A Walker in the Suburbs

It’s easy to think that the blowout parade Saturday night was Madeira’s premier Carnival event. And it was, when measured in glitter and glitz.

But today’s Slapstick Parade was a crowd favorite, too. Think of it as the people’s event. Anyone could enter. Costumes were as plain or fancy as you’d like them to be. Floats were homemade, and silliness reigned.

Many of the jokes went right over our heads; they required inside knowledge of Madeira politics. But I could get the gist of them, and laughed along with everyone else.

If Samba dancing was a focal point of Saturday’s event, children were a centerpiece of today’s celebration: little pirates, ballerinas, princesses and clowns running and twirling and throwing confetti.

Speaking of confetti, there was plenty to sweep up. A cleanup crew was waiting nearby, ready to begin.

The pigeons of Madeira are on the move. They’re on the wing and on the take. The pigeons of Madeira are making out like bandits, if you want to know the truth.

After only a few days on the island I’ve witnessed more bird-sponsored thievery than I have in years. Pigeons snatch french fries from the plates of unsuspecting diners. Diners fight back. Pigeons, unrepentant, try again. Diners give up and move inside.

I’m a bird person, as many of my posts will reveal, but the birds here have gotten entirely out of hand. They are undeterred by swats, towel flaps and glasses of water thrown their way. I would say these pigeons are hungry, but they don’t appear to have missed many meals. I will give them this, though. They know how to pose for the camera.

Forget its pious origins, the blowing off of steam before the Lenten fast. Carnival in Madeira is noisy and naughty and fun. It pushes right past Ash Wednesday into the next weekend.

The Allegoric Parade on Saturday night featured hours of dancing and prancing, each float and troupe more elaborate than the next. So many feathers, sequins and glitter! So many bare derrieres!

We sat at a cafe carved into rock, right next to the parade route, and our table was tucked away enough that we could stand up and bop to the music without disturbing those behind us. Midway through the evening, everyone was on their feet. Wait staff were dancing with patrons. It was impossible to sit still with samba pulsing, confetti flying and thousands lining the parade route along the Funchal waterfront.

With its international visitors and vibe, it can be easy to forget that Madeira has close ties to Portugal and Brazil. But not during Carnival time.

We’re back in this island paradise, our second trip in as many years. For me, it’s a getaway crammed into spring break, but no less of a getaway because of that. Maybe more of one!

Last year we walked and hiked ourselves silly. We traveled east, west, north and south. We sampled many of the island’s attractions: the museums and restaurants and a cable car in the clouds.

Which means that this year is gravy, the cherry on the sundae. No agenda but hanging out with family and friends and soaking up as much of the island vibe as we can in 10 days. I’m so grateful and happy we could return.

(One of many jaw-dropping views on Madeira, where the mountains meet the sea.)

She made her home in D.C., but she was a citizen of the world. In 1946, at the age of 21, Shirley Duncan hopped on a bike and rode 11,000 miles across Australia with a friend. It took three years and also included transit in boats, on camels and on sea turtles.

The pair slept under the stars and air-dried their creek-washed clothes by stringing a line between the handlebars of their bikes. To finance their expedition they made beds, mustered cattle and served as spokespeople for Peters Ice Cream, which entitled them to free ice cream throughout their trip.

Duncan never looked back. She lived for a while in London and wrote a book called Two Wheels to Adventure. She explored Lapland, Siberia, Morocco, Malta, Turkey, Yemen, Tibet, Japan and Tahiti. She journeyed overland from Paris to Singapore, hitchhiking through the Soviet zone of Austria and lodging on a houseboat in Kashmir. She worked for Reuters in Laos and National Geographic in Africa, where she spent a week with Albert Schweitzer.

When she “settled down,” Duncan made travel her business. Her company, High Adventure Tours, took travelers to exotic destinations throughout the world. This woman had a life! And it didn’t end until a week ago, when she died of renal failure in a District hospital at the age of 99.

In her poem “The Summer Day,” Mary Oliver once famously asked the question, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” For Shirley Duncan, the answer was travel.

The 2,500-year-old Swayambhunath Temple in Nepal, one of Duncan’s favorite countries.

I may have discovered a no-fail sleep aid. It’s not melatonin, Lunesta or Benadryl. Not a hot bath or a cup of warm milk, though these homespun remedies have their place.

My secret, if you’d like to call it that, is taking a red-eye flight the night before. Yes, good old-fashioned sleep deprivation can work wonders for insomnia. It may require a day of disorientation before it clicks in, but perhaps such deep, sumptuous sleep is worth it.

The thing is, a red eye from the West Coast makes sense. In addition to being affordable it provides more visiting time on departure day. And leaving at 11 in the evening (2 a.m. back home) means you’re landing by dawn’s early light. The only problem is how to grab 40 or even 20 winks in the air. But if this doesn’t happen, you have the promise of a nap followed by sublime catch-up sleep to come.

A bit unorthodox? Yes, but not without merit.

I awoke yesterday to dense fog and quarter-mile visibility. No problem for a walker in the suburbs (or the city), but not the best for motorists and pilots and others who must see far to be safe.

I bundled up and took a walk, wanting to explore an area I’d seen from the window of my Airbnb but couldn’t pinpoint its locale. Was it across Rainier? Yes it was. But mostly it was up, as so much of this neighborhood seems to be.

Seattle is a city of vistas, and when the fog swirls around them, the views are even more magical. Yesterday’s marine layer had burnt away before I took off for home. But on Sunday I captured a sliver of fog posed fetchingly at the foot of Mount Rainier — a marine layer disappearing even as I snapped this shot.

When I was Celia’s age, I lived in a city, too. I woke every morning groggy but happy. Never enough time, never enough sleep. New York was an engine that revved me and fed me. I had found my rhythm, my métier. I was in love with a place.

When I see Celia here, 3,000 miles west of where I made my home, I understand the contours of her affinity but not its particulars. That’s why I visit, to pick up the vibe, if only for a few days.

But inevitably what I feel is not just the pull of a place; it’s the pull of possibility. It’s the memory of being that age, with so much of life ahead of me. And I think, wherever she roams in the future, she will always have this place, this feeling of freedom, this city she’s made her own.

(Seattle’s Kubota Gardens)

Sun is not something one associates with Seattle, but today it’s pouring in the window of this place I’ve rented for a few days. It’s Celia’s birthday and I surprised her yesterday, appearing at her doorstep when she had just talked with me hours earlier to say happy Thanksgiving.

The surprise has been on me, though, as it always is when I travel from one coast to another. First, that the trip happens so quickly, five and a half hours! Second, that I feel so at home here.

And third … as always … that I don’t want to leave.