Coastal Voyager

Swimming with whale sharks at the Georgia Aquarium

My mother, sister, nephew and I visited the Georgia Aquarium, the largest aquarium in the world, after it first opened in Atlanta several years ago. We all were impressed with its many colorful and educational marinelife displays. The aquarium has numerous unique exhibits such as Tropical Diver, a reef system chockful of neon bright fish and the occasional crashing wave.

But the big "Wow!" moment came as we rounded a wall in one of the exhibits and unexpectedly came upon the aquarium's 61-foot-wide-by 23-foot-tall Ocean Voyager viewing window. We gaped through the towering acrylic window and saw mighty whale sharks swimming in the rich blue water at the top of the 6.3-million-gallon tank.

Schools of tarpon, pompano and cownose rays as well as individual zebra sharks, sawfish, leopard whiprays, bowmouth guitarfish and humphead wrasses swam below. Time stood still as we stared and marveled at the sea creatures that swam and floated before us.

Afterwards I often thought back to the spectacle of that viewing window, which still is one of my most memorable experiences as an avid snorkeler and aquarium aficionado. When I learned several months ago that it was possible to snorkel or dive in the Ocean Voyager tank through the aquarium's Journey with Gentle Giants program, I jumped at the chance.

Was I worried about the sharks in the tank? Although whale sharks grow to be 25 to 35 feet long or longer they eat plankton. And the other sharks are fed daily so they aren't a threat I'd been told by aquarium officials. As I've seen a number of non-aggressive sharks in open water while snorkeling and diving, I didn't give it too much thought.

I arrived early at the aquarium before my session so I'd have several hours to be mesmerized by Pacific sea nettles, leafy sea dragons, lionfish and other freaky wonders of the water world. One of my favorite stops at the aquarium is the 100-foot-long underwater acrylic tunnel under the Ocean Voyager tank. There's something delightful about seeing hundreds of fish swimming above your head.

Before the swim my group was given an orientation, then we suited up in the locker room at the top of the tank. Although all swimmers are issued an airtank and regulator, they can opt just to use their snorkel, which was my preference as it's quieter. We entered the water one by one then our swim across the surface of the tank began.

Soon we were joined by four huge whale sharks and two large manta rays swimming alongside and just under us. I was soon entranced by the quiet of the deep, the sweeping tails and fins and undulating shapes of the creatures near us, and the cornucopia of fishes below. The wide expanse of one whale shark's spotted body slowly moved just beneath me and I became hypnotized by the multitude of white circular shapes that seemed to have been softly spray-painted on a gray ground.

Occasionally I glanced way down at the bottom of the tank just behind our group and would see a hammerhead shark cocking his head up and eyeing us. I felt he was particularly looking at me, and that made me a bit nervous. But then I would just reassure myself and turn my attention back to my bliss, the hauntingly quiet blue and the strange marvels inhabiting it.

Echos of the past: Exploring Boston's Public Garden and Freedom Trail

My exploration of Boston began a bit late in the day. After a therapeutic morning massage, I had napped for hours in my room at the Four Seasons trying to sleep off a bad cold. When I awoke that afternoon the overcast sky had cleared, as had my head, and the Public Garden was green and inviting outside my bay window.

The concierge gave me a map of the area and pointed out a few area attractions, including the Freedom Trail, and the street where I had dinner reservations that evening. I was a little on edge because of my lack of familarity with the city. A bit dazed and wondering what I might happen upon, I walked out and crossed Boylston Street to the garden. It was a start.

I instantly felt at ease in the charming Victorian-style park. Bands of colorful tulips lined the paths surrounding an elevated bronze statue of George Washington and his horse. Tall weeping willows lined a central pond traversed by a swan boat. The many cherry trees in the park were in bloom and their blossoms fell like snow. While the park was busy with visitors it wasn't crowded. After meandering awhile, I walked on across the garden and soon came to an exit that lead toward Boston Commons.

The commons, although just as vibrant green, was a larger, yet simpler park by far. The people in it who weren't resting on benches were walking decisively across the commons on their way somewhere. As the Freedom Trail began in the park, I decided to look for the beginning of the narrow red brick trail that's lead millions of visitors down sidewalks and across streets to 16 historic sites. Might as well follow the trail for a bit, I thought, since I had an hour or two before dinner. I couldn't help but marvel at the striking, gold-domed State House high on Beacon Hill.

As I continued on the way, I noted Park Street Church and then the Granary Burying Ground. School children were listening to their teacher tell them about Paul Revere, Samuel Adams and other historic figures buried there. It's something we all have in common growing up in this country and learning about these heroes of history as children. Being in the place where they were buried hit home with me. They no longer seemed like characters out of story, but real men who lived and died.

I paused for a bit at the Benjamin Franklin statue at the Boston Latin School he briefly attended, then smiled to see a Starbucks next door. The old and the new make for such an interesting contrast in the city. Skyscrapers tower above historic churches, meeting halls and other civic buildings.

Soon I came upon the Old South Meeting House, which was built in 1729 by a Puritan congregation. It was the largest building in colonial Boston, according to the history books. A placard noted Franklin had been baptized there and that African-American slave and poet Phillis Wheatley worshipped there. Something about the old church beckoned me to go in.

There in the main hall the high white walls seemed to echo with the words of Samuel Adams and others who fomented the American Revolution by protesting the Boston Massacre, impressment of Americans into the British Navy and tax on tea. Here the Boston Tea Party was set off as 5,000 colonists heard Adam's secret signal. Later the British used the hall as a riding stable for their calvary as they occupied the city in response to such civil unrest. Our country might be different if not for some of the words said here. But eventual independence seems to have been inevitable.

I had sometimes worried before that the politics of our time was more antagonistic than it had ever been, that liberals and conservatives have too often demonized each other and were polarizing the country. But any current conflicts are a lovefest compared to the rancor between Tories/Loyalists and Whigs/Patriots, I was learning.

The Loyalists, only 15 to 20 percent of the population, were frequently tarred and feathered or otherwise punished by mobs of "Patriots" if they voiced their loyalty to the crown or were suspected of it. It was a brutal time, but perhaps not quite as brutal as our beginnings with witch burnings and overrunning of Native Americans. We've come a long way, and if we do continue to falter, still we have made much progress by eventually opening our eyes to wrongdoing time after time, and correcting it.

I can't help but think it's because men and women continue to speak out against what they perceive be injustice and debate public issues, as they did and continue to do in the Old South Meeting House, that our country has become more civilized. These days we are less prone to tar and feather those whose opinions differ from our own. Our individual rights and freedoms are more often protected.

After the Old South congregation moved to a different location the old meeting house was to be torn down, and would have been if not through the efforts of early historic preservationists, including Ralph Waldo Emerson. Their efforts started a national wave of preservation. It's fitting that the Old South Meeting House, a museum and historic site since 1877, set off that revolution as well.

Walking our way back to Charleston, S.C.

If you ever visit Charleston it's sure to stay in your mind as a near-perfect place. "If only more cities could be as charming and gracious," I thought the first time I visited. And when I recently returned, more than 15 years later, I felt the same way, yet even more so. Although I've visited many more cities now, Charleston is still one of my favorites.

Like such destinations as New Orleans, Key West, St. Augustine and San Francisco, it's a U.S. city I will always want to get to know better. Charleston reminds me that we have more than a bit of the elegance of European capitals like London and Amsterdam here.

When you stay within the historic center of the South Carolina city, you feel as if you are more in a neighborhood than an urban area. It's neither too big nor too little, rather "just right" as Goldilocks would say. Plus it's beautifully set on peninsula between the Ashley and Cooper rivers coming together at Charleston Harbor.

Walking down Charleston's streets with lush landscaping, many parks, and carefully restored historic homes, churches, government buildings and businesses, you can't help but feel at home. Especially when one of the locals gives you a neighborly smile. There's something substantial and reassuring about all the wrought-iron gates and fences.

It's no wonder Charleston has served as an inspiration for the development of new walkable communities across the country where residential neighborhoods are footsteps from town centers and schools. Seaside, Florida, which was designed based on Charleston and other small historic cities, kicked off the New Urbanism movement in the early 1980s. The planning style, also known as Traditional Neighborhood Development, was later famously used for Disney's Celebration. One of my favorite of such new communities is Rosemary Beach, Florida.

Now the return to traditional city planning vs. separating suburban residential developments from business districts has become commonplace. Historic downtowns and their surrounding residential areas have been revived, restored and are highly sought after these days. While I'm definitely a fan of the original versions with their old-style craftsmanship, evolution over time and quirky character, I too respect how much easier it is to live in a brand new home built in a historic style vs. a charming money pit.

But you can never fully reproduce historic ambience. Charleston's past as a player in the Revolutionary War, a bastion of the plantation-focused, slave-driven South, and a reinvented modern Southern city, can not be replicated as if a movie set. There is no Charleston but Charleston. The angels and ghosts that protect and haunt it are part of what you feel when you walk its streets. While you and I may not be able to afford to live in Charleston, we can't afford not to saunter down its streets and listen to its stories.

As for myself I grew up in Homewood, Alabama, one of thousands of original traditional neighborhoods where you can easily walk to school, the library, church and town. As I adore to walk and look and think without crowds around to distract me, it was the perfect upbringing for me. Since then I have sought out such communities to live in where ever my work has taken me.

When I travel it's always a great pleasure to take a stroll anytime I'm in a walkable city like Charleston. It not only gives me a better feel for the place, I find that my experiences while walking remain memorable. I'm less apt to remember what I've only seen while zipping by in a car, van or bus. Probably that's because walking engages all the senses. While I'm walking I am smelling the fresh cut grass or the blossoming jasmine, sweating in the humidity or relishing a gentle breeze.

Perhaps that's why so many of us long for traditional communities and cherish those that come across our path. By luring us to walk rather than jump into a car, they wake us up to life.

In search of my perfect beach

I have to say in all honesty that I've never seen a beach I didn't like. By their very nature, water meeting land, beaches delight me. Whether they be sugar white or tawny, sandy or rocky with calm, crystal clear or churning, dark water, I find them inspiring. Always on a beach I feel a sense of wonder. The beach is my church, my mosque, my synagogue.

But my perfect beach. That is a thing all together different. It's more of a concept than a reality, bits and pieces pulled from all the amazing beaches I've ever seen. Perhaps impossible to find, like the perfect man or woman.

I'm sure you too have your own concept of your perfect beach. For my mother, the perfect beach would be of the Gulf Coast variety. When I lived near the Atlantic Ocean in the Cocoa Beach area, she only visited once, pooh-poohing our long, gray beaches and turbid waters.

My concept of the perfect beach is a bit like the images of deserted Caribbean beaches in those classic Corona beer commercials. The camera lingers on the glowing turquoise waters, blue sky, white sand and green palms. The only sound is from the waves and the Corona.

Usually, no matter how spectacular a beach is, there are small distractions or annoyances. Like the gorgeous beach at the Dominican Republic all-inclusive resort that was covered in hundreds of sunbathers. Sometimes it's jellyfish or lumps of seaweed that detracts, sometimes its a rocky entrance into the water, sometimes rough waves or dangerous currents. Being an optimist, I tend to focus on the beauty, feeling very blessed to be on a beach.

Part of what defines a beach as perfect for me is being able to walk out of my door and it be there. And I should the only one or one of the only ones there. Probably that idea was etched in my mind as a child because the budget mom-and-pop hotel we stayed in on the outskirts of Panama City Beach each year provided that. And the sand should be near white and the water crystal clear. Check off two more for early childhood memories.

But the neon turquoise water color I crave? That hit my wish list the first time I visited the Caribbean. I was in my early 30s and on assignment to track down some builders who had run off to St. Croix after pocketing an elderly couple's cash. When I saw the colors of that island's waters I became obsessed, and forever changed. That's what happens when you come across one of your favorite things in all the world for the first time.

Recently I had the good fortune to come across a beach that is as close to perfection as I've ever found, the beach at Lighthouse Bay Resort in Barbuda. The small luxury resort itself is on a miles-long ridge of sand sandwiched between the Caribbean and Codrington Lagoon. The lagoon and most of the land around it are in a protected wildlife area, so realistically the resort is only accessible by taking a boat across the lagoon.

Because summer is the low season in Barbuda, I was only one of three guests staying at the resort, and the only people in the vacinity were a couple on a catamaran anchored a mile down the beach. Every time I walked on the beach or swam in the warm Caribbean waters I was blissfully alone, hearing only the sound of the wind and the sea.

The pristine beach goes on for miles in each direction for as far as the eye can see, just sand and low-lying vegetation. And that sand, tinged a golden pink, is powder soft to the feet. Flecks of pink coral decorate the beach in slender bands at water's edge.

The water itself is a crystal clear turquoise with a lake-like calm. Floating in the gently undulating water there is reassuring. You feel yourself lifted up as if by the hands of God.

I want to burn the sights, sounds and sensations of that beach deep into my memory, forever remembering the mystic being in those perfect moments ...

Is the search for my perfect beach over? No, far from it. The standard's just been raised.

As my Dad used to quote from Tenneyson's Ulysses: "... all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move."

Lighthouses of Cape Cod, Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard

Growing up in a landlocked southern city into my early adulthood, my knowledge of lighthouses was only based on photographs, movies and TV. From those sources it seemed almost all lighthouses were on the sea-sprayed rocky coast of Maine.

Even so, those representations stoked my early passion for the maritime icons, which continue to have a haunting attraction for me. I always search out lighthouses on my coastal travels. They are beautiful in their architectural simplicity as an obelisk or well-designed skyscraper. They are symbolic of the concept of a guiding light. And they have been lifesavers for mariners throughout much of recorded history.

History has it that before lighthouses a fire was set at the edge of the water or on a hill to guide fishermen and traders home. The first lighthouses are said to have been built by Egyptians, including the Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World, the Pharos Lighthouse of Alexandria. Erected around 270 B.C. and covered in marble that lighthouse is believed to have been somewhere between 450 to 600 feet tall. It stood for 1500 years until an earthquake brought it down.

Today many historic lighthouses are still used as navigational aids as a failsafe to high-tech navigational devices, including the country's first lighthouse, Boston Lighthouse on Little Brewster Island in Boston Harbor. Most of our lighthouses now are automated and managed by the U.S. Coastguard.

So I looked forward to seeing a plethora of lighthouses as I started my recent journey from Boston to Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard and Cape Cod. I thought, I've seen lighthouses all along the Florida coast, in the Keys, Great Lakes, Bermuda, the Caribbean, and even several on the Red Sea. But New England is the classic home of the lighthouse. Now I'll really see some lighthouses.

First I came across the tiny white-painted cedar shake Brant Point Lighthouse on Nantucket. To be honest, it looked cute but a bit dinky on its lonely beach as I approached the island on the high-speed ferry. Almost if it had been built by Disney. I thought of the towering 175-foot red brick Ponce Inlet Lighthouse near Daytona Beach, Fla., the first lighthouse I ever visited, and the second tallest in the the nation. I wondered if all lighthouses in this strange land of New England were small and quaint.

Fog rolled in that afternoon, and as I walked toward the 26-foot lighthouse feeling like Jessica Fletcher in Cabot Cove a la "Murder She Wrote," I saw the Brant Point Light flashing through the mist. This was no toy lighthouse, but a true navigational aid, I realized. I felt greater respect.

The next day, which was gloriously sunny, I returned to get a closer look and passed a friendly U.S. Coast Guard member polishing his station's brass bell. As I approached the lighthouse on the beach I was impressed by its stalwart character. I got the sense it perfectly suits its position guarding the charming town of Nantucket on the island of the same name.

A couple from Connecticut were also admiring the lighthouse. They assured me that each lighthouse in New England is delightfully different and worth visiting. Later I learned this Brant Point Light is on the site of the second lighthouse ever built in the United States. The first Brant Point Light was erected in 1746 and many other replacements were built after violent storms. The current sturdy version was constructed in 1901.

After the short flight to Martha's Vineyard, I visited the lighthouse on the dramatic clay cliffs of Gay Head. Now this grassy high point is a wonderfully romantic location for a lighthouse. The 51-foot red brick tower, built in 1856 as a replacement for the original Gay Head Light, reminded me a bit of Ponce Inlet. Although its flashing red light seems a little ominous, if I return I will bring a a picnic lunch and a blanket as I could easily spend hours there.

I also was fortunate while on the Vineyard to visit the Edgartown Harbor Light, which stands on a beach marking the entrance into Edgartown Harbor and Katama Bay. This white lighthouse with black trim has a classic shape.

The next stop on my journey was Chatham on Cape Cod, and there I was to come across several lighthouses. On the way out to Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge via Rip Ryder Monomoy Island Ferry, my group saw the charming Stage Harbor Lighthouse, which is now a residence. Not a one of us on the boat didn't wonder what it was like to live in a lighthouse station on the beach.

After we saw the amazing herds of grey seals on Monomoy Island, we caught sight of the brick tip of the Monomoy Light. The Monomoy Island Ferry gives tours of the lighthouse and the island in the summer, so if I ever get back that way ... Later I visited the Chatham Light high above a public beach, another classic lighthouse. In this part of the country, I was learning, you really don't have to go far out of your way to find a lighthouse.

On the way up to Provinceton, curiousity got the better of me and I pulled off the main road to check out the Cape Cod Light, also known as the Highland Light. One of the things that makes this lighthouse unusual is that there's a golf course surrounding it. Nice for golfers to play on the rolling hills with the majestic Atlantic Ocean such a deep blue beyond the high clay cliffs. So different from the days when many deaths along the treacherous coast necessitated the building of the lighthouse.

In Provincetown on my whale watching tour I caught sight of the squarish Wood End Light, now run by solar power. It's not too far from the classic round Race Point Light. There in Provincetown I also made up for not being able to climb any of the lighthouses I saw on my trip by trudging up the stairs of the 252-foot Pilgrim Monument. Like the Statue of Liberty, it easily could be used as a navigational beacon if need be.

After seeing so many Cape Cod and island lighthouses, I am even more interested in lighthouses than before. There is something reassuring about the solitary towers still standing through the generations. They make the seascapes more beautiful by their very being.

Whale watching off the coast of Provincetown, Massachusetts

First there was a bit of spouting in the distance. Some of the others on my whale watching tour pointed toward the horizon ahead of the vessel at the one o'clock position. I squinted and scanned the blue water, then finally saw a spray of mist. Looks like we're really going to see some whales, I thought to myself.

Like any eco tour, with whale watching you never really know for sure if you're going to come across animals. But the time and place was right, mid May off the coast of Cape Cod in the Stellwagen Bank Marine Sanctuary. A perfectly clear day, not too cold.

It wasn't my first whale watching tour. I'd seen belugas, minkes and blue whales in the St. Lawrence River along Quebec's famed whale route and and right whales in the Bay of Fundy. Coming close to such majestic creatures is always a thrill. But although I had seen dozens of whales spouting, rolling and diving, I was really itching to see a tail fluke or two, or maybe a whale breaching.

Someone had mentioned in the line for the Dolphin Fleet tour that humpback whales are often seen breaching in the area, so I had some hope in my heart to witness it. But I was a bit concerned because the double-decker boat was extremely crowded, which was different from my more intimate whale watching tours in Quebec and New Brunswick. I went upstairs hoping I'd get a better view from above.

Soon we had navigated close to our first humpback whale. Yes, there was the characteristic hump the creature makes as it dives, the captain pointed out. When the whale came to the surface again, it stuck out one of its huge white pectoral flippers and wagged it as if waving hello to us. Okay, maybe I've spent too much time at SeaWorld and Discovery Cove in Orlando, but the whale kept that up for quite awhile!

Finally after the captain decided we'd seen enough of the waving behavior, he headed us toward some other whales. I was a little miffed because the folks on the left side of the boat got a lot more time to see the whale than we did on the right side. Of course us right siders had flooded over to the left and craned our necks to see. Still it was better when the whale had been on our side of the boat and we were watching at the railing.

As we approached the next whale, we saw it was jumping out of the water in the distance. I thought: Now that's more like it! Of course as we got closer the whale quit jumping and then disappeared altogether. I was beginning to feel a little cold in the chilly sea breeze and sorry for myself. But then we were off again chasing another spout.

Luckily this new humpback was in a playful mood and began breaching multiple times. And yes, the captain turned the boat so that we on the right side got our fair share of the action. Of course I was nervously scrambling the whole time to try and get a photograph of the whale in mid air. Action photography while standing in a crowd and spiritual appreciation of what you're witnessing do not go hand in hand.

Too soon the captain was speeding away. He wanted to check out some other whales he saw in the distance. Darned! A humpback in the hand ... But he knew what he was doing because we were soon watching the jumping follies of a mother humpback and her charming calf. After I was sure I had caught several good photos of the mother leaping and twirling and falling into the blue, I finally relaxed and just began watching the amazing creatures with a silent mind.

Nothing had prepared me for the wonder of a 50-foot humpback shooting from the water, glistening and dripping, seeming to defy gravity, suspended in a heavy spray ... then falling backward, revealing its mouth grooves, crashing into the water. Oh rise again beautiful creature! And here she comes again ... and then again and again. I watched rapt as the mother breached more more than a dozen times. Oftentimes she seemed to be flying, her pectoral fins like wings. And as the less obsessed members of the tour sat down I was all alone at the rail, just me and my humpbacks communing.

Finally, the captain said we had to be leaving soon because we were due back at the dock. As we were heading back we came across a humpback that was displaying his tail fluke. He waggled the fluke back and forth toward us for about five minutes and then disappeared into the blue. Was the whale waving goodbye? You will never convince me otherwise!

Returning to my first beach: Panama City Beach, Florida

Hard to believe I hadn't visited Panama City Beach in more than 20 years. After all, it was my first beach, my first encounter with the miracle of shore and sea oats and the wonder of waves. So when I returned to those sugar white sands this past week, I had some catching up to do with my memories.
 
It was here I ran after sand pipers and seagulls while my mother floated on her back rising up and down with the gentle waves. It was here my sister and I collected shells and pieces of sand dollars and coral. It was here my dad scooped up sand in his hands and tossed it, setting the sand crabs scuttling across the beach to burrow in again.

Here I have always felt the magnificence of life and awe of the Creator. The simple harmony of sky over sea and sand on a sunny day. All seems possible.

After I graduated from college and worked at The Dothan Eagle, I again visited Panama City Beach, but this time with boyfriends. One of them became my husband (and then former husband). I'll never forget the day he and I first walked on the beach together. Both of us felt a sense of destiny.

So when I returned to Panama City Beach and first saw the color of the water, crystal clear bottle green spilling over the sand then bands of teal leading to deep blue and the horizon, I knew I had come home. As I walked and savored the incredible beauty I felt that I had really never seen this beach before. I was seeing it with new eyes.

How much more does the beach mean to me now that I have seen many, many other beaches, lived a lot more life and spent much time away from my family. And how much more it will mean to me in another 20 years. As T.S. Elliott said "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

The price of tea in Chinatown, San Francisco, California

My friend and I took the cable car to Chinatown in San Franciso. She wanted to show me the wonderful sights, sounds and smells of the Chinese markets and apothecaries. Walking down into the heart of the area we were delighted by the festive atmosphere. There were colorful banners and signs and storefronts with Chinese architectural elements.

Along the way we came across a sign reading "free tea tasting." Hmmm. That sounded interesting. So we walked into the shop, which was empty except for a man and woman behind the counter.

The tea room looked brand new and had a vibrant red and gold decor, a long wooden bar and hundreds of containers of loose tea labeled in Chinese and English. Most of them seemed to be priced at $100 or more a pound. Yikes!

A young Chinese woman, who looked like a model, asked if she could help us as her male colleague, perhaps her husband or brother, was working with a loud drill near by. Because of the noise, the elegance of the surroundings and the price of the tea we said "we're just looking."

Just down the block we saw another tea shop, Vital Tea-Leaf Co. But this one had what looked to be a mixture of locals and tourists around the bar tasting tea. A man was pouring small cups of tea, and after he finished he motioned for us to sit.

The tea demonstrator was part stand up comic, part tea educator and part salesman. Soon he had us laughing and hanging on his every word as he brewed various teas for us to try. He got a little irritated when I kept snapping pictures of the tea demonstration. "What am I the Golden Gate Bridge?" he scolded. I got the message and put up my camera.

He prepared and served us various teas, including green, oolong, medicinal and floral. The rose tea was both pretty and tasty. One tea tasted buttery. The medicinal tea was bitter.

The tea demonstrator pointed out that more than 1,500 types of tea are produced across the world and so we shouldn't limit ourselves to Lipton tea bags.

I asked him if he was familiar with flowering teas, and he pointed to a shelf with multiple jars of them. Each tea ball turns into an artistic tea flower when soaked in water. They are delightfully exotic, yet are available in grocery stores back home.

I noticed the price of tea on the shelves of Vital Tea-Leaf seemed a little less expensive than the shop up the street, but still out of reach for my budget. Although my fortune cookie predicted wealth, I believe that may have meant a wealth of experience, at least so far.

Lipton's orange pekoe tea bags will have to do for me now as the source of my daily morning tea. Of course I'm going to be on the lookout for tea tastings as I venture out into the world. 

And don't be surprised if I occasionally treat myself to a cup of gourmet tea just as I sometimes invest in a glass of good red wine.

Mass transit, movies and mayhem in San Francisco, California

I only had a few hours to check out San Francisco via mass transit and walking, so I thought I'd be doing good to navigate from the airport in San Mateo to the Golden Gate Bridge. You can't have watched Albert Hitchcock's Vertigo without wanting to see the bridge in person. I had dutifully researched the route to get there, but was a little nervous. Although I have been a frequent traveler in recent years, I've rarely visited cities, and when I have it's been with a group via a shuttle bus. I hadn't used commuter rail, a bus or the subway in more than a decade.

All those movies and TV shows I've watched with crime-ridden city subway scenarios didn't help, not to mention Zodiac. Maybe I have seen too many movies. Still all the memorable movies and gorgeous photographs of San Francisco have made me long to see the city, and be willing to face some mass transit discomfort to do so. As the poet John Berryman said "We must travel in the direction of our fear."

Luckily I met a friendly lady from Israel on my San Mateo County hotel shuttle to catch the Bay Area Rapid Transit train. She soon was asking me if I wanted company on my foray into the city. Along the way we learned from the helpful BART attendant that we could see the Golden Gate Bridge from Fisherman's Wharf, and that Chinatown was not too far from the wharf on the way back to a BART station. That sounded good to us.

So we disembarked from the Embarcadero station and began the 20-minute walk down Embarcadero to Pier 39 and the wharf. Our route past the city's many neat-and-clean piers and warehouses gave us great vantage points to take in the San Francisco skyline, including the signature Transamerica Pyramid, and the rolling hills that give the city its unique character. I thought about how photographs, film and video capture such small parts of cities, landscapes, etc. You have to be surrounded by a place to really get some sense of it, even a real taste of it. Photographs and words are just invitations to the party.

After awhile we passed an Alcatraz tour boat, and then there it was rising serenely from the bay: the infamous Alcatraz. Talk about movie locations. The ironic contrast of the brutal history of the prison with its huge popularity with popcorn-chewing tourists today cannot be missed when you're there to witness it. Of course if I'd had the time I would have gone to get an eyeful myself.

We kept walking and watching, and then I saw something that shocked a forgotten image from my memory. It was a bank of trees in two parallel rows. Their almost leafless branches reached up in a contorted gnarly way that was both beautiful and alarming. I remembered seeing a line of such trees about 30 years before in the 1978 remake of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The trees, which do look to be from an alien planet, figure prominently in the horrifying ending of the film. I was mesmorized looking at them again.

Could these be the same peculiar trees? I had never seen them before anywhere else. The background was different I vaguely remembered. Later I saw them again when touring the picturesque Filoli Gardens in San Mateo, and learned from our guide they were London plane hybrid sycamores. Their knobby branches are created by the ancient practice of "pollarding," a type of pruning which gives them a unique look for gardens and keeps them from outgrowing their urban environment. See, I told myself, they're not so spooky afterall.

Through googling I learned the film was indeed set in San Francisco and the background of the trees in question is the San Francisco City Hall.

After nosing around Pier 39 and the Wharf, seeing the ghostly outline of the Golden Gate through a light foggy haze, and being introduced to the delights of Dungeness Crab, my friend and I took a cable car to Chinatown. The ability of the cable car to easily climb and descend the many steep hills of San Francisco helped me get why it's still so popular a means of transportation there. Soon the cable car attendant was calling out the stop for Chinatown and we disembarked for our next adventure: tea tasting.

When it was time for me to get back to my hotel so I wouldn't miss my San Mateo tour reception I walked to the downtown shopping district with my new friend where we parted ways. And then in possession of a good mass-transit map and having the ability to ask strangers for directions, I found my way to the Civic Center BART station and was soon speeding back to my hotel with a big smile on my face.

The joy of seafood: Discovering Dungeness crab on Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco

Part of what makes traveling to coastal regions so rewarding is having the opportunity to enjoy the fresh local seafood. Recently I had my first mouth-watering taste of Dungeness crab in San Francisco. Now I know why the species is called Cancer magister, "master crab."

I had a feeling the big red crabs I saw cooking outside of Nick's Lighthouse on Fisherman's Wharf were going to be something special. Folks were sitting on nearby benches with paper baskets heaped up with legs and claws or fried calamari, munching happily. My friend had spied them as we wandered along the wharf and suggested we check out Nick's.

We decided to go inside the cozy restaurant filled with well-worn burgandy vinyl booths and historic maritime memorabilia. Nick's opened in 1934, and it doesn't look like it's changed much in all those years. Fortunately we timed our visit right, as there was an empty booth for us.

While my friend ordered the fried calamari, I opted for an order of the crabs. The $27 price tag for a full crab and salad convinced me to go for half a crab at $13.99. After all, I had to save a few dollars to try the local beer, Anchor Steam.

We chomped on a basket of sour dough bread and waited, wondering if the seafood in this tourist-area restaurant we picked on the suggestion of nobody was any good. When the waiter brought in my glistening crab pieces with nutcracker and a tiny fork, I asked what I should dip it in. "Most people eat it plain," he said, so I took his advice.

After the first bite I knew I'd made a mistake opting for the half crab, because the crab was so fresh, sweet, tender and moist that it would have been worth every penny at twice the price. My friend also enjoyed her calamari, which I tasted. It was some of the freshest calamari with the best breading I've ever put in my mouth.

When I asked the waiter about the crab, he said it was Dungeness crab, which is found in the Bay Area. Later I learned the range of my new favorite crab is from Santa Cruz, Calif., just south of San Francisco, to the Aleutian Islands in Alaska. It's named for the town of Dungeness, Wash. Fortunately my visit fell within crab season, which runs from mid-November to May.

The 8- to 10-inch-wide Dungeness crab has a meat-to-shell ratio of about 25 percent, much higher than the typical 15 percent ratio of other crabs. Always before I had thought eating crab was a lot of work for little payoff, and had preferred crab dishes over eating the crab right out of its home.

The legs and claws of the Dungeness holds much of its meat. Sometimes it's good to have big legs!