It’s early Sunday morning. I am alone on my porch at my house because my husband is traveling and won’t be back for two more days.

It’s very still out here. The village we live in has not awakened.

Chet and I drove into Boise City, Oklahoma, population of 1,142, yesterday afternoon with plenty of time to nap and have a nice happy hour. However, finding a campground, which showed many on the google map, turned out to be difficult. There were only two in town, both tiny, and one was full.

“She was frightened of me at first, until I mentioned that I’d seen her at the dinner tent in El Cameron the night before, and the realization dawned on her who I was. I could see that she also realized how much help I might be to her because she gave me a hug as if we were long-lost friends.”

She froze. Two women dashed toward the girl and grabbed her arms pulling her toward the group. I could see the women scolding her as if she were a child and then came the tears. The women put their arms around the girl to soothe her or to hide her, I wasn't sure, but before I could assess the true situation the men came back with a couple of blue vans, and they all piled in and drove away.

The women were plain of face with dull brown hair under their caps and some carried babies of various ages. But one young woman was pregnant and looked nothing like the others. She was naturally pretty with a peachy complexion, blonde hair, and big, blue eyes. She seemed to be looking for something. Without turning her head conspicuously, her gaze was darting about almost frantically.

Suddenly we heard loud clomping - rat-a-tat-tatting - and soon a tallish, very slender man dressed in black tight pants, a blousy purple shirt and a green silky scarf around his neck came stomping out in his heeled dancing shoes. The four of us were not only startled by the sudden loud noise but were surprised that the dancer was a man, and not a woman in a red dress as we had expected.

There was still more music up the street, but this time it sounded like a whole orchestra. As we got closer to the sound, I could see that it was, indeed, an orchestra with a violin soloing. The violin was lilting and lovely but instead of seeing a human playing the stringed instrument, we saw a miniature ensemble of characters, one being a male figure with a bald head, dressed in a red shirt and black pants, standing and playing a violin, controlled by a puppet master who stood behind the little guy.

When does a traveler get tired of traveling?

When does a writer get tired of writing?

When does a doer of anything get tired of doing anything

they love?

A big damn bird flew in front of our car,

As we drove down the road to Seville (Sayveea).

It landed in a field but was too far

To see what it might be-a.

Was it a giant bird or small plane?

I chuckled to myself.

That thought was silly and quite inane

Yet I knew it was no elf.

The flavors exploded in my mouth as I chewed. The spices were unusual and indistinguishable because they were blended so well, which made the taste go far beyond the expected flavors I was used to on grilled beef. I was in love with the food and the restaurant. Toward the end of our meal, and after our second gin drink with cardamom and lemon, we were served a wonderful, melt-in-your-mouth cheesecake that was unlike any cheesecake I had experienced, and I love cheesecake. An extraordinary meal.

Most of the Spaniards and Europeans seemed to know exactly what looked good on them. But then the ‘what-to wear’ decision was eased because all wore black, dark browns, or dark grays. And what they wore was well thought out, well-pressed, and tailored with few frills. The women wore black pantyhose with skirts that were above-the-knee or longer, or slim pants above the ankle with heels.

I’ve wanted to know if people in Spain even celebrated Valentine’s Day. I wasn’t sure if the day was only big in North America and not significant worldwide. Because in the States, several weeks before February 14th, we see billboards and signs all over storefront windows advertising the fact that businesses have something special for a loved one. Almost like at Christmas time. However, during our travels in Spain, as the day approached, I only saw one sign depicting the traditional symbol of the day: the heart.

I was fascinated by the haphazard way the streets came together and then veered off to what first looked like a cul-de-sac-like end, but, instead, continued around a sharp or curvy corner to yet another alleyway at a different angle. It was like a maze of stucco, or whatever material the buildings were faced with, and each alley had its own personality.

At Zaragoza, the cab driver who took us to our hotel in Old Town told us that Zaragoza was considered the wedding capital of Spain, and had hundreds of weddings throughout the year. He said the wedding festivities were quite a sight because they were often very elaborate.

Our hotel was a remodeled old building that melded the modern aspects of a remodel with the old original building itself. The antiquated brick walls were whitewashed in strategic places to show what was behind the new modern walls. The décor was the same mix of old baskets and wood with modern leathers and suede sofas. It was very charming and comfortable.

We have traveled through much of Canada, most of the U.S. states, including Hawaii, and have driven through all 31 states in Mexico because we’ve lived in Mexico during the winter months since 1998. And so, when our friends hear me say that we are going on our first trip off North American soil, their reactions have been: “What? Really? You have never traveled abroad before?” — with wide eyes showing disbelief. That fact is unbelievable, even to us.

Florida in September was warm and balmy, I discovered as we, my sister-in-law Alice and I, disembarked from the plane outside the terminal at Orlando. We were to meet our husbands, Marty and Carl, who had headed out on a 'manly' trip on their motorcycles two weeks prior from Colorado. We flew to meet and ride with them down to the point of the peninsula and camp along the way.

One of our heart-stopping Mexico adventures was when we decided to stay a night not far from the growing town of Bacalar, located on the lagoon side on the southern end of the coastal state of Quintana Roo, which is on the Caribbean side of the Yucatan Peninsula.

My husband Marty, our daughter Bella, and I had been traveling in our pick-up truck pulling our tiny RV along the southern coast of Mexico for a few weeks and had just come into Quintana Roo. We needed a place to stay for the night. In our ‘RVing in Mexico’ guidebook, we read about an RV park located down a dirt road just before Bacalar that had been dubbed ‘The Goat Farm’.

"I thought that because both my wallet and phone were still missing, it was likely a somebody, not something, stole my things, and that made me feel very ill.”

We thought we'd found our piece of paradise at an RV park in the tropics of the Yucatan; however, it didn't take long to realize that the 'paradise' part may be a myth.

“And so, when I heard a noise that woke me up, knowing that a bomb could go off and Clark wouldn’t hear it, I slowly opened my eyes to look around and was startled to see this huge man silhouetted in front of our opened patio doors.”