Editor’s note:This column is writtenby my father, Rich Ryan, who I’ve invited to be a frequent contributor to Gracefully Global as “Dad’s Guest Blog,” as he calls it. He’s a retired professor, and he keeps himself busy with frequent traveling and writing a column in the local newspaper of my hometown, the Imperial Valley Press. This particular adventure we shared together along with my stepmom, Estela. This is the second post in the series, and the first post was written about Salvation Mountain, which you can read by clicking here. The photos are by me.
To the southwest of Niland’s Salvation Mountain is the Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge. Entry is free.
The Salton Sea which straddles northern Imperial County and southern Riverside County is an inland saltwater lake that is a stopover for seasonal bird migrations. The Refuge, a sanctuary and breeding ground for birds, is over 37,000 acres. The area is huge.
The Sonny Bono visitors’ center is easily accessible from California Highway 111. It is approximately a twenty-minute drive from Salvation Mountain to the Wildlife Refuge and less than two hours from Palm Springs. Driving south on California Highway 111, turn west on Sinclair Road which will bring you directly to the center’s entrance.
You will pass a series of huge geothermal plants that run along both sides of Sinclair. Signage is minimal so be alert. The visitors’ center is not fancy but possesses the basics: parking, a gift shop, informed docents, restrooms, and shaded picnic tables.
Next to the center is a large, unshaded viewing platform from which to observe flocks of migrating birds such as white phase snow geese feeding in an irrigated field. Bring binoculars. Migrating is the key word. These birds are not permanent residents so check the website for migrating bird information.
Why should you visit the Refuge? The Refuge is situated within the Pacific Flyway. If you enjoy the outdoors and watching wildlife in their natural state, this is the place to be.
Birds from all over the western states, northern Mexico and Canada winter over here. Even during a brief visit, we saw dozens of pelican formations flying over and landing on the artificial islands established in the Refuge’s lakes.
Thousands of shore birds line the Salton Sea which is about a half mile walk from the visitor’s center. I was lucky on my first visit to startle a blue heron as I approached on a canal bank road. A great blue heron taking off is a majestic sight.
Do be weather-wise when visiting Imperial Valley. This is low desert, and from late spring to early fall temperatures will usually exceed 100 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s best to visit during the mild winter, late fall, or early spring. A sun hat and water are must haves. Enjoy your visit.
– Richard Ryan, Guest contributor Instagram: @desert_rich
When I started this blog, Gracefully Global, I meant it as an evolving study on how to be a traveler, gracefully. That is, to cherish and respect the cultures that we come upon as we learn about and interact with the world through our traveling ways. Somehow, the political turmoil of this month has felt like a big slap in the face for many of us who value other cultures and exploration, no matter what our political identity. In the face of the daily barrage of political news and the persistently changing landscape of our government, I almost feel like I should be cutting up my passport and never leaving my house again. Luckily my passport is still intact, as, surprisingly, I’ve experienced some major positives as an outcome of the events over the last few weeks that I never would have seen coming. Two positives, in particular, are keeping me motivated and steadfast in my beliefs and in working to maintain my optimism for whats to come. So I’d like to share them with you.
I feel connected.
Marching together and writing postcards together! The fight continues. 🙂
The fact that I am writing this post now is a testament to the higher engagement I’ve experienced online and in person over the last few weeks, connecting with friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike. Not to say all of the connections have been positive, but they have all certainly been illuminating. Life somehow feels more interesting when you delve down a bit deeper to what makes each other tick, doesn’t it? And with connection, and a deeper understanding, it seems the sky is the limit on what could happen next.
The standout occasion for this connectedness was, of course, the women’s march, an incredible wash of positive energy, and a unique, historical moment of togetherness. Peaceful and optimistic, women of all shapes, sizes, ages, religions, politics, you name it. We were all there, and even better, we all seem to agree on the quality of this experience. I made a video about our experience at the San Diego march.
And the connectedness continues. I read a Vogue article about advocacy that I immediately trivialized as being too “beginner” in its advice. But really, it was perfect. It suggested that we organize groups of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances to work together on political advocacy goals. I don’t know why I originally thought of the article as overly simplistic. A few hours saturated with of frustrating political news later was all it took to change that thought, as I was fired up and the Vogue article suddenly seemed genius. I reached out to some friends, and we’ve already had our first meeting!
My college roomie holding up her stack of postcards.
The friends that agreed to participate in these meetings are the women from each of my life’s major adventures that have stood out as the no-nonsense, powerful, empathetic, energetic, intelligent people that made life feel better. We met in a cozy, neighborhood café in San Diego. There were a few new faces, friends of friends, who I was thrilled to welcome. We enjoyed our food, and rolled up our sleeves and started writing Women’s March postcards to our political representatives. We cracked jokes and strategised. Laughed and shouted (the café staff were really patient with us, thankfully). It was exactly what we needed, after starting the evening feeling rather helpless and overwhelmed, politically, and each leaving that evening with a stack of postcards covered in the ink of our thoughts and concerns, and addressed to each of our political representatives. If meeting together these ten times for the 10 Actions/100 Days movement serves only to give me a bellyache from a good laugh and some updates from my favorite people, then so be it. That would still be a win in my book. And, ironically, the action for the current 10 Days is forming huddles, just as we have done, which we realized on the night of our meeting.
Writing postcards to our political reps!
The other equally significant outcome of this rollercoaster of a month is something that I never saw coming: I feel comfortable calling myself a feminist again.
As much as I’ve changed as a person over the last few decades, I’m realizing that I really haven’t changed that much. I’m still that gal that took gender studies my freshman year of college, and started making my own t-shirts in the first versions of Photoshop with whatever deep feminist theory was on my mind at the time. Which I wore to the annual feminist theatre production I produced at UCSD. As I’ve increased in age, I’ve learned to “tone in down.”
My beloved godmother. Let’s just say, this wasn’t even close to being her first march.
I can’t put my finger on exactly what caused my current change of heart. I surmise that Hillary, Pantsuit Nation, and our participation in the largest protest on American soil – a women’s march – has something to do with it. I hope that feminism can now achieve for politics what it once was criticized for not achieving for itself: bringing together women of every background, united in our quest for ethically minded government leadership.
That’s the lemonade I’ve managed to squeeze so far, and I’m expecting a lot more of it to come. So I hope to have many other positives to share, soon, as well as more reports from our meetings! In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you. Have you felt more connected, more feminist, or anything else that is personally positive? Thanks in advance for your thoughts!
I wrote this piece to join others in the WordPress hosted conversation, Speak Out.
My wonderful friend Lindsay, who made the trip to Washington.
As a Southern California native and a frequent visitor to Las Vegas, I have a love/hate relationship with the city. Expensive, commercial, hot, and crowded, it is also a destination laden with treasures and beauty that you don’t find everyday. A fellow blogger put together this fabulous Vegas guide, and I am reblogging this post because it is so rich with information regarding finding those treasures in Vegas but not spending a fortune. Hope you’ll also find it useful!
I just spent two weeks in Ben Wheeler, TX. Population unknown because, well, there are no city lines. But according to Wikipedia – the knower of everything, even the unknown – the population is 425.
When my mother first saw Ben Wheeler on my summer itinerary she asked me why I hadn’t told her I was seeing someone new. “Seeing someone?” I asked in confusion. “Ben Wheeler?” she responded. “That’s the name of the city, Mom,” I laughed. “Oh!” she responded, followed by a look of bewilderment. “Where’s that?”
I often got that kind of response when sharing my summer itinerary. My friends in Italy, on the other hand, who had studied Ben Wheeler with me in our urban planning class, couldn’t wait for me to get there. When my trip was confirmed we immediately got on Google Earth and happened to find a building with the word “salon” on it in the middle of what appeared to be a small concentration of buildings, which I have since learned were photographed before the area’s transformation. Was this downtown perhaps? “Looks like you have a spa date, Peggy!” laughed my friend Lauren. “I’m going to like every post you make on Facebook from Ben Wheeler, TX,” she giggled sincerely, perched on a chair in our favorite hangout in Bologna, Italy.
My friend from Austin messaged me when he found out about the trip. “Why Ben Wheeler? Why not Austin or Houston or Dallas?” My answer was simple – I was researching Ben Wheeler. After three years of following the transformation of this forgotten little place in East Texas as it blossomed into a little community with the help of a man with a heart, a checkbook, and a vision, I was as curious as curious could be about what I would find.
As it turns out, my wildest imagination couldn’t have prepared me for what I had in store. Now, don’t get me wrong – Ben Wheeler absolutely delivered on what Texas does best. I got my fair share of unsweet tea, fried pickles, big trucks, ranch dressing, cowboy boots, four-wheelin’, opinionated white guys, huntin’ stories, Obama jokes, guns, critters, and Coors light (imagine this said with an East Texas twang).
But the surprises came just as quickly. My first big one was on the drive from the airport. “There are lakes in Texas!?” I exclaimed naively as we drove by a beautiful town nestled along the banks of a man-made lake. This was a shock. I love the Texas landscape, and with a few lakes in the mix I am a happy tourist, happily enjoying a relaxing afternoon suntanning by the lake and sipping unsweet tea.
But the part of Ben Wheeler that came as the biggest surprise was being part of a community. I guess because I have never lived in a real, authentic community before, so I had no idea what a real community felt like. I guess I’m not so uncommon, though. The lucky few of us that can say we live in a community lead a different sort of life. The community of Ben Wheeler is a place where people don’t lock their front doors. They keep their keys in their ignitions. They go out to dinner without making plans to meet anyone because they know their friends will show up at some point and at the very least they can catch up with the restaurant staff. Or look out the restaurant window at the world going by in their picture perfect downtown. If they need to repair their fence, they ask their neighbor.
I personally interviewed 97 people in Ben Wheeler. People that had retired here sounded like a broken record, “We never knew a single one of our neighbors the entire time we lived in Dallas. Now we know everybody.” A 20-something runaway told me, “I just got into my car and drove and ended up in downtown Ben Wheeler and my first thought was, ‘I think this is my last stop in life.'” Young families told me, “We wanted our kids to grow up where we didn’t have to worry about them playing in the front yard alone.” And a man that lives in the next town over mused about moving to Ben Wheeler, “Sometimes I sit here (in downtown Ben Wheeler) listening to music with friends, enjoying the evening, and we say to each other, ‘Isn’t this what it’s all about?'”
It sure makes a city girl think. And think hard. After enjoying little villages across Italy and longing for the charm of these spirited places in America, Ben Wheeler has revitalized my faith that life in America doesn’t just have to be about shopping trips to Target, working out at the gym, and binge-ordering on Amazon. There are still true communities out there, defined by a simpler way of life, individuality and real connection between the people that makes them strong. In these places, they really actually want to know your name. And they’ll remember it.
Thanks to Brooks Gremmels in Ben Wheeler – the man with the vision – his wife Reese, and their amazing team including Jenni, Donley, Steve, and the rest of fabulous Ben Wheeler for what you’ve done for community. I’ve definitely “Ben Revived.” 🙂
Do you ever find yourself on vacation, overwhelmed by the beauty that you’ve walked into, and in a momentary moment of emotional clarity, wonder what you ever did to deserve experiencing this beauty?
The first occurrence of that moment on my trip to Ojai, California, came to me during this sunset, with the blue mountains crisply running across the horizon and soft pink light illuminating from behind them as if painted by watercolor, highlighting little puffs of clouds running above the silhouette of a solitary oak tree. I thought, “This is Ojai. How did I get here??”
A signature for Ojai, the “Pink Moment” is a rare pink effect in the sunset occurring right before the sun sets, and happens thanks to Ojai’s east-west running Sulphur and Topatopa Mountains.
But there is oh-so much more to find here in Ojai. A little-known gem about an hour east of Santa Barbara, Ojai is the name for “moon” in the language of the Chumash Indians, who were among the first to discover this valley. The area is characterized by a mediterranean climate making it ideal for olive and grape growing, harkening back my memories of traveling through Puglia, Italy, and many train trips through the valleys and gently rolling golden hills of Tuscany.
Needless to say, Ojai plays host to countless artists looking for – and finding – inspiration. Here, on this incredible backdrop, I am here to help support a group of playwrights developing new plays for the American theatre, and supported by directors, actors, producers, and theatre professionals. They gather annually for the Ojai Playwrights Conference in search of their figurative “Pink Moment,” where the intersection of their creative processes creates something that will resonate in the imaginations and the hearts of their future audiences.
What makes the “Pink Moment” special is its rarity and intangibility. We come to Ojai, and other beautiful places, looking to be inspired by this beauty. But if we have to prepare ourselves for it – it doesn’t wait for us. And we often miss them, or don’t recognize them when we see them. I’m here, and I’m ready! Hope you are too. 🙂
This is my summer of re-love. I have returned to the United States for a mere two months, as I have done each summer since I relocated to Bologna, Italy three years ago. And I have been gifted a unique opportunity to be a tourist in my own country in the places that I once took for granted – places that I visited often for my whole life, and places that I lived. New York, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, and Southern California to be exact.
My father always told me that if I wanted to understand my relationship with a place I lived or a place I loved, I need to leave that place for some time before I can really have a good perspective on that place. Boy, was he right. Every year that I have returned to America I have had a new perspective on it. But this summer is different. This summer is the summer that I have finally understood and accepted these places into my heart and how my connection to these places is forever embedded into my hard-wiring. And I am returning and truly appreciating everything, even the bad.
My first stop since arriving in America this summer is New York. My father’s side of the family immigrated to New York in the early 1900’s and lived in Brooklyn. My godmother and godfather moved out of the city decades ago to a tiny city along the Hudson River called Ossining.
The snapshot above is my favorite on my trip this far. Taken on the bank of the Hudson river, I am at left with my godmother Suzanne on the right, who is a second mother to me. In the picture below, thirty-three years ago, my godmother is holding me in almost the exact same spot where we are standing above on the bank of the Hudson River.
Me and my godmother enjoying the Hudson sunset in 1980.
To think of everything that has happened in the 33 years since this picture was taken is pretty overwhelming. But this beautiful place is the same as it has always been, to me at least. Just an hour’s train ride from Grand Central Terminal, this other world of rolling hills and majestic lake views is sometimes easier to get to than Brooklyn. I realize I am lucky to have this beautifulness in my life, a place my dad has gone back to for decades, and a place my godmother still calls home. But I think we all have these beautiful places in our memories and in our hearts that are part of what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just takes some time to re-love them again.
One of my favorite stories about Italians adventuring in America has come from one of my best English students, a very established Bolognese marketing professional, who knows more about American politics than I do. He wrote this story about his first trip to the United States, when he went alone several decades ago before he was even twenty years old. The first time he read it to me, I died laughing. Hope you enjoy it nearly as much as I did.
My impressions about my journey in the United States.
By Paolo, October 2012
I was in Mexico at the end of February during a journey that I had begun two months before, and as you are probably aware, it was warm over there. Suddenly I decided to go to New York, but in New York it was winter. I left Bologna, Italy only with summer clothes because I had planned to go to the USA on another trip late in spring. Well just a few days later I left Mexico and I touched down at J.F. Kennedy airport when I was under twenty years-old, without knowing English, without a hotel reservation and during the winter dressed in summer clothes. It didn’t seem too bad!
I remember that at the gate of the airport I wore an alpaca overcoat that I had bought in Peru… but only as a present for a friend of mine. But my friend was a skinny girl! So imagine, I arrived at customs, dressed like a hippy, with long hair and wearing this weird overcoat, Jimi Hendrix style. They frisked me!
I found a taxi who drove me to Manhattan. I got out of the taxi, right in front of a hotel. I took my suitcases which were very heavy because I had bought some stone objects, and I went into the hotel. It was fully booked! I found myself in the middle of a street not knowing exactly where I was, without an idea of where I could go. In addition it was getting dark and mean characters were coming towards me. I was getting scared about the situation. I tried three or four other hotels and eventually I found a room. The receptionist understood my position and smiled at me. I went in the room and I had a warm bath. After my bath I stopped me in front of a window and I looked at the roofs covered by the snow and …I was in Manhattan!
I’ve finally realized that I am addicted to traveling. Perhaps because I embrace the opportunity to be a fleeting resident in a new place where I am willingly sucked into someone else’s world. A world where – for the time being – there is no laundry waiting, no dishes to be done, and no bills to be paid.
I want to pretend that this new and exotic world is mine, if only for a few days. I want it all, actually, because somehow I also want to figure out how to transform my visit from something fleeting and touristy into a long-term, measurable connection. But how? Because honestly, as much as we strive to know about these places we visit, how much do we really know?
I find myself wandering tiny streets, optimistically searching for that café or restaurant where only the locals go so I can somehow meet them and understand their spirit. And let’s face it – this is not an easy task. These places are not on google maps. Or on tripadvisor.
So after many fruitless attempts at this technique, I have gladly settled for the next best thing. Which is actually not settling at all really. It has become my favorite activity in every city I go.
The places I go to instead of the elusive “locals only” spots are on google maps. And they are probably in your travel books too. I guess it sounds too good to be true. And maybe it is, because maybe you aren’t going to like my answer. The place that I go in every new city I visit in order to understand and connect with the city, is the local art museum.
Yes, I get it. At face value museums can seem uptight, cold, and uninteresting. Boring perhaps is the best word. But I beg to differ. Far from being a victim of bad lighting and boring docent lectures, my museum visits over the last year have often been the highlight of my travels. Favorites range from Baltimore’s provoking American Visionary Art Museum, to Winslow Homer’s rugged New England beach landscapes at the Portland Museum of Art in Maine, to the overwhelming Monet exhibit at the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, and the passionate permanent collection at the El Museo del Barrio in East Harlem.
Sunset in front of the American Visionary Art Museum
What is most fascinating about these museums, and what subsequently prompted me to write this blog post, is each of them are about as different as you and me. Why? Because within their walls rest objects created by people. These objects each have an individual story to be told. But the true fascination comes from seeing them grouped together in permanent or temporary exhibits, as the collective story they tell reflects the personality of the city and the individuals that make up the city you are visiting. Seriously.
On my current tour of the US, I’ve spent my evenings hanging out with friends and loved ones, and my days wandering the halls of my favorite art museums. I know, I can’t complain. My trip thus far has included New York, Washington DC, and Chicago. I return to the museums here over and over again. They are amazing. But each one is very different, and their differences are related to the cities they call home. Understanding their differences is about getting to know what makes each of these cities tick. Here’s why I love each of them.
Chicago is one of my favorite cities in the world, and its museums haven’t let me down. It is a city that embodies the resilience and graciousness of the American spirit like no other city in America, and these qualities are skillfully mirrored in the permanent collection of the Art Institute of Chicago through combinations of masterpieces like Grant Wood’s American Gothic, Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, and Mary Cassatt’s The Child’s Bath, among many others.
All of this amazingness on the backdrop of a beautiful building steps away from fabulous Millennium Park. It is really no wonder why this museum is one of my favorite museums in the world.
Subsequently, it was quite àpropos that in this museum, wandering the endless maze of Roy Lichtenstein‘s work last Thursday, I had one of those light bulb moments where I finally came to understand a museum’s unique ability to poignantly capture the essence of the city it calls home. Seeing the Lichtenstein exhibit taught me the importance of comics and comic art in the cultural heritage of Chicago in a way that I never would have understood otherwise. Hurry up because the exhibit closes soon.
My favorite museum steps – the Metropolitan Museum of Art
When I realized that Harry and Sally spent an afternoon here in a scene of one of my favorite movies of all time, When Harry Met Sally, it confirmed that I was not alone in my love for this place. But how could I ever think I would be? Like the Art Institute of Chicago, a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art is an experience both in and out of the building. There is nothing like approaching the Metropolitan Museum of Art and witnessing hundreds of people treating the steps of this magnificent building like their own front porch. Sitting outside in the sun, dancing and painting on the sidewalk, entering and exiting the museum in a flurry of positive activity. People of all shapes and sizes happily co-habiting and epitomizing the je ne sais quoi of New York, where constant wonder shocks you in the realization of the diversity of humanity. All this on the backdrop of the sheer awe of the scale of the museum building and its collection representing in perfect form the grandeur of New York City. The museum’s permanent collection of art and artifacts is just as diverse and grand as the outside. So much so, there is little my words can do to convey the experience. There is truly something for everybody here – from fashion to Egyptian architecture. Just like New York City, you can literally find the world in this museum. You just have to go.
A cold but lively night in Chinatown in front of the Portrait Gallery
I have never met more new people in one day on vacation than during a day spent at the National Portrait Gallery. No matter how much I love a museum, no appreciation I have can ever compare to what I feel for this place. This is, hands down, my favorite museum.
Believe me, the first time I visited this place I was just as surprised by my reaction as you might be. But the reason is very clear – while the connotation of the word “portrait” might call up ancient images of boring rich people who you have no interest in, this place proves that everything you expected to feel about a portrait is unfounded. This is a museum whose purpose is understanding people through art. A docent here once told me that the museum is half art and half history, as understanding each portrait is to enjoy the artistic quality as well as absorb the story behind each of people in the paintings and to understand our own history more succinctly. Mirroring the role of the city it calls home, this museum truly represents not just the nation’s capital but the United States as a whole. In a true exercise of cultural democracy, the Portrait Gallery proudly displays portraits from the most stately politicians to your next door neighbor. Here and only here is it possibly for a person like me to meet everyone from George Washington to George Bush to the founder of the Girl Scouts, and finish my visit by strolling through 180 portraits of residents from the Iowa hometown of portrait artist Rose Frantzen.
And it gets better. The National Portrait Gallery shares space with the American Art Museum. As you wander the halls of the Portrait Gallery you will find yourself mistakenly wandering into a hallway belonging to the American Art Museum. Wait, did I say mistake? I wish I made mistakes like this more often. After seeing Norman Rockwell at his finest two years ago, I began wondering if I needed to reserve two spots on my number one favorite museums list. Last week my delight with this museum surpassed everything I’ve ever seen here, with the best collection of photography I have enjoyed in years as part of the African American Art: Harlem Renaissance, Civil Rights Era, and Beyond exhibit. My suspicions are officially confirmed, and I now have two number one faves.
But my favorite afternoons in Washington, DC are actually spent both inside and outside the museum on its dramatic steps in the center of Chinatown. Coincidentally – or maybe not so coincidentally – this museum joins the ranks of the Art Institute of Chicago and the Metropolitan Museum of Art with its urban proximity to the spirit of the city.
Gee, what more could I ask for? Hope you too can find your favorite places in the next city you visit.
Today I experienced that moment – that unmistakable moment – when my sunny carefree Sunday suddenly got kicked up a notch. The sky overloaded with giant, moving grey clouds, the wind began to kick my hair around, and that hot, sticky world that normally consumes me the second I leave home or work suddenly went away and what came instead was a chill and an unmistakable sense of foreboding.
But somehow, I didn’t mind. Just like all the other people at the Boat House restaurant in Ossining, NY, didn’t mind. Why not? What is so magical about a summer storm? The unexpectedness of the experience? The visual drama? The weather?
We could barely see through the raindrops on the window to the storm just on the other side.
In my former corner of the world in the south of California, summer storms are nearly non-existent. So my fond memories of these experiences all come from my summers spent in New York City. To me, summer rain IS New York City. The drama, the smell, and the temporary urgency fleetingly catapult me back in time fifteen years to walking to acting class on the lower west side of Manhattan in July and racing for cover under the nearest overhang, only to discover four construction workers doing the exact same thing who subsequently became my new best friends.
A study in contrasts, a summer storm is all at once overbearingly dramatic, yet not in the slightest bit threatening. The torrential wind and downpour is dramatic but warm, and somehow, not dangerous. There is a universal understanding that this storm will be over soon, and life will go on as before. In fact, life will even be a little more bearable with that slight breeze in the air, a cleaner city, and humidity washed away with the storm.
My aunt, Suzanne DeChillo, snapped this photo of me taking pictures just after the storm.
Today I experienced the magic of the summer storm from a perfect vantage point – front row seats at the picture window facing the Croton Bay at the Boat House restaurant in Ossining, NY. Guests sitting just outside the window on the patio ran inside for cover in a fit of temporary hysteria – hair flying, makeup running, food drenched. But my family and I sat inside, dry and entertained, and relished the beauty of the moment. These moments that I cherish, that I rarely experienced in my life in the west.
The ocean is deceptively calm.
These photos are of the end and the aftermath of the storm. And what a reward it was to discover the bay like this. Just a short train ride from Grand Central Station, this place instead feels worlds apart from the bustle of the city. The perfect place to relish a summer storm.
