Getting my Bump and Grind on

Once more, it’s not what you think. And I’ve never been a first-thing-in-the-morning person - for that, anyway.

Not quite halfway up the B&G, trail in the foreground, Rancho Mirage beyond.

The Bump and Grind is actually a hiking trail on the border of Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage, quite close to where I live. While it is within walking distance (about a mile) of my place, I usually drive there because I get up later than I want to and end up rushing to get there before the day gets too warm. The hike has a 1,000 foot elevation gain (my ears usually pop a couple times on the way up and down) and is a good 1.8 miles up and 1.8 miles down, but I’m not sure if it’s that far from where I start. Takes me about 45 minutes to get up, and about 20 to get back down again.

Don’t ask me why the trail is named the Bump and Grind. Other names for it are The Mirage Trail, Desert Drive Trail, Patton Trail (because some people say it was built by General Patton’s troops), Desert Mirage Trail, and the ever-popular Dog Poop Trail. Actually, it’s not the Dog Poop Trail anymore because dogs have been banned from the trail in recent years to preserve endangered species habitat, including that of the Peninsula Big Horn Sheep. I’ve met a couple dogs along the way, but their people assure me that they speak fluent English and usually walk on two legs, so are not considered canine. Of course.

The cool thing about hiking in the Valley is that all the mountain systems are fault lines. The Bump and Grind is located in the San Jacinto range, where the Pacific plate slides under the North American plate. I’ve also hiked up onto the San Andreas fault, which sounds a lot scarier than it is.

But the B&G is an urban hiking trail, and since the distance is so manageable, those who crave a good cardio workout are regulars. I’ve also noticed that the women who I see into regularly on the trail have great legs and butts. Not that I’m looking that close, but, you know, I’m just sayin’.  I look at the path as a much more interesting extended version of a StairMaster. The vantage point from the top is fabulous – overlooks the whole valley. And even though the track is well-traveled, I can count on having large stretches to myself if I get there by 7 a.m. at the latest.

Teens and 20-somethings that (attempt to) do the trail are the most fun to watch, and usually easy to spot. Often I seem them in couples, sometimes by themselves with ipods plugged in their ears but still loud enough to hear 10 feet away. (Really quite annoying. I don’t get people who go out by themselves but have music blasting in their ears.) Today I saw a young girl, maybe 18, Latino, deeply tanned, white flip-flops, a belly button ring sparkling from between the waistband of her white low-cut short-shorts and a oversized cut-off shirt (Flash Dance, anyone?).  One hand resting on her jutting hip, she gesticulated with the other to her silent boyfriend, indignant, out of breath. She had just finished the first 10^th of the trail.  “I don’t get how people do this. I mean, old people!” Her hand swooped to encompass those of us in her vicinity. Uh-huh. I’ll kick your ass on this trail anytime, young lady.

Damn the Woman

New Zealand northland. Who wouldn't want to check this out?

Damn Elizabeth Gilbert.

In August last year, I posted “Exactly Not Like Eat, Pray, Love,” railing against how those three words have become a part of speech. A verb: “She’s doing an ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’” An adjective: “It’s an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ trip.” I could go on. So today, when I mentioned to an acquaintance that I was planning to go to New Zealand for a couple months this year, and she remarked, “Ooooh – ‘Eat, Pray, Love,’” I couldn’t stop the sour expression – or maybe the eye roll – or maybe the look of disgust – that came over my face. It was obvious enough that she started to explain herself.

I shouldn’t get down on Gilbert. She’s not the first to do it. The woman who wrote the Tuscan Sun book, she played a part in this too. And the whole Shirley Valentine story. Bread and Tulips. All women who had a crisis and took off for awhile and inevitably, it seems, ended up finding true love.

Yeccchh.

Sorry. I’m just not down with that.

Why is it that we women still have this whole Cinderella thing going on?  And you women – don’t you dare say that we don’t. I still have a smidgeon of it left, even after my five year stint as a low-end facsimile of a trophy wife. (Quite frankly, my ex-husband didn’t have near enough money to justify his bad behavior, and I think that many women who have escaped similar relationships would say something akin to that.) I’ll be the first to admit that I was enchanted by the car, the ring, the new life, the idea of being taken away from all that dragged on me. I believed that a relationship would make me feel better.

When someone makes a reference to That Book (as I have come to call it), I can’t help but think about how she ends up with a guy. And it smacks of the Cinderella thing all over again. Go through pain, go eat a lot (going to Italy seems like the international version of pigging out on Ben & Jerry’s while watching “An Affair to Remember”), fill the spiritual vacuum, and then skip off with a new love.

I understand that I’m over simplifying it, but why is it that women don’t see the formula and resent it? Or maybe I should ask, why is it that women see the formula and don’t question it? I am so saddened by that.

Lugg-dogg, on whom I lavished affection.

Amazingly enough, this is the first time in my life that I can recall, that I do not want a man to take care of me. The first time. Really. And I’m 40-ish. (Full disclosure – I am receiving alimony from my ex.)  But I'm not getting rich off of it. And I don’t have some sort of high-powered career into which I pour my unsatisfied yearning for a relationship, or a pet on which I can lavish my affection, (although I have done both of those things.)  No. I just want to be by myself and do my own thing, not search for the next hostage.

My desire for travel is wanderlust. A desire for adventure. Curiosity. A compulsion to investigate. A search for a worthy topic.

Exploring.

What I am interested in doing is finding a place that I like, where I can put down roots. Not the place where he is, or where he’s going. And if someone comes along after that, or not, either way is absolutely fine with me.

To be fair, I think that Gilbert wasn’t looking, either, when she was in Bali. It just happened, as many good things do when you aren’t out looking for them. Sort of like chasing a dog – running the opposite direction is a sure-fire way to attract its attention. But it concerns me that this book has hit such a chord in the feminine psyche. Are women so terribly unsatisfied with their lives?

On another topic. I was told the other day by someone that my writing is good, but she finds reading it like listening to a singer who has fabulous technique – just not an emotional connection to the art. No heart.  I have had time to consider that comment.

Boy, that pisses me off.

Enough emotion?

Pisses. Me. Off.

Because I do not agree.

I’m not sure that my writing is technically excellent – perhaps it is.  It’s just the way I write. I may not write breathlessly confessional pieces, or the sort of sap that one would find in “Chicken Soup for the Martian’s Soul,” but I write what I think, what I believe, what I feel and what I experience.

In 1994-ish, at the beginning of my Hundred Years of Therapy, I was working as a temporary admin at Marion Merrill Dow, a pharmaceutical company that had once been Marion Laboratories, and had been purchased in what would be the first of many hand-offs. It was the new fashion to do “visioning” (another word that should NOT be used as a verb) exercises and come up with statements and intentions, blah, blah, blah. I decided to come up with one for myself.

I will see the world and write about what I see for the enlightenment, enjoyment and education of others.

That’s the crux of it. There’s more, but I can’t remember it all, but I do know that it has something to do with Vikings, but it’s not really important. I only put it down here to set the record straight. That’s what this blog is for. Nothing else. I write about what I see, and if you like it, great, and if you don’t, feel free to kiss my ass.

Water, again

Santa Rosa Mountains - part of the San Andreas fault runs here. Barrows' office overlooks this range.

Okay, it might seem as though I'm obsessed with the topic of water. But southern California considers itself the center of the Universe for so very many reasons, and water for the masses is just part of the deal out here. As Mark Twain said, 'Whiskey is for drinking; water is for fighting over.' Anyone from the western and southwestern states can tell you that.

I've been writing about water on and off for the past two years, and have been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of Cameron Barrows, who is head of the Conservation Biology department at University of California-Palm Desert. He's also a teacher and lecturer and researcher and writer of articles.

Cameron Barrows’ office at UCR-Palm Desert looks across toward the shadow hills, really the San Andreas fault. In the foreground is the unfinished landscape of the UCR PD campus, its development all but halted because of California state funding issues. In the midground, Interstate 10 which runs all the way to Los Angeles, and finally ends in Santa Monica at the Pacific Ocean. Directly across the 10 is a yellow eyesore, square with a red tiled roof, that is called The Classic Club, so named because it was to be the new home of the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic golf tournament. Pros played the course one, maybe two years and hated it. Too windy. Interstate 10 goes straight over the San Gorgonio pass, through which some of the strongest and most consistent winds in the nation blow – the pass is lined with wind farms, chargers in perfect formation, arms swinging.

On the other side of the ugly resort and golf course is acreage that looks desolate, empty. The expanse stretches all the way to the fault, up the mountains, beyond. It’s one of last dune ecosystems in the Coachella Valley, set aside in the 1980s when the debate over That-Damn-Lizard started and ended with a preserve being formed. That damn lizard is the fringe-toed lizard, an endangered species. In fact, you can hardly kick a rock in California without hitting an endangered species. Funny – that hasn’t kept developers at bay. But developers had to give in on the fringe toed lizard preserve, because environmental groups had protested enough to halt any further development of the valley. Even Lowell Weeks, at that time head of the Coachella Valley Water District had to concede, and this is the man who, legend has it, said, “There’s only one person more powerful in the Coachella Valley than I and that’s God, and that’s only advisory.” Oh, there’s never a shortage of hubris in this world.

At any rate, I spoke with Cameron Barrows the other day about the state of water in the valley. We had spoken a couple years ago, as well, when I first started writing an article that will now be published in the Los Angeles journal Slake. Cameron is a big bear of a guy, bearded, sandy-haired, spectacled. He exudes the aura of being grounded, comfortable in his skin. He doesn’t speak loud, so when he’s lecturing you have to listen up. In his office there is a photograph of him and his wife, Katie, when they look like they’re about 16. Both are adorable. I met Cameron when I started in the creative writing Masters program at UCR-Palm Desert. He offered the staff a tour of the dunes; later, he offered a tour of the palm oases on the fault. Later still, there was a tour of the Boyd Deep Canyon Preserve, where only researchers get to hang out. Cameron was the in, and I wasn’t able to go. Don’t know if I ever will get to go, now, since the staff at the campus has been decreased and the traditional graduate program has been converted to a low-residency model, so there’s a lower demand for things like that. But in his role as head of the conservation biology department at UCR-Palm Desert, he’s the guy to do it.

Anyway, I found it ironic – or fitting – or something – that his office overlooks the habitat that he researches. The building sits in the Sonoran Desert, and from his window he can see the Santa Rosa mountains, home to parts of the San Andreas fault system and the San Jacinto Mountains, really part of the Baja California range.  He points in various directions and says, “those mountains are essentially northern Baja California, and those mountains out there are essentially southern Sierra Nevada; that’s the Mojave Desert; this is the Sonoran Desert; that right over there is the Coast – and they all come together in one place which is the Coachella Valley. So you have this amazing biodiversity compared to other desert areas. Sand dunes amplify that because of their nature of being sort of islands, and like islands everywhere, they tend to have a lot of unique species associated with them. So you have that. But because we are at the edge of the Sonoran Desert and the Mojave Desert, we are ending up with these really dramatic issues associated with climate change and we’re dealing with water issues associated with what people are doing for the most part, but also with what could be happening with regard to climate change – the more erratic water supply that we should expect in the future.”

There you have it. That’s the story of California. All these different ecosystems butting up against each other, desert floors giving way to 10,000 foot mountains an elevation change that accommodates up to five different systems from arid desert to arctic alpine, everything from lizards and tortoises to big horn sheep. And lots and lots and lots of fucking golf courses. And communities that thrive because of a resort economy and the influx of snowbirds from November through April.

It’s an odd place, worthy of a love-hate relationship, I think.

Floods

I grew up in the Red River Valley of the North, that part of Minnesota and North Dakota that is about 200 miles long and 50 miles wide. The valley itself is actually the bottom of prehistoric Lake Agassiz, the remnant of which is Lake Winnipeg in Manitoba. The river actually flows north (hence the name of this blog, by the way, "Run North ...") The land is so flat, the drop per miles is only inches, and the southern valley thaws before the northern valley, so there are floods. The water spreads like a blanket, seeping east and west, dissolving snow like sugar, lapping at the top of dikes.

The most recent record flood was in 2009, but the big deal flood was in 1997, when downtown Grand Forks, North Dakota was inundated. Local newspaper, The Grand Forks Herald, kept reporting from their downtown office and produced a paper daily until the building caught fire. After the waters receded they published a book called "Come Hell and High Water" because, of course, they had had their fill of both.

What I remember of flooding is primarily the one in 1978, when the junior and senior boys were released from school to help sandbag around the Two Rivers, as well as at family farms closer to the Red. We lived about four miles from the River, but I could see the water half a mile away from my west-facing bedroom window. To me, Spring thaw and flooding was a novelty that was occasion to drag the old row boat out of the garage, make sure it didn't leak too much, and then set out across the coulie just across the driveway. It wasn't really flood water; it was just full of snow melt that was waiting for the still frozen ground to give in. I regarded it as a terrific occasion to goof off in a boat.

Water Everywhere - But Here

I attended my second water-related workshop in two weeks last night. Last week I sat through a 2-hour Water Wise Workshop coordinated by the Coachella Valley Water District. Typically, the workshop runs all day, but they condensed it to reach more people.

Here in the CV, there seems to be a preoccupation with golf courses, which, as we all know, use an astounding amount of water. Considering that California no longer has enough water to sustain continued development and still tend to agricultural needs, I can't help but think the whole golf course thing is absurd. I have nothing against golf - I was a champion cart-driver-beer-hander-outer-cigar-smoker gal. Not much good with the clubs. Yet I can't help but look around and want to shake people.

When I moved here in 2005, I spoke to a friend about this. She, too, had relocated from KC (in fact, she was the one who insisted that I meet my now ex-husband). I mentioned the whole water and golf course thing to her, and she responded with, "No, no, no. I was just at a water district meeting a few weeks ago and they said we have plenty of water for hundreds of years." Hm. Funny. Then why is everyone talking about water conservation now if we have plenty for hundreds of years? Maybe because we don't.

Or maybe we do. But the consequence of continuing to draw on the aquifer is becoming apparent. The level has dropped far more quickly than replenishing can take place. And once it's gone, it's gone. Period. Even with all of the recharging ponds that are in place throughout the valley, if the water doesn't get into the ground quickly enough to keep the aquifer level constant, the land subsides. That means that it will not rehydrate. Essentially, it is possible to desertify a desert.

My response to my friend when she told me that there was plenty of water was to refer to the then-current drought conditions. Her response? "Well, shit, Kimbel. It's a desert!"

It sure is.

The prize for stupidity yesterday: During the Q & A portion of the presentation last night, a gentleman asked why these states who have plenty of water don't put in pipeline and send water to us here in California? Like all those people in the Midwest. They've got too much water right now. ( ummmm - snow melt? flooding? Spring? Natural phenomena?) He said, "Well, I'm from Texas and we're a huge oil producer but we pipe it everywhere." Could someone please explain to the gentleman that it's not quite the same thing? Happily, another man shared the information that the states in the Great Lakes Basin voted to prohibit piping water out of state. Hooray! Another point for sanity!

If I sound peeved, it's because I am. Few things infuriate me like stupidity - and I find stupidity about the environment, especially willful ignorance, inexcusable. At least the guy was at the lecture last night and perhaps learned something.

By the way - in California, 70% of all water goes to irrigation. And that's not just agricultural irrigation. That's keeping our golf courses green.

OK. I'm over myself for the night.

Stay hydrated.

Brother's Days

Last week I spent four days/five nights in San Antonio, Texas. For those of you who have been following along at home, you’ll recall that I was in San Antonio this summer on my Western States Tour 2010 (“Remembering the Alamo” and “El Paseo del Rio”).

The occasion that brought me back to SA was the celebration of a family birthday – my brother’s 50^th. His actual birthday was on February 14, Valentine’s Day. (Yes, he always got the coolest cakes.) But there’s more to do and see in SA than where he lives, so all of us converged on the city for a few days, renting a house, cooking, seeing the sites and having a good time all while generally behaving ourselves.

Since Southwest Airline does not fly out of Palm Springs, and they had the best fare, I drove up to Ontario to catch an 8:15 a.m. flight. Ontario is at least an hour up the 10, and it’s best to arrive an hour before the flight (even though I paid a little extra to have my boarding pass in hand) and I had to allow time for transport from the off-site lot where I parked – so I got up at 4:00 a.m. sharp to hit the road.

The Phoenix airport played a strange part in this trip. I arrived, hung out around the gate, followed my nose to Cinnabon (B concourse – gates 11-20) then found a seat by the gate and played a lot of Solitaire on my iphone. When I finally figured out that the flight was boarding, and that I had to be on the other side of the stainless steel stanchions, I made a loop, looking down to make sure I wasn’t running over toes and headed toward my place in line. A man asked, “What number are you?” I replied, “43,” and as I looked up, saw that it was my other brother. He and his wife were not only on the same flight, but our passes were in sequential order. I took this as a sign I should buy a lottery ticket. (I didn’t. But if I had …)

San Antonio holds many attractions, including the River Walk that I wrote about in 2010, and we did it again. Most of us. My brother-in-law and sister headed over to a pub for a beer.  The pilot/guide was terrific and pointed out examples of neo-Gothic and art nouveau architecture, 200-year-old bald cypress, explained the lock and flood control system on the San Antonio River.

We ventured on to Hemisfair Park where the Tower of the Americas resides to ride up 750 feet to view the city. Click here check out the 360 degree view from the top

The next day, while other siblings, in-laws and nieces headed out to Sea World, my sister and I along with my father and his S.O. went off to explore the Mission of San Jose.

While the first mission was built in St. Augustine, Florida (on the Atlantic side of Florida) the official governmental policy of most of the east coast, in particular, the original 13 colonies, was anti-Catholicism. The Spanish headed west - actually, in the case of San Antonio, north, since Mexico was at that time considered New Spain to some. For the Spanish, establishing missions in various strategic locations (New Orleans, St. Augstine, etc.) was savvy geo-politics. For the Catholic Church, missions were an attraction to indigenous peoples, and priests used teaching how to raise crops and providing protection from other hostile Indian bands as a dangling carrot.  Of course, most of know that the Indians' languages and cultures were lost because they were required to learn both Latin and Spanish and practice an alien religion. When we look at the Latino culture in Mexico and the U.S., we're really seeing Indians who were assimilated into the Spanish culture. The National Park Service employee who conducted our tour explained that for most Latinos in the San Antonio area, unless they are of direct Spanish lineage, there is no way to trace ancestry past the mid-19th century. Even though church records start in 1718, many of them have disappeared or been destroyed.

The Mission San Antonio de Valero (what we now know as The Alamo) was established in 1718; Mission San Jose y San Miguel de Aguayo in 1720. Father Margil de Jesus was at the San Antonio de Valero, but was eager to establish additional missions and had the necessary church supplies handy, including a statue of Saint Joseph. (No priest should be without a few extra statues.) Leaders of three Indian bands were appointed governor, judge and sheriff in the new mission community. Father Nunez was in  charge of the mission project. By the time construction on the church was started in 1768 there were 350 Indians living in 84 two-room apartments, being converted from hunter-gatherers to tax-paying citizens of New Spain. They succeeded.

Next: SAMA Art

More Dates

No, this is not a commentary on how men are pigs.

A few days ago I overheard a friend saying that she had nearly gotten caught in a parade – literally. “A police car over there, and a police car up there, and then I heard the marching band.” Turns out it was the parade for the annual Date Festival in Indio, California. I remarked that I had never attended, and probably wouldn’t because I had no one to go with (some cheese with that whine?) when she said, “Oh – I’ll go with you!” Ruined my complaining right there.

For those who haven’t read my last blog entry, go read it now. It’s all about dates (the fruit, not the social thing) in the Coachella Valley. The Riverside County Fair and National Date Festival is a celebration held at the end of date harvest (which generally goes from September 1 through the end of the year). Over the years the event has grown from a sort of agricultural expo into a two week event full of grandstand acts, camel racing, ostrich racing, pig racing, demolition derby, a nightly pageant, and so on.

Entrance to the Riverside County Date Festival Fairgrounds in Indio, California.

The Date Festival on 40 acres of permanent grounds in the middle of Indio. The fairgrounds are flanked to the east by the Larson Justice Center (courthouse), to the north by the Indio Jail, to the south by the Riverside County Police and Sheriff’s Departments as well as the County Coroner, and to the west by JFK Memorial Hospital. The only thing missing is the Fire Department. Arrests, injuries and deaths are covered – fires are extra.

The Date Festival is somewhere between the Kittson County Fair and the Minnesota State Fair in scope. While the midway is considerably larger than anything we had in Hallock, there are hardly any foods on sticks to be had. Except for chocolate covered bacon. (The concession with said bacon located conveniently - if alarmingly - next to the livestock building.)

We missed the camel races and the ostrich races, so we had to content ourselves with heading to Henrick’s Petting Zoo, full of animals willing to be friends with you as long as fed them. (Ah – sounds like some men I know.) Anyhow, I got to meet several critters who I photographed with their mouths full. They didn’t seem to mind. Among them, a walleroo (yes, from Australia – no, not a cross between a wallaby and a kangaroo, a water buffalo, a yak, a camel, a zebra, a four horned goat and an alpaca in need of dentistry that reminded me a bit of a maiden aunt. Or someone’s poodle. Or a muppet.

All the exotic animals were provided by Henrick Exotic Animal Farm in Nickerson, Kansas. Yes, Kansas.  Monte at the Kid’s Camel Rides, a gentleman with quite long whiskers, a cowboy hat and a cigarette, told me that they provide all the exotic animals for the Date Festival and have been since the 1980s. He pointed to a camel that, at the time, was carrying a little kid with silver shades and balloon animal hat. “That one’s been on stage with the Radio City Rockettes.” Really. “Yes, and this year we’ll be flying some over to Hawaii for a festival there.” Flying camels, huh? “And they’re easy to train, too.” Monte told me that he’s spent most of his life training animals, and that camels are by far the easiest to work with. “Smart. Gentle. Affectionate. Some folks say that they’re mean, but that depends on how you treat them.” Monte also shared that the Henrick Exotic Animal Farm also has a bed and breakfast, each room with a different animal theme.

The petting zoo was right next to the livestock building, where we said hello to a young (11-year-old? 12?) 4Her with a goat named Clyde. Clyde had done well at the show – a couple rosettes hung on his stall. From there we made the rounds and saw a few sheep sporting fresh wool-cuts. And then, the pigs.

Along the way, my friend had deduced that the sheep’s and pigs’ destinies most likely involved a dinner plate. She lamented the fact that these kids had spent so much time and effort on the animals and developed a genuine affection for them, and that it seemed such a shame that that’s how it would all end. I nodded, then told her, “Yeah. Well. We had pigs when I was growing up and I was never so happy to eat bacon in my life.”

Warning: Digression Ahead.

I was in high school, maybe 9^th grade, and all of a sudden there were three pigs in the barn. My brother had designed the barn with a river sand floor (easy on horse’s legs, good drainage, etc.) and box stalls that could be expanded for brood mares. As it turned out, two of these eight-by-eight box stalls had been combined for Ruby, Rupert and Roslyn, as my sister called them. My experience with pigs consisted of driving past a large factory pig farm and holding my nose even with the windows closed.

The three pigs (I know, I know) squealed, they grunted, they trotted around and around their expanded stall, they shat (which I helped clean up) and they rooted. Rooted, rooted, rooted with their ugly, snotty snouts, rooted holes in the sand that still haven’t been leveled. And they stunk. And they bit. And were mean. And tried to knock you down. And did I mention that they stunk?

And boy, was that side pork delicious.

End of Digression.

As we walked by the pens, all carpeted with spotless wood shavings, past a pig named Dilbert who weighed in at 382, we heard what I like to call Barnyard Rap. A livestock auction was in progress – pigs going to market. Bidders, meet dinner. Dinner, meet bidders.

Do-I-hear-a-hundred-a-hundred-a-hundred-for-a-pig-pig-pig-a-hundred-a-hundred-and-twenty-five-twenty-five-twenty-five-hey-fifty-fifty-fifty-fifty-a-hundred-and-fifty-now…  I just love that.

According to a woman I asked, generally the bidding starts around $1.25 per pound (thus the call for hundred-and-twenty-five) and goes up to around $3.00. Do the math. Dilbert’s gonna bring home some bacon.

I sometimes hear derisive comments about 4H and FFA. And to many people, those groups are uncool, full of hicks, losers. But as I watched these kids interact with the adults and prep their stock for the ring, and heard what pork was selling for, I had to laugh. These are kids who, by the end a year raising an animal for market, understand business. Overhead, hours, effort, margins – they learn it.

Ok, so on we went to the pig races, another Henrick’s activity. Here’s a video. Afterwards, we went and got some smoked pork spare ribs. Were they ever good. Almost as good as that side pork years ago.

 Robert M.C. Fullenwider, the first manager of the fair, envisioned the Arabian Nights theme that persists today. Writer Louise Dardenelle wrote the play, “Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Banou,” that is still performed nightly. Harry Oliver, a retired motion picture set designer, created the stage and set complete with minarets and domes. Every year since 1947, a new Queen Scheherazade is crowned. And yes, the queen and her court all wear the spangly bra-top and sheer trouser thingies.  And tiaras.

Meet Prince Ahmed.

This might be Fairy Banou.

We ate churros. Walked through all the exhibit buildings, past Fine Arts entries including sculpture, paintings and photographs. We looked through the commercial tent with massage chairs, interchangeable purse shells, t-shirts, shoe-shiners that tried to sell me a $35 leather cleaner kit (no dice, but he was an awfully cute shoe-shiner), $20 salsa mix (OK, I bought that one, but it makes 50 batches of salsa), cookware, purses made from coconut shells (almost got me on that one), and more and more and more.

We saw the produce displays that had been there for a couple weeks (this was the last weekend of the fair), crafts that should never have been made, crafts that should be displayed with pride in a conspicuous place, and a gigantic model train.  Finally, we walked out the way we had come in, pushing against the tide of folks coming in to see that night's grandstand shoe, the band Switchfoot. Next year, maybe I’ll see the camel races.