iLiveInMyVan

N.B., this is about the fire that happened September 7, 2010. I didn’t have another fire.

After I got Thor admitted into intensive care, it occurred to me that the set of things that you do after your house burns down–even if it is out by 7:30–is such that teaching a 5PM class is not a realistic expectation. For about the amount of time that it takes to blow out a candle, I considered trying to get someone to cover my class, but that that idea was extinguished before it had time to ignite. I called the secretary, told her that my house had burned down, and asked her if she would please do whatever was necessary to let people know. Her reaction made me think that it might be reasonable to cancel class the next day as well, though that decision could wait. I was starting to infer that burning a house down was a pretty big deal. Perhaps, in addition to having someone vet my decision making, I might also be advised to give myself permission to behave in ways that on any other day I would judge to be selfish.

Next, it was off to the Department of Motor Vehicles. Since it seemed probable that my wallet would not be exhumed from the concrete roof tiles and cellulose insulation covering my bedroom, I would need a new driver license. With the bureaucratic nightmare that I experienced trying to pay the vet, I braced myself for the Kafkaesque hell that most Americans associate with the DMV. As I might when presenting my work at an academic conference, I rehearsed what to say. First, I would explain that my house burned down. From my conversation with my secretary, I had learned that playing the house-burned-down card softened people up substantially. I would next explain that I have no identification, since my house that just burned down. Oh! I could add the whole “I left the house wearing only my cell phone” line if it seemed necessary. Then I would ask, as nicely–and as pitifully–as possible, what it was I needed to do to get a new license. With my script rehearsed, I was ready to take on the DMV.

It turned out that the Tennessee DMV is very, very strange. When I walked in, there was no line. I told the woman my name. At the Tennessee DMV, due to the wonders of computers, one does not need identification to get a new driver license. She pulled up the photo on my license, and told me to look at the camera. While we waited for the license to print, I gave her twelve dollars. A few minutes later, she gave me my new license, literally hot from the magic press. The whole process took under fifteen minutes. I remain astonished.

Armed with identification, I went to the bank. I wrote a counter check for five hundred dollars, which I thought would me through the next few days.

Next, we headed to my house and met a guy from the insurance company. I acknowledged that my house had burned down and that it appeared to be a total loss, though someone else would need to make that judgment. He gave me a check for $3000 and told me that I would hear from someone in the next few days. They would pay for me to stay in a hotel room and I could use the money he had just given me to cover whatever additional living expenses I incurred.

Things were coming together.

N.B. This is about the fire that happened September 7, 2010. I didn’t have another fire.

The fire was out. The trucks were gone. I had poked around the rubble, a practice that in days to come I would come to call “looting,” especially if when else was doing it of their own volition. In my first foray into looting, all I really wanted was my wallet, but it was not to be found.

It was now time to do what it is that you do after a house fire. Since the reporter had not provided any insights into what my next steps were, I was on my own–well, not really on my own. Plenty of people were offering to help, and one of my best friends was able to take the day off work to be my handler. When your house burns down, as after any traumatic event, it is best not to make any big decisions unaided. When I got divorced, for example, more than one person counseled me not buy a boat or a car. I was pretty sure that I would not be tempted to buy either of those things on this particular day, but not knowing what kinds of decisions I would confront in the wake of the fire, it made me feel better to be in the company of someone who could keep me from making foolish impulsive decisions.

Thanks to a neighbor who had given me my insurance agent’s phone number, while she attended the fire, I was able to call his office to file the claim. Within an hour or two, I had received a phone call from a local adjuster. We were to meet at my place at 3pm.

The next order of business was to get Thor to a vet. I had no way to know how long Thor had been in the house or how much smoke he might have inhaled. He was not forthcoming with complaints, but he could be rather stoic. I made an appointment with Thor’s regular doctor an hour or two later that morning. The vet said that Thor looked okay, but that he probably needed to be in an oxygen tent. “OK, great. Whatever. Tent him up. Which way do we go?”

It turned out that Thor’s doctor did as not equipped for post-fire trauma and that Thor would need to go to the emergency vet, making the trip to this vet fairly superfluous. Appointments were made. We traveled the other side of town. The plan was to put Thor in some oxygen cage and monitor his blood oxygen levels. Depending on how long he needed to be in the thing, it would be something like a thousand dollars plus or minus a few hundred bucks. At this point, felt a little guilty about leaving Thor in a burning building, so it seemed like the right thing to do. My handler did not question the decision, so it was time to check Thor in. No problem.

Well, there was a problem. The people with the Oxygen booth wanted their money, or a credit card, at least, before they would give any of their Oxygen to Thor. On a Normal Day, coming up with a credit card, or even a thousand dollars in cash would not have been that big a deal. Today, however, I had no wallet, no cards, no identification. Nothing. Just what was I supposed to do now?

Thor and I were already where he needed to be. I did not want to drive elsewhere to come up with means to pay these people. I was starting to feel helpless. Eventually I managed to convince them to accept my mom’s credit card number over the phone, apparently a violation of protocol. I had her call and give her the number and authorization. It was a great relief. With the fiduciary trauma out of the way, Thor was all set. I left Thor in the care of strangers. Thor did not seem to mind, whether his lack of protest was because was he trusted the fine doctors or because he was too tired to protest was unclear.

As the fire was getting put out, one of my friends who had worked for a couple of TV stations said that he recognized a reporter whom he was sure was about to come interview me on camera. He thought that I would feel better about being on television if I were not wearing the 4XL t-shirt and ripped flannel pajama pants. Thor and I followed him down to his place where I donned a golf shirt and a pair of jeans. It was not exactly my style, but it was a marked improvement.

A few minutes later I was being interviewed. At that point I could not remember how it was I woke up. It would be a few days before I would remember that it was that the window broke and woke me.

As the interview was ending the reporter asked “So what are your next steps?”

“What are my next steps? you insensitive bitch! Are you kidding me? This is not the first house fire you have seen, maybe you should be giving me some tips.” That is what I thought to myself. What I did say was considerably nice. According to a web page at volunteertv.com, what I said was “I don’t know. . . . I don’t know what’s next. I never had a home burn down, so I am not sure what the procedure is.” (Sadly, the video is no longer available.)

When the fire was out, the next step was to completely douse the house to ensure that there were no longer any hot spots that would subsequently reignite, a step that it would have paid me to heed eight ours earlier. During this process, the force of the huge hose knocked down all of the chimneys. Having four feet of brick in the kitchen would make navigating it a bit complicated.

I learned subsequently that the chimneys were knocked down intentionally. Apparently chimneys are weakened by fires and the lack of stuff to hold them up. A couple weeks later I moved several hundred bricks to recover some of my pots and pans. It would have been easier without all those damn bricks.

I asked a fireman if he could please find my keys and wallet that I believed were on the floor by my bed. He came up empty handed, but did salvage a toolbox and a pair of Chacos. Shoes would come in handy.

Sometime during all of this, a friend had called AAA and asked them to create a key to my car, which they did. I know that they did not ask for my identification because mine was missing. Before long, however, I had a newly cut-by-the-number key to my car.

All of a sudden, the firemen were gone. Could I go in my house, crossing the yellow tape that the fire department had outlined my property with? I decided that I could. I went in and looked for the keys and wallet a bit more. I did get a set of spare keys still hanging on the wall in the hall closet.

It was time to start doing all of the things that you do after your house burns down.

The next thing I remember was sitting in the street on a cooler belonging to the fire department. It was full of bottled water. I wondered if protocol allowed me to drink any, though I really was not thirsty. The whole attic was in flames. I would later learn that this is what firefighters call “fully involved.” Previously, “fully involved” had been only a way to order a sandwich at Firehouse Subs.

Though they were able to squirt some water in through the front of the house, not much fire fighting could happen until the concrete tile roof collapsed. All I could do was sit there in the dark. Am I really going to lose my house *and* my dog?

A few minutes later, I saw a fireman pulling Thor by his collar. I really wanted the fireman to just let Thor go; Thor would come to me, but there was not much chance of communicating that. When Thor and I were reunited, he was very wet and very warm. I rubbed him all over. He was not obviously wounded. Now I had someone to sit with.

I walked around to the front of the house to see what it looked like from there. There was a TV crew there filming. They did not talk to me, but a few days later I would see footage of myself in that huge t-shirt.

Back at the cooler, I thought to myself “This is going to be a pretty bad day. I don’t teach until 5PM. I haven’t re-read the articles we are to discuss, but I can probably wing it.”

Not long after six, friends and acquaintances from the neighborhood were in attendance. One gave me the phone number of my insurance agent, which she had in her phone.

I had the following exchange via text message with a close friend:

Me: How are you this morning? 6:48 AM

him: Sleepy. AND you? 6:49 AM

him: K says that was the best pina colada evar. 6:53 AM

Me: I can’t find my wallet or car keys. 6:54 AM

him: That’s always a good sign. 6:55 AM

Me: Yeah. They’re going to be hard to find because the roof collapsed in the fire 6:58 AM

Me: My house burned down. 6:59 AM

Me: I will call in a while after I finish talking to this resource cross lady 7:00 AM

Me: Thor made it out 7:00 AM

him: Um what? 7:01 AM

Me: Yeah. Really. 7:01 AM

During that conversation, before the fire was even out, a woman came over and said that she was from the Red Cross, not “resource cross” as my phone had interpreted it. She asked whether I had clothes and a place to stay. I was pretty sure I could come up with clothes. I had money. Or I would have money if I could find my wallet. Finding a place to stay would not be a problem. She had me fill out some paperwork that asked how much money I made and so on. The next thing I knew, she had given me a pre-paid MasterCard worth $185 and a .

This is a pretty damn fine country, I thought to myself.

As it turned out, The Red Cross lady was not all interested in what I was sure would be one of my biggest needs that day. I was somewhat bemused by her admonition that the card could not be used to buy “Alcohol, tobacco, or fire arms.” I am not making this up. She really said that.

If this is not the day when I deserve a drink, I thought, what is?

As I contemplate making this journey into a book, I realize that there are parts that are missing. The obvious place to start is, you know, when the house burned down. Over the next while, I’ll start posting parts of that story. Here’s the first one. I’m aiming to keep them to about five hundred words.

I was awakened by the sound of a window breaking. It was an up-and-coming neighborhood, but it as surprising that someone would try to break in at night by breaking a window. I got up to see what it was. From the kitchen I saw that there was fire on the front porch. I had been burning some candles the night before, I guessed that something must not have been put out.

I started looking for the kitchen fire extinguisher, but could not find it. I decided to call 911. On auto-pilot I went to my bedside table where my phone was charging and then back out to the back porch to call 911.

From the street I heard, “Please don’t go back in that house! We called 911. Please don’t go back in that house!”

OK. I guess I don’t need to call 911, I thought, what do I do now? The hose! I could squirt water on it. It was pretty clear that even if it would reach, my hose would not be of any use on this fire.

With 911 called, I tried to figure out what the next step should be. “Thor! Thor!” I yelled for my dog who was sleeping on my bed. The kitchen lights would not turn on. I later discerned that by this time the fire in the attic had burned up the wires and the circuits had all blown.

“Thor! Thor! Come!”

Thanks to the broken window, the house was now starting to fill with smoke. It was noticeably warm. The woman in the street was still begging me to leave the house. I started to freak out.

“Thor! Thor! Come on boy! Come! Thoooor!”

He was not coming. It was starting to feel dangerous. He will wake up in a minute, and he knows where his dog door is, I thought. I decided to go on out of the house to watch it burn down.

I took a few steps down the back stairs when I remembered, Oh, yeah. I’m naked.

Meanwhile “Please don’t go back in that house!” was still coming from the street. I looked her way and shrugged.

“Go git him some pants! Go git him some pants!” the kind woman said to her male companion, whom, I am pretty sure, is a drug dealer. I am not quite sure exactly how I got the pants from them, but before long I was standing on the porch wearing flannel pants, one leg ripped up to the knee. I still had no shirt and indicated that to the woman who said “Go git him a shirt!

The next thing I knew I was wearing a 4XL t-shirt. It was large enough that the pants were largely superfluous. It was time to leave the house and watch it burn.

The fire department arrived about this time. “No, no one was in the house except my dog. Uh, yeah, he’s a pit bull.” I figured that Thor’s cat, Modi, was probably already out of the house.

At about this time enough smoke had entered through the broken window that the smoke detector sounded.

Today marks one year since I moved out of The Rental. That means that I have now spent a year without a permanent residence. (I wrote a similar retrospective after my first 100 days.) My belongings are scattered between my camper, a storage unit, and a growing number of people’s houses. Other than when I use internet hotspots, my phone is my primary source of connectivity to the world. I put Thor down before I left Knoxville for the Big Trip, so it has been just me for most of the past year.

I have lived alone since, well, about this very same date in 2003, when my then-wife went to San Luis Obispo because she did not want to be around me while I was stressed about having ninety days to collect data and write a dissertation. It would have been a really good time to have someone to help walk the dog and take out the trash, but she had other ideas. Though I would have liked to have had support from my spouse during a really difficult part of my life, it turned out that not being with her was much more pleasant than I had anticipated.

Living alone in Knoxville where I have many great friends, colleagues that I saw at work, and tons of acquaintances was not that lonely. If I decided that I would like to share a meal with someone, it took no more than a few phone calls. If that was too much planning, I could down to the brew pub, where there was almost always someone I knew well enough to join them at their table. Living alone in a camper in an unfamiliar place is a different kind of alone. I still had access to people I loved via phone, text, Facebook, or even video chat, but that is not like looking someone in the eye or get a hug.

Traveling alone was different too. I had generally traveled with my wife, a girlfriend, or failing that, family. Traveling alone meant that I did not have to negotiate with anyone about where to go. It also meant that I had to come up with all of the ideas myself. I remember being relieved, though, was that if something went wrong, no one could complain. Like the time I caused myself and my companion to miss the train; there was no way to contact her mother who was to pick us up at the station; trauma ensued. The day that Walden broke down in Colorado I did not have to answer to anyone else about whether it was wise to take a 25 year old camper across the country. On the other hand, if I had been with someone else, I might not have set out on a ten mile bike ride in hundred degree desert heat without any water.

With practice, I did get better at talking to strangers, though the scripts I employed worked mostly in campgrounds and tourist traps. Those friends were some of the real treasures of the trip, like Little Bird and Ox, who lived with me in Walden for ten days. I also had a lovely dinner with a newlywed couple who spent ten days in Yellowstone with her father (“it’s-not-a-honeymoon” she protested); a highlight was going grocery shopping with her. I also met a couple in a Vanagon camper my first day in Yellowstone; it turned out that they later visited Mindo and used Marcelo, whom I met there (I wish I could find their contact info). And then there were strangers who invited me into their homes via my log, like in Seattle, and Pawley’s Island.

My life on the road was really only about five months, from mid-June to mid-November, and it was interjected with a few stays at or in homes of friends and family. On those visits I generally tried to blend in as a family member rather than play tourist. On those visits it was nice to be a part of a family, but it always felt just a little like I was living someone else’s life, not my own. In the back of my mind was a sense that if I am to piddle away the cash that should be used to buy a house and maybe some furniture, it ought to be for something pretty spectacular.

In January I spent two weeks at my aunt’s vacation home on the Florida Panhandle. I had intended to go to Key West, but the idea another two thousand miles of driving was more than I could handle. I had two goals: to talk to someone more than once, and to play guitar publicly. I succeeded in the first–I got invited to a great party at someone’s house where I shucked a bunch of oysters. I also met a cool woman, who remains a friend. I also succeeded in the second goal, both by convincing performers to let me play a song or two during their breaks and by getting my own gig for which I received twenty bucks, some snacks, and half a bottle of wine–not a bad take, in my estimation.

As described in the previous post, I have now taken up the closest thing to a residence as I have had in the past year (except, perhaps, six weeks with my cousin in Ecuador). Sure, I do not have visible means of support, or a place that is truly my own, but I am the only one here. I spend my time playing guitar, thinking about writing, and trying to become a performing musician. Today I will pack up my gear and try some more to get a chance to play any way that I can. To me, asking someone to let me play in his or her place of business is every bit as uncomfortable inviting a new friend to some social event. Eventually I will develop scripts that I am comfortable with as I did in meeting people in campgrounds, but right now, it is still pretty painful.

In my estimation, if I am wildly successful in my new career as a musician, I might make it up to the poverty level, which will be fine if I can, in fact, live within those means. For now, I continue spending my cash, remembering that when I got divorced eight years ago, I had no money, and I came out OK.

It turns out that I already had a first day of the rest of my life. Apparently I am not very creative. Strunk and White address this problem specifically.

Sunday I arrived at my aunt and uncle’s place down at The Beach. This move is auspicious because for the first time since I left The Rental, I have more stuff than will comfortably fit in Walden. For example, I have two nice guitars, some speakers, and a desktop computer, none of which not belong in a house on wheels. Not the least of which is that they leave little room for me.

When I got up my first morning in Florida I did not feel like making breakfast, so I played guitar, continuing to work through the list of songs that I think I know to see which ones need to be refreshed or removed. If I am going to start performing publicly, perhaps even accepting money, it will be important to know which songs I really know. I had no plans for the day except dinner with Joy.

I checked my email to see that a message I had received the night before was not a figment of my imagination. Indeed, the message did say that a guy who is well-connected with the music scene had agreed to take me on a tour of local venues where I might play. Further I could expect a fabulous boat ride through some incredibly beautiful sounding waters that few people get to see. I lead a charmed life.

At Nine AM Joy’s number appeared on my caller ID. Was she going to postpone our scheduled meal? No, she was calling to suggest that we go to breakfast. She was coming in her jeep, replete with beach permit.

I had an hour to ready myself. Since I am the only one on the premises and this property is very private, I did not have to bother with covering my nakedness on my walk down to the outdoor shower. I was reminded of a visit to Apalachicola when I spent most of the week basking in the sun, naked, overlooking the water.

When Joy arrived we headed out to breakfast. After a delicious breakfast she toured me down 30A, stopping at several places that I might play guitar, introducing herself and me and asking who did music bookings. Oh, I thought, that’s how you do that. You talk to people and ask who is in charge of music. Down in Grayton’s Red Bar, where we had met, we had a couple of margaritas before riding her jeep onto the beach. We walked down the beach collecting trash. Sure, lots of people collect shells on the beach, but Joy collects trash. It seemed like a good example to set.

In the late afternoon she dropped me back at my place. I got a little nap in the hammock before returning to my guitar and the song list. By my math I had nearly one hundred songs, which should be over five hours of music without a repeat.

Still too lazy to cook, I headed out for dinner. Down in Seaside, I saw no one that I knew and decided that I did not have the energy to talk to people that I did not know. Apparently no longer too lazy to cook, I headed to the grocery store. When I emerged with my victuals, there was another Vanagon–the same color as Walden–parked right next to him. We talked a bit about our steeds and I learned that they were looking for a place to stay for the night. I invited them on over and we had a couple hours of conversation before they retired to their camper, Lucy, for the night.

Not a bad first day.

On Punta Suárez, where I had finally seen the Blue Footed Booby, we were guided by the man who organized all of the trips on the boat rather than our usual guide. In addition to the boobies, we also saw yet another lizard climbing a trail marker. It is another example of how these creatures are just begging to be photographed. It did not grow old.

Our guide told us some stories about the development of the Galapagos. One was that a vessel (that I believe he said was owned by Van Camp but they seem only to make pork and beans) was caught in Galapagos waters. There is no reason to fish for migratory fish in the Galapagos waters since tuna are everywhere. The vessel was boarded and a number of dolphins were found aboard in various states of being butchered. The captain denied knowledge of how this happened. What is supposed to happen in this case, according to our guide, is that the ship is seized, sold at auction, and the proceeds go to support the national park. Further, the captain is jailed and fined. In this case, however, the judge and allowed the company to keep the ship. He fined the captain five cents. The judge purportedly now lives in a very large house in another country.

Then we ran in to another iguana.

Perhaps more disturbing was another story from about ten years ago. The president’s brother had given fishing rights in the Galapagos to some company. Many people complained, not only from Ecuador, but also from many other countries, including the United States; the president said that the rule would stand. These countries then told the president that they would sanction Ecuador and no longer import their goods, including their roses and their oil. The president changed his mind; the fishing rights were revoked. This Ecuadorian was very pleased that nations across the world had banded together to stop his government from acting irresponsibly. It made me wonder who would step in if my government were to do something irresponsible. Hypothetically, what if some coal company wanted to blast away mountain tops in East Tennessee so that they could get the coal more cheaply? Sure, the Smoky Mountains are no Galapagos, but if the companies were forced to mine the coal without mountain top removal, it would protect tourism in East Tennessee and save hundreds of jobs. As long as corporations are people and their money is speech, there will be nothing to stop corporations from doing whatever is necessary to earn as much money each quarter for their shareholders as possible. No one will stop them from behaving selfishly and irresponsibly. Behaving selfishly and irresponsibly is what corporations are supposed to do–it is how to earn the most money, and that is their responsibility to their shareholders. Given their directive to make money, behaving responsibly would, in fact, be irresponsible.

Our next stop was overlooking a blow hole. Not in a whale, but in the rocks. When the waves come in, the water blasts up out of the hole. In the past people could go down to where the water blew out of the hole, but someone got to close and the water nearly ripped her skin off.

As the hike went on, we came across some more iguanas, sometimes called Christmas Iguanas for their red and green color scheme.

Back at the landing, the baby sea lions were checking us out. Here is one checking out someone’s shoe. Perhaps my only disappointment on this trip was that we did not get to swim here. If we had, these little sea lions would have come out to swim with us.

After that, it was back to the boat for lunch and a siesta.

Here are some more pictures from Punta Suárez.

On the penultimate day of the cruise I had been lamenting that I had not been really close to a Blue Footed Booby. I had seen some in flight, which might have been good enough if I were a birder, but I had not had a chance to get a really good look at those blue feet. In paradise, this the kind of thing one finds to complain about. That, and the fact that baby sea lions had not come to swim with me.

The morning trip to Santa Cruz promised lots of wild life. There would be many Nazca Boobies, but who cares about them? They look pretty much like sea gulls to me. There was no mention of the blue footed ones. I am not sure what it was that made me so interested in them, maybe it was the picture on the front of my guidebook, but I just had to see those blue feet. Well, gentle reader, you may rest easy. I did indeed have ample opportunities to see all three different types of boobies that the Galapagos had to offer. I will provide photographic evidence.

When we encountered our first booby with the blue feet on the ground, I was near the back of our group. I desperately snapped a few shots, but they were not that good. See? Here is the first shot that I snapped in frantic desperation.

There is no way I can get a decent shot of this bird, I thought to myself. And anywhere else on the planet, that would have been true. But I was not anywhere else on the planet. What I had forgotten, because it is just so damned incredible, is that this darn bird was going to remain right there for as long as I wanted, and would likely still be standing right there when I finally was ready to move on. Everyone else in the group walked on by, and then I got my chance to get a shot. Don’t look yet, though. See above where I used the word “incredible?” I mean it literally. Even though for five whole minutes I watched that bird stand there while I and fifteen other people walked by, gawked, and took photos–I, myself, took thirty-eight from half a dozen locations–the experience was so bizarre that even having lived it, I still cannot believe that it really happened. Incredible.

Here is further evidence that it really did happen, though. Look; here are a few of my fellow travelers madly snapping photos. The bird simply does not care that we are there. It was like we were invisible. Perhaps most remarkable is that she seems completely unconcerned that by capturing these images we may be stealing her soul.

About ten minutes after we managed to pull ourselves away from that bird, whom we left still standing in the same spot we found it, I got this shot of this little bird marching.

I understand that their mating dance is also quite a sight. If you are someone who plans such things, you might endeavor to come for mating season when these birds face one another and hold up their feet, as blue feet are a definite turn on. These birds do not want the blueness of their feet diluted. A bit like Sneeches, I suppose.

On this day I remembered that my little point and shoot takes movies. Perhaps I should have started taking videos sooner. This one of the Blue Footed Boobies is pretty cool.

We had been told that this island was a breeding ground for Nasca Boobies. And as promised, there were lots of little Nazca chicks, many of whom had recently hatched, like this little guy. By this point I had pretty much been re-convinced that it would be easy to get a photograph and most of the group’s senses had already dulled to the novelty of seeing these bizarre creatures standing, sitting, and lying about. I was able to contrive to get a shot of this one with just the sky in the background. This is my kind of birding.

And then there was this guy screaming.

The chicks do not look much like their parents. I can imagine that this might result in considerable discord. “Hey, that bird don’t look like me!”

Nazca boobies lay two eggs a few days apart. When the chicks are born, one of the chicks, usually the elder, pushes the other out of the nest to die of thirst, cold, or starvation. The parents do not intervene. “How else will those little birds learn?” Besides, who wants two chicks clamoring for food?

See more boobies!

Previous to this day on my Galapagos cruise, every excursion we had taken was for just a few hours. We always returned to the ship for lunch. This day, however, we were to stay on Santa Cruz Island for the whole day. There was a host of activities that required considerable explanation. One was the Charles Darwin Research Station where they raise tortoises to release into the wild. The research station was undergoing some kind of renovation and, reportedly, people who had visited it recently had not been impressed. It was an opportunity to have your picture taken in front of the center and to see Lonesome George, an extinct tortoise. Well, George is not technically extinct, but he is the only one left from his island and what with needing two to tango, he is the last of his line. I do not know for sure, but some female tortoise could have told him “I wouldn’t have you if you were the last tortoise on earth!” and meant it. In a related story there was another breed on the brink of extinction with only one male and a dozen or so females on the island. Another male of that breed was at some zoo in California. That guy got shipped back from the zoo to his home island. I am not saying that George is an asshole, but this other tortoise now has a considerable number of offspring.

Lonesome George notwithstanding, the ship’s trip coordinator had said that if you really want your picture taken in front of the sign for the Charles Darwin Research Center then this would be a great trip, otherwise, you might consider something else. All but two of us took his advice. Instead we went to a little farm on the edge of the national park where we were all but certain to see some of these giant tortoises “in the wild.” We were not disappointed.

This guy was hanging out in a puddle. I took pictures of each couple in our group with him in his puddle. If you are in one of those pictures, you should email me so that I can send them to you.

After we had hung out with him (or her) for a while, we moved on and were at least sort of in the woods. We saw this big old guy (or girl) eating a guanavana , a little fruit about the size of a lemon whose name always makes me want to sing “ba dee bee dee bee“. It was really fun fun to watch him eating, and after he finished the first one, he came closer to us and ate another one. There was a third one of these tasty little fruits right next to where I was standing. I know that I should not have, but I gave the fruit a little push to get it about halfway between him and me. After this coercion, I took a few more pictures.

As we were leaving, Steve, a guy in our group offered to get a picture of me and my new friend.

Here is another tortoise we ran into where the light was a little better.

At the end of our walk we stopped at a little building where they had some tortoise shells. We were encouraged to get in the shell for a photo opp. Though this was a felicitous end of our visit, we were glad it was not at the beginning, as it might have seemed a bit cheesy. By the end, though, we had already seen a bunch of these magnificent creatures, and seeing these shells was a blast.

After the tortoises we went and saw some lava tubes, these big tunnels that were somehow made by lava flows. I understand that lava flowed out of them, but I am not sure how it is that all of the lava flowed out leaving these things empty. It might have been fun to go further down the cave than we did, but it was pretty wet down there and few of us had appropriate footwear.

I posted a few more pictures, if you’re interested.

And no, I did not have turtle soup.