Nestled smack dab in the center of idyllic downtown Sonoma (which is nestled smack dab in the middle of the Napa Valley/Wine Country) you'll find a smattering of mom and pop stores, original restaurants, high-end homeware shoppes and cute clothing sellers. You'll also find a piece of California's history - Mission San Francisco Solano.

Wikipedia says this about Sonoma's mission:

The mission was built by the Mexican authorities as a barrier to Russia's attempts to extend control to the federal territory of Alta California.^[8] During the years the Mission was active, General Mariano Vallejo resided in town. He was tasked with monitoring the activities of Russia at their nearby settlement of Fort Ross (krepost' rus'), and with establishing peaceful relations with the Native Americans of the region.^[9] Vallejo helped to build the town of Sonoma and even paid for the rebuilding of the small Mission chapel. There were always soldiers and settlers in the town of Sonoma during the Mexican period. The Franciscan Fathers grew grapes and produced sacramental wine from the first vineyard in the Sonoma Valley, which was first planted in 1825. By 1834, Vallejo had the Rancho Petaluma Adobe built a few miles to the west, which became a large agricultural operation to support the Spanish military here.^[10] By 1839, the Mission was in ruins and unoccupied. Through the years the Mission saw many different uses, among these a blacksmith's shop, a barn, and even a storeroom. In 1846, white American settlers took over the town in what has come to be known as the "Bear Flag Revolt." It was during this time that the Mission was sold to a man who used the chapel entrance as a saloon and stored his liquor and hay in the chapel. The Mission eventually became a parish church serving the Pueblo and Sonoma Valley until it was sold to a private interest in 1882. In 1903, the California Historic Landmarks League bought the remains of Mission San Francisco Solano. Restoration was completed in 1913. The restored chapel burned in 1970. Today, the Mission is part of the Sonoma State Historic Park.


Photo and history blurb from:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mission_San_Francisco_de_Solano

If you were to visit dowtown Sonoma and Mission San Francisco Solano today (and I highly recommend you do!) it would look a little something like this:










Entrance fee to view the mission and garrison = $3.00 US. Cost of Admission also includes admission to Lachryma Montis, the historic home of General Mariano Vallejo.

This is the 12th and final (maybe) calendar graphic in the series! I'll be ordering my Calendar in the next few days. Can't wait to see the finished, printed product!

New York City



"I go to Paris, I go to London, I go to Rome, and I always say, 'There's no place like New York. It's the most exciting city in the world now. That's the way it is. That's it."

-Robert DeNiro

Have you ever had an experience with the Coconut Express?

Have you even heard of the Coconut Express?  

If not, I'll 'splain. The term comes from island communities, the tropical type, with a very active gossip chain. Tropical island/coconut trees + gossip = Coconut Express. Its' not just any gossip chain. It's THE COCONUT EXPRESS. I mean, the speed at which information travels on this train is amazing. Even before the days of texting and cell phones, information could make it's way around small, remote islands in a flash. 

The Coconut Express can work to your detriment, or, in my case, one day on the Greek isle of Kos, to your benefit:
 --
Sometimes the wishes of the travel gods are just not aligned with the wishes of us mere mortals. 

Sometimes you've just gotta go with it.

A two-mile walk from my hotel to the harbor (on the hottest, muggiest morning of the season) in Bodrum earlier that morning, followed by a ferry ride from Turkey to Greece and a second two-mile-long walk from the harbor to the bus depot (all while carrying too much luggage) had left me exhausted.

*I could* have opted for a cab to take me to my hotel from the port area, but when I asked the price my jaw dropped and stubborn economization set in. 37 Euro! 

So I walked to the bus depot. I'd arrived at the correct bus stop only to discover that buses to my destination on Kos only ran twice per day. The first bus had run two hours prior. The next wasn't scheduled for several more hours.

Hot, drippy, sweaty, thirsty exhaustion planted me firmly onto a bench outside of the depot in the shade. Impeding dehydration drove me to stand and walk 20 yards to a nearby refreshment vendor and purchase two bottles of water. After downing the first and half of the second in a few gulps, my stubborn streak had subsided and I was ready to find a taxi and pay the outrageous sum of 37 Euro to have a driver deliver me to my hotel's doorstep.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. And I was about to come to terms with the fact the I may need to shlup myself and my belongings back to the harbor and it's taxi stand.

And then a sleek, silver Mercedes approached with a yellow taxi sign atop it. It drove down the narrow, one-way street in my direction, but I could see that it was already carrying a passenger.

Knowing that Kos was an island, and knowing that nothing is better or more efficient on islands than the proverbial Coconut Express, (Greek Isles lacking coconuts, I wonder what the equivalent is in Greece?) I stood and waved at the driver, who looked at me and drove by, shaking his head and motioning to the passengers in the back. I nodded back to him and then sat down again on my bench in the shade.

I was certain I'd have a cab within five minutes. Coconut Express Style.

And I was not disappointed, as another silver Mercedes (All of the cabs in the Greek Isles are Mercedes) pulled up and stopped in front of me within minutes. The driver hopped out, opened my door and stowed my bags in the trunk as I crawled into the air conditioned, black leather lined oasis.

"You waved at another cab?" He asked, trying to figure out what must have been an unsual thing.

"Yes I did. Thank you for coming to pick me up."

"My friend, he called me to tell me to come here. He was already busy." His English was quite good, barely broken by his Greek accent.

"Yes." I smiled and nodded. "Can you take me to such and such hotel?

"Certainly."

It was a 30-minute ride across the island to my hotel, which I hadn't known when booking. (My choices while booking were limited by mileage award availability - yup, booked this stay with airline miles.)

But the conversation that ensued illustrated perfectly the difference in culture between the country I'd just left, and the place I was now. An hour ferry ride and a shift in basic attitude toward life, love, women and liberty.

Turkey to Greece. Ultra conservatism (but still VERY liberal in comparison to other Muslim countries I've visited) versus very Mediterranean attitude.

Looking back, I enjoyed both places. But I was much more comfortable in Greece. I am a Californian after all. Liberal coastal place/Mediterranean, they're somewhat similar in some respects.

"How did you like Turkey?" Asked my very curious, very helpful, quasi-flirty middle-aged Greek driver.

"I liked it very much. But I am happy to be in Greece and able to walk the streets without a headscarf."

"You will have no problems with that here. The Turks, they are too somber. We Greeks are passionate! You travel alone? You have no boyfriend? You will have a good time here."

I just had to laugh. Because while I was more comfortable with the Greek mentality, my own beliefs lean much more toward ultra conservatism.

I gave the driver his 37 Euro and a hefty tip for a great, informative, entertaining ride and lovely air conditioning.

Yes, I would have a good time on Kos.

Long live the Coconut Express!


--
Photos of my hotels in Bodrum, and in Kos. Yes, I know the hotels are two entirely different classes, but the stark difference between the two places rather perfectly describes in two photos the difference between Turkey and Greece (for me).

What is it that I really want to say in this post? And how on earth do I express it in a clear, concise way that will be understood?

The sad truth is, I know, it won't be understood by those who simply don't want to understand it. This is not a self-congratulatory article. It's an exploration, using various, personal life experiences to help illustrate a point.

--

These thoughts have been rolling around in my head for some time and were recently refreshed when a guy I went to High School with recently posted this gem as his Facebook status, one of his more mildly phrased status updates, actually:

"I'm from the V-A-Double-L-E-J-O H-I-Double-L SIDE Tho! Spittin straight game is all a nikka know and ahh, (They be like, there they go to the liquer sto!)"

Reading things like that genuinely makes me sad for the people who are proud to be part of a failing society. Spelling and grammar aside, what kind of a life is that? To "Spit game and go to a liquor store"? What does that even mean? Apparently it's an entire lifestyle unto itself, being from Vallejo and "having game" and partying. And WHAT ELSE? Doesn't that seem a bit vapid? Empty? Vacuous? Self-defeating? Anyone else want to add another synonym?

Yes. I am from Vallejo too. 

Vallejo, California. (Have I mentioned that it's the city in California that went Bankrupt a couple of years ago?)

I lived there until the age of seventeen. I didn't know until after my family had moved from that blessed city, that it has a reputation for being one of the roughest, most "ghetto" cities in the US, akin to Richmond and Oakland in Northern California. Maybe you haven't heard of Vallejo... yet. Disney hasn't made a kid-beats-the-odds-and-soars-out-of-danger/poverty/crime/makes it big film about a kid from Vallejo yet. YET. 

Now that I have a bit of perspective about the place, having lived out of it's confines for longer than the number of years within, let me tell you about my experience growing up in Vallejo.

My family were considered somewhat upper-crust in Vallejo, being comfortably middle-class. My father was a visible and respected member of society. I grew up as a part of a minority: I was a white girl in a city where white people were scarce. 

Vallejo is a very diverse city: Filipino and Asians of all backgrounds, Mexicans and African Americans all outnumber Caucasians, which mostly wasn't an issue unless someone made it an issue. In fact, I enjoyed being surrounded by such diversity. I lived in one of the better 'hoods in Vallejo, and even then, most kids in my neighborhood simply didn't play outside. There were too many kidnappings, shootings, assaults and too much terror and danger in general. It drove parents to wrangle their children into the confines of the living room/TV/NES. I lived for the summers when my Mother would pack me, my brother and sister up and take us to our Grandmother's farm in Virginia, where we could run around barefoot and play in the woods and have mud fights and be kids.

I worked hard in school. And I had parents that worked hard for me. I was given great opportunities and excelled in school system that was, at the time, on par for California, but today is considered a high-risk district with a drop-out rate of more than 50%. 

For all but one year in Vallejo, I went to Public School. I never felt unsafe walking among classmates who were dealing drugs openly; who showed me the guns they had concealed in their over-sized jackets and pants. I made it a point to get along with everyone. That all changed one day in Middle School when I was walking with two friends to catch a ride the rest of the way home, across town. One of the two boys was walking a few steps behind me and he was accosted by some kids from our school: punched and then stabbed with a needle. For months, he went into the hospital for tests and blood work to make sure that he hadn't contracted AIDS or other STDs from the attack. 

That was "the last straw" for my parents, the next year I was enrolled into a private Baptist school where I faced a different type of hostility: religious. I only went there a year, finding it somewhat ridiculous to be paying to go to a High School taught by "Christians" who screamed at me during classes that I would be going to hell because I was a member of a "Cult," and others who broke ties with me after hanging out with me for MONTHS when they found out I was Mormon. I went back to Public school the next year because, having my druthers, I'd rather face an open, random beating than a private, psychological attack by a pack of hypocrites who ought to have been friends. (To be fair, not everyone was horrid, I still talk to a few friends I made during that year.)

Now as I look back I can see how much the people around me affected me. I listened to Rap and Hip Hop and liked it. I wore baggy clothing and dark lipstick. Later it was all replaced with punk, corduroys, v-neck sweaters and a wallet-on-a-chain when I began hanging out with a skateboarding crowd.

Months before my senior year began, my family moved to North Idaho. I didn't graduate from High School with the kids I grew up with. And to be honest, though I benefited immensely in one regard (beginning my international travel career because of switching schools), I can't say it was a great year. I traded a culturally diverse (if not cultured) school for one that was 99.9% Caucasian. I traded being surrounded by "thugs" to being surrounded by preppy, rifle-toting future back-woods wife-beaters whose parents threw them bonfired-keggers in the sticks. Was it better? Jury's out. I'm on the fence. 

It was different. 

And maybe that's all it needed to be. Neither of those worlds are ones I'd choose to return to. To each their own.

These days I drive around my comfortably upper-middle class, culturally diverse yuppie town listening mostly to Classical or Country music. My clothing is conservative and casual. I love walking around the town I live in. It is full of walking trails and sparkly twinkle lights and high-end shopping and friendly people who aren't afraid to smile and say hello to a stranger because they don't have to be.

I'm not trying to imply that money is the difference in these worlds. There was more money in Northern Idaho than in Vallejo and I wasn't comfortable there. Money doesn't automatically mean good things, but it can mean more opportunity. Perhaps the difference is a cultivated, carefully preserved society that cares and volunteers and works to keep their environment up to their standards of living. Sure, there also happens to be a lot of money in the area I live in. And many, many, many very well-educated people. So maybe the real key here is education. And heart. And money well-spent on the "right" things. (I leave it to you to figure out what those things are.)

What's the point of all of this?

No matter where you are, there will always be people who are willfully stagnant; who revel in plateauing and wallow in the misery caused by the oppressive hand of ignorance.

It may be just dumb luck, or perhaps the hard work and sacrifice and persistence of my parents and others, or maybe it was inspired. But I now know a life and environs completely opposite to those that I was raised in.  I now know that just because I don't know about something or somewhere doesn't make it the only thing immediately available to me, ie: "Spittin straight game is all a nikka know".

And most importantly, I know that giving into my fears is the only thing that can really, truly keep me down, or keep me from leaving the mentality represented, for me, by a place like Vallejo–where crime and hate and gross ignorance run most of the streets. 

For me, as much as I would never choose to live again in that city, Vallejo brings to mind some wonderful times, places and people. There are still WONDERFUL people there who are active citizens and are doing amazing things with their lives. But there are enough people who choose live in the poverty and violence and fear and filth there, that those things are what has given that city it's reputation. Your world is what you make of it. Vallejo shaped and molded me as a youth and made me compassionate, curious, culturally aware, strong and unyielding. Mostly, being from Vallejo gave me the gift of wanting something better for the life ahead of me. And that's a fairly major gift.

Break free of the fear that would hold you back and push you down. All that you know doesn't have to be.

San Simeon, California/Hearst Castle


“My buildings will be my legacy... they will speak for me long after I'm gone."
Julia Morgan
(Architect of Hearst Castle)

Lachryma Montis is the home General Guadalupe Vallejo built in Sonoma, California between 1851-1852. The name of the place means Tears of the Mountain, which refers to a natural spring that originates on the property.

General Vallejo rose to power in the Mexican army, and was granted land in the region. When California became part of the United States, General Vallejo proved his allegiance to his new country and became involved in US politics. He was a pivotal figure in Northern California during the state's early history. Later, a city not far from Sonoma was named after him. (Vallejo)

His lovely home is open for touring for $3 US. The price of admission to Lachryma Montis also includes admission to the nearby (walking distance) Sonoma Mission.









 

Places visited while in Turkey in 7 days:
-Istanbul
-Izmir
-Kusadasi
-Ephesus
-Bodrum
(Click city names above for links to articles/reviews)

Places visited I'd return to:
-Istanbul
-Ephesus
-Bodrum


Places in Turkey I wish I'd had more time to visit:
-Cappadocia (Land of Cave hotels, amazing rock formations and hot air balloons)






-Olympos (check out this GREAT article on BBC.com/Lonley Planet about little-known Olympos)
Stay in a treehouse on the coast!


-Kas, where you can sea-kayak over an ancient sunken city


-Pammukele - I daydream of relaxing in these amazing hot springs:



Other Tips for Turkey:
-Book your own flights and side-journeys. There are a ton of travel agencies and hotels that will offer to book you a trip to Cappadocia or the like. It's hit and miss. You may end up with a good tour. Or you may get ripped off. I'd say the odds of getting ripped off are about 80%. Yah. Check out TripAdvisor to find good hotels and book your own travel and accommodations so you can do what you want, the way you want.  If you just want to join a group, then by all means, book a packaged tour.

-Americans like to tie up odds and ends like bus tickets and ferry tickets in advance, via the internet. Booking travel in advance via the web simply isn't available for Turkey like it is in the states. Don't worry about it. In Turkey, it's normal to book onward tickets within two weeks, or even days of when you want to travel. My advice: Book your arrival travel into Istanbul, or wherever you'll begin and then arrange your bus/ferry tickets for your next destination when you get to Turkey. For best/cheapest results, go directly to a bus depot or Ferry terminal. Or book through someone you trust. (Exceptions: Flights and hotels. Arrange these in advance.)

-Bus travel: it's great in Turkey. Really. Cheap, comfortable and accessible. If you don't want to risk renting a car in Turkey, travel by bus.

-Realistically you should allow three+ weeks to comprehensively see Turkey. Seriously.

I began this year's garden a few months ago - sometime back in early February, actually. Every year I plant a summer garden and every year, at the end of the summer, I think: I'm not going to do this again next year. (I love the gardening, hate the deer and rodents that eat all of my hard work!) And inevitably each spring, I get the mad itch, the gleam in my soul that demands I go down to the local nursery and buy veggies, flowers and the like and plant them in the ground.

For the last two years I've planted three varieties of tomatoes, two plants each, so six plants total. Last year I probably got all of two tomatoes when all was said and done (blasted raccoons!!) and so this year I was determined to plant a LOT of tomato plants.

Today I transplanted eight of my little home-grown seedlings to the garden proper, along with four store-bought heirloom plants. So now the garden is complete and just needs time and sunshine (and water too) to grow.

I really can't wait for those tomatoes! Yum!

Sprouts in February:


To the Garden in April (iphone pictures):
 Backyard garden: Left, bottom tier - Zucchini, Squash (there are also strawberry plants further to the left) then my eight home-grown heirloom tomato plants (they're just wee green things right now). Upper tier: Two each, two more heirloom varieties.


Front porch garden: Hydrangea, Dahlia basil, white cucumbers, and one tomato plant.

Master Q (the cutest nephew ever) turned 2 at the end of February. We just shot his 2-year photos this weekend. Yes, a bit late, but life is what happens when you aren't looking, or something like that. (Another one of his Aunties basically had a heart attack on his birthday... she's fine. She's only 33!)



Master Q belongs to my little sister, who writes an amazing lifestyle blog, found here: www.kellywestover.com. Check it out!

Anyhoo... We went to downtown Oakland and shot these at Preservation Park.
Take a look: