molded in this position from all the horseback riding and ballet I did as a kid. So it is extremely uncomfortable for me to stand with my feet facing forward in a parallel position.

I did the best that I could, while complaining loudly to Allyson who ignored me, as she followed along with the CD with relative ease. Fortunately, the teacher on the CD began to show floor positions, and with gravity on my side, I did much better. I have a very straight back when I sit in on the floor and I can do most of the bending with ease. I did notice the right side of my spine, where I have osteo-arthritis is less flexible than my left, but other than that I did quite well. The CD ended with the teachers guiding us through several relaxation poses and guided breathing exercises. The room was quiet and the light was dim, and I found these very restful. When the CD ended, Allyson and I looked at each other and smiled. It had been a really good experience for both of us and we felt accomplished, relaxed and a little tingly in a good way. So now I am not only a jogger, I can also do yoga. Who knows what I will learn next?

Back on the Track

Since I have returned home, I have been struggling to get back on track with my exercise and healthy eating. Yesterday I decided to try bribing myself. I made along list of things that I would like to have or do, and I told myself I could pick one, if I stayed on program for a week. Apparently this worked because yesterday and today, my eating has moderated, and I have started exercising again. Yesterday I stretched for a block and a half and then walked for half a block. Last night I didn't sleep well. Just this much exercise (40 minutes) had boosted by mood to the point of near mania. I went out to dinner and to the movie, It's Complicated, with Allyson. (Brief review: Although the semen line and the scene where they show up stoned at the engagement party were funny, if I had the Meryl Streep character's house and garden in Santa Barbara, I would be so entranced I wouldn't give Alec Baldwin, or God forbid Steve Martin, a second look). Then I was up until 1:00 AM (this is unheard of, I'm a morning person.) I cleaned out my purse, organized my receipts from my trips, wrote two thank you notes, and made hotel reservations for our next trip to Miami. I wasn't the least bit tired, but I made myself go to bed. I tossed and turned all night. Exercise has this effect on me, at least for the first few days. It makes me extremely energetic. I also have been eating extremely well, thanks to Allyson who keeps preparing healthy snacks for me.

Today I awoke at seven to take care of my granddaughter, Gabriela, since Joe is still out of town. (He usually likes to do this except for combing the tangles out of her hair). After I got her off to school, I crashed on the couch until 11:00 AM. This did not leave me with much time to do the deeds I set forth for today: (1) clean up the kitchen and put away everything on my counter tops to create a smooth work surface 2). re-pot my bonsai jade tree in the container I bought in San Francisco (3) set up the paper white bulbs I received for Christmas, (4) pick up Kenny and Lawrence from school and take them to swim practice ( 5) walk for at least

two exercise blocks, and (6) write about it in my blog. Believe it or not, I finished this list. My kitchen looks the way I like it, and the sun room/conservatory has two new inhabitants. The little jade tree is very pretty, if I do say so myself.

I squeezed the two blocks of walking in between picking up the boys and dropping them at the pool. This was Allyson's idea and it worked like a charm. The high school track near the boy's house was open! This really cheered me up because I much prefer walking on a track to walking on terrain that goes up and down. The first time around the track my Achilles tendons were tight and my legs felt very heavy, but they got lighter the longer I stayed with it. The boys jogged and did crunches in the infield and I kept moving because, although partially sunny, it was cold. By the way, everyone in Northern California kept quizzing me about the weather here and asking how I can stand it, but I have to say I saw the sun only twice during my two weeks in the San Francisco Bay area. O.K., it is cold here, but at least the sun shines fairly regularly in the winter, and things are not deeply and constantly moist like they are on the north coast of California.

As I was enjoying the sunshine on my face as a turned the corner for the finish line on my second lap on the track, I had the urge to jog. So I did for 32 strides. For reasons unknown, even to me, I chose to count the jogging as four sets of 8 strides. I could feel my knees and lower back strain under my weight, but I finished the first set of 32 strides and nothing seemed out of place body-wise. I was not even breathing heavily. So I walked about a sixteenth of a mile more and tried the thirty two strides of jogging again. This time it actually felt OK, and not scary at all. By the time I finished my workout I had jogged 32 strides four times. It is amazing how much faster you go around the track when you jog instead of walk. I felt like I was going at warp speed.

And why was I able to do this today and not before? Because, while I was in California, I forgot to buy planetarium tickets at the Lawrence Hall of Science, and we only had three minutes until the show, so I jogged back to the main entrance, bought the tickets and jogged back (on a concrete floor no less) and absolutely nothing went wrong with my body. So there you have it. I am a jogger! And I have been eating well all day. I hope I can keep this up and win my price next Monday.

Inactive Pie Eating in California

I am in California, helping my oldest daughter, Sophie, with her three little ones while she is between au'pairs. Before I launch into my lack of progress on the eating and exercise front, I would like to lay claim to starting the fad of naming little American girls Sophia/Sophie. My Sophie is 39 years old and at the time Joe and I named her, I truly was unaware of anyone under the age of 70 in the U.S. that shared that name. My Sophie (full name Sophia) is the essence of the name, with dark chestnut curls framing a beautiful heart-shaped, pink-cheeked face. She has dark skin, which shocked me when she was born, because I come from a family where most babies are blond and pale. To complete this perfect archetype of a Sophia, my Sophie has beautiful deep blue eyes, and voluptuous, womanly body. Once, when Sophie was about a year old, Joe and I stopped to get gas, and the gas station attendant spotted Sophie in her car seat, and said, "Your marriage must have been made in heaven, because your daughter looks like an angel. " When my Sophie was about 8 or 9, Bette Midler named her daughter Sophie, and started a trend that could be analysed as a model in social networking. This year Sophia/Sophie is one of the top five most popular baby girl names in the U.S. I guess I shouldn't mind, but it bothers me when I hear a mom call her blond, straight-haired daughter Sophie. And now my two other beautiful daughters' names--Lillian /Lilly and Rose/Rosie are becoming popular too. What is a mother to do?

So I am now in Northern California helping the original Sophie and her handsome Italian husband, Federico, with my beautiful, smart, and funny grandkids. I had hoped this would be the occasion for me to get back on track with exercise, but it has been unusually cold and depressingly gray ever since I arrived. Today I discovered a high school track nearby, and a patch of blue sky appeared sheepishly overhead for about 15 minutes right before sunset, so maybe tomorrow will be the day. I also really need to stretch too because this damp, Bay Area fog gets in between my vertebrae and deposits shooting pains and miserable twitches.

Despite some half-hearted efforts, my eating has also not recovered from Christmas excesses. Three days ago, I went to the local World Market and they had my favorite Christmas treat--British deep-filled (Joe once misread the label and berated me for eating "deep-fried" pies, as if the real butter crusts weren't bad enough) mini mince-meat pies on sale for 75% off. I once met a woman who told me she lived near the factory in Britain that makes these little wonders, and she said that the whole town smelled wonderfully of simmering raisins, citrus and brandy.

I bought ONLY one box of 6 and put it on top of Sophie's refrigerator along with the other goodies she keeps out of the kids' reach. No one but me knows it is there. Now, every time I go to her house, I eat just one. But one mini pie is enough to throw off my blood sugar, and make me crave sweets throughout the day, so I am also consuming the occasional organic, biorythmically produced, compostable (I am in Marin County) double-decker ice-cream cone, or three to six pieces of personally-selected See's candy. So when will I stop this self destructive behavior? In three days, when those yummy little pies are gone.

New York Blocks

I have just returned from three nights in New York to celebrate Allyson's 62nd birthday. We walked and walked and walked. One day I was on my feet for over five hours. That is 15 exercise blocks in my system. There is no way I could have done this before I started my program. So it seems that even though I have not been doing any exercise blocks lately, I have a residual level of fitness that is remaining.

The Bolt bus took seven hours. It was the Sunday after Christmas and there was bumper to bumper traffic from the southern border of New Jersey all the way through the Holland tunnel. We were sitting in the front seats, across the aisle from each other, among a group of middle age travelers. It appears the young and hip go to the back of the bus and immediately plug into their electronic devices. We entertained ourselves with lively discussions, at first with the woman New Yorker to Allyson's right. The conversation centered on saving money at Christmas by shopping for bargains throughout the year. I affirmed that I would be on the look out for cool stocking stuffers for Christmas 2010 during this trip. Allyson mentioned re-gifting the body lotion I had given her because the scent of gardenia was way too strong. With this, the lesbian couple just behind her abruptly entered the conversation, "We quite like gardenia," the woman on the aisle said with a heavy British accent.

We saw five very intriguing museums in three days: the Museo del Barrio, the Guggenheim, the Neue Gallery, the Hispanic Society of America Museum, and the Frick. We used the bus system to go up town to Spanish Harlem and loved looking out the the window onto the city sidewalks and store windows as we crept along. We met a professional window dresser looking for work in an ill-conceived Hallmark Store, who claimed he had done the Christmas windows in Bloomingdales and Barneys. As the bus inched by we got a good look at his work, a disturbingly macabre, Victorian view of the holidays. I missed miniature trains and Santa's foot appearing and disappearing up a chimney.

Allyson is a professor of Spanish and Latin American Studies, so our visit delved into Spanish and Latin American culture with an intensity that I would not have been able to generate on my own. The most unusual place we visited was the Hispanic Society of America Museum with its imposing statue of El Cid in the central courtyard. The wind chill was nine degrees and our leg joints barely worked as we attempted to cross Broadway at west 155th. We thought the gallery door was locked because the wind made it so difficult to open, but a doorman suddenly pulled it open from within. He guided us to a large cloak room which was furnished with amazing Spanish antiques and hung with a fascinating group of Spanish and Latin American paintings. The art immobilized us before we even had a chance to begin to unwrap our layers of protective clothing. Allyson, who is cold even on a mild day, was either suffering from hypothermia or dumbstruck by the art because she was rendered speechless for the first 15 minutes of our visit.

We used the rest room which was down a winding narrow staircase paneled, as is the rest of the museum, in rich hardwood. It was a huge, cavernous room, with a single, modern, metal toilet stall in one corner and an old, shallow, washtub type sink in the opposite corner. Along one wall was a large, pragmatic wooden dining table, with brochures including one for a Spanish language children's theater. Upstairs, the wood-lined galleries were packed with treasures from Spain and Latin America, all displayed in dim light in rooms with a feel of the 1700s. Everything smelled of mothballs or some other type of wood preservative. The collection, which was put together by the philanthropist, Archer Milton Huntington, was assembled with one aim -- to collect pieces that are in anyway connected to Spain or the Spanish language. Allyson and I were some of the few viewers, so we got personal attention from a women seated in a dim corner selling booklets and postcards in the most casual style imaginable for a public institution. When we asked for specific information she rummaged around in a dark, tall closet behind her only to extract the most beautiful booklets and facsimiles of the fantastic works on display. The museum has some Goya masterpieces, but my favorite is a painting by Velasquez, painted in 1644. It is a painting of a young girl that looked as if she could walk off the canvas into the 21st century.

We also saw the Kandinsky retrospective at the Guggenheim, which was well worth the hour line which snaked around the block in the bitter cold. The sheer quantity and intensity of Kandinsky's work and its display in the building he helped inspire was mind blowing. After an hour of slowing circling upward with my headphones, dutifully listening to narration and contemporaneous classical music composed in no key, I felt as if my brain was pleading for a rest from too many neural firings, not to mention that my legs were begging for a rest, burning from exertion. We retreated to the wonderful restaurant on the main floor where, remarkably, there was no wait to sit at the common table. We were surrounded by Italian visitors, who agreed with us that the food was exquisite. I savored the baked parsnip and cauliflower soup with a string of port. Hats off to the chef, whomever she/he may be.

Now I am home and feel as if I can walk anywhere. If I ever feel stymied by walking blocks again, I will just hop a train to New York.