Lino Stancich instructs passengers on the art of self-massage for healing on the top deck of the MSC Poesia.

THIRTY THOUSAND FEET OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO – It’s hard to believe it was just a week ago that I made this journey in reverse, catching my pre-dawn flight in Guadalajara, deplaning in Miami to find my Dad relaxed and rosy from the sun at the wheel of a rental car. A week since we found our way to Cruise Terminal 4 in Fort Lauderdale, to the 16-story MSC Poesia, to the Holistic Holiday at Sea, a colorful new community of people joyfully embracing a lifestyle that until now, I’d never contemplated adopting for myself.

I’d given up meat for my Dad, and even dairy for a few weeks – and giving up all animal products on a long-term basis seemed right and proper for my father, who is fighting a grim mesothelioma diagnosis with a self-healing approach. For me, however, it seemed unnecessary and extreme.

But that was before – and this is after.

Now those words bring a smile as I recall the words of former cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn, one of the bright lights of the vegan, macrobiotic, or plant-based nutrition movement.

“Colleagues tell me, ‘You are extreme; you are radical.’ I say – Let’s talk,” says Esselstyn, Olympic Gold Medalist, longtime surgeon and researcher at the prestigious Cleveland Clinic. “What you’re saying is that people have to be carved in half, and then you take the veins out of their legs and stuff them in the heart, and all for a food-borne illness … now I think that’s extreme.”

The lanky and charismatic Esselstyn was one of the presenters at the weeklong floating seminar, along with doctors T. Colin Campbell and Neal Barnard, co-stars in Forks Over Knives – last year’s surprise hit documentary that promises to do for veganism what Food Inc. did for the whole foods movement. The premise of the film is that most, if not all, chronic disease can be controlled – and in many cases, reversed – by rejecting animal-based and processed foods.

I was fortunate to interview both of them during my time on board and will post those interviews soon. But first a few last memories and reflections on the cruise that has changed the way I look at food.

Our first night, we sat down to dinner in the elegant La Fontaine, surrounded by diehard vegans, two of whom had gone gluten and oil free as well. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. And then I dug into the first course – an artichoke heart and sunflower seed pate with rice crackers – and just said mmmmm. The meal just got better from there.

Mom, the nutritional conscience and counselor of the family, was delighting in every bite, every new idea, every bit of proof that vegan living could be just as luscious as the alternative. Dad, on the other hand, would take a few resigned nibbles and dive for the salt. I vacilated between them; I loved the food but soon found myself going after every available vice, from the coffee with cream that waiters would deliver on request, to the vodka-spiked fruit juice served that night under a full moon at the welcome party on the pool deck, surrounded by vivacious vegans, merry macrobiotics and beyond them, miles and miles of deep blue sea. It was really something to see, regardless of what was on the menu.

The first couple of days were a challenge, however, especially for Dad. “Let’s go upstairs and check out that buffet,” he would suggest. “Let’s not,” Mom would parry. “How about going to this talk on overcoming your food cravings?”

But it was Dr. Campbell’s talk that really got our attention. Campbell, author of the best-selling book The China Study and a nutritional biochemist from Cornell University, conducted what Jane Brody of the New York Times termed “the Grand Prix of epidemiology studies.” The evidence he laid out showing the connection between high-protein diets and cancer was devastating. And the protein used in the study was casein – the protein that comes from milk. I would never look at cheese in the same way again.

He was followed immediately by Dr. Neal Barnard, founder of the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine and a researcher who was demonstrating similar links between animal products and diabetes, heart disease, Alzheimer’s disease, macular degeneration, multiple sclerosis, osteoporosis and a litany of other ailments. What really got me was the study that showed that cognitive function is diminished by consumption of animal protein.

“If you eat this,” he warned, showing a slide of a healthy chunk of Swiss cheese, “your brain will look like this.” He clicked to a brain-shaped chunk, filled with the characteristic holes.

He was joking, but he was also very serious. The same congestion of the arteries that occurs with animal fats affects the brain in the same way, as he demonstrated with MRI scans of brains filled with blockages – brains of meat- and dairy-eaters.

I didn’t want to believe it. But the evidence was just beginning to pile up.

On the third day we finally escaped to the upper deck for some fresh air – me, to post a blog entry, and Dad, for a much-deserved break. We asked to share a table with a couple who later became friends – Rocky and Lynn Roll from Fenton, Mich. (Yes, that’s his real name!). I asked what brought them here, as I asked many.

Rocky was overweight and had a history of coronary artery disease, and after a heart attack got an angioplasty. A friend shared with him The China Study. “I threw it down and didn’t think about it again,” he said.

Four years, 13 angioplasties and eight bypasses later, his friend said to him, “Rocky, please, read the book again.”

So he did. He remembers the date – It was April 4, two years ago. “We decided we’d give it a try – and we’ve been doing it ever since.”

Rocky doesn’t go overboard praising the diet – he says he came on the cruise because he likes the weather – but Lynn credits his change in eating habits with saving his life. And the two of them climbed to the top of the tower in Puerto Rico’s El Yunque Rainforest – ahead of us.

It was stories like these – face to face, around dinner, in the hallways, on the pool deck, on the excursions – that really drove the point home for my Dad. And the Recovery Panel, with more than a dozen stories of survivors (read about it here), made the reality impossible to deny.

The last day over grilled polenta and vegetables, California businessman Chris Lawrence shared the story of his fight with coronary artery disease – the same story we’d heard over and over of stints and statins and bypasses, all now a thing of the past.

“I was the typical docile patient; I did everything I was told – and it was killing me.” After several bypasses, his arteries were 98% occluded. He could barely walk 100 yards without getting a charley horse in his leg and needing to sit down. He cut out animal products, and his problems cleared up. Nowadays he manages his own health – and is feeling just fine.

“This food is looking better all the time,” Dad mused.

I thought I was seeing something new in his eyes these days. It looked like hope.

He had shared the story of his battle with mesothelioma – and his decision to fire his oncologist – with many, and was feeling the love. Chris was more direct. “It’s not easy to go against the medical establishment,” he said. “It took me a long time.

“What you’re doing takes a lot of courage. I’m a Vietnam veteran and I can tell you, it’s easier to charge up a hill with an M16 than to do what you’re doing.”

I had to agree.

At one point I introduced Dad to a fellow traveler and began to tell his story. “Dad has cancer…” I began.

“You mean I had cancer,” he corrected me, smiling. I corrected my verb tenses after that.

The week passed in a blur of facts and figures, charts and diagrams, interspersed with lively cooking classes, yoga and fitness training, days that ended in vegan ice cream and pizza and cookie parties – and of course, the outings: a rugged hike on St. John in Virgin Islands National Park (“This is the longest 20 minutes I’ve ever seen,” grumbled Dad as he labored up a rocky hill – but he pronounced the quiet white-sand, aquamarine-water beach on the other end to be “worth it”); Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, and a hike through El Yunque rainforest; and a quick trip to the beach in the Bahamas – but very quick, so as not to miss a morning session on self-massage by the funny and informative Lino Stanchich and an afternoon showing of  “Forks and Knives,” introduced by Campbell and Esselstyn.

Of course, it was easy to eat this way, surrounded by true believers and having our food prepared for us by top-flight macrobiotic and vegan chefs. But what would it be like when we were on our own?

I joined Dad at breakfast to find that he, along with a dining companion, had decided to take the 21-day Vegan Challenge. Three weeks are what it takes to make yourself heart attack-proof, Esselstyn had said, And in three weeks – or less – you can overcome your cravings, we’d been told by others.

“What have I got to lose?” he reasoned. “And it just might save my life.”

I agreed; it seemed the logical next step. “Count me in,” I said.

It seemed unbelievable when the last night rolled around that when we awoke, we’d be taking our last breakfast together and headed back home. We bid fond farewells to dozens of new friends and even made more while waiting our turn to disembark and while standing in the customs line.

Our first stop in the real world was a convenience store, where the placards advertising a salami sub sandwich and artificially colored ice cream cones looked worse than inedible to me. We were asking directions to Whole Foods.

Dad was bracing himself for a farewell to eggs, fish and the occasional serving of venison that his naturopath had allowed him. He was more resigned than joyful – but he was making his peace with it. “I know I’ve killed my taste buds over the years – I hope they’ll come back.”

“They will,” Mom reassured him. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

“I guess when you’re on this diet, it’s just that you don’t live to eat,” Dad reflected, borrowing a line from the movie. “You eat to live.”

-Tracy L. Barnett

Freelance writer Tracy Barnett reported last week from the Caribbean from the Holistic Holiday at Sea (here’s the back story). This week, she and her father will begin the 21-Day Vegan Kickstart. Stay tuned for interviews, recipes, and our adventure in the weeks ahead as we try to carry the lessons of Holistic Holiday at Sea into our daily lives – and think about joining us. We dare you.

Meantime, some images from our week at sea:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

When Dr. Martha Cottrell turned 50, she was a mess. She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, psoriasis and severe allergies. She didn’t think it could get much worse – but one day, it did. She was diagnosed with a pre-cancerous lesion of the cervix.

“I was doing everything I had been taught,” she told the audience, an attentive theater full of more than 1,200 vegans and macrobiotics. She had healed thousands in her career as a family practice physician, but she didn’t have a clue what she was doing wrong in terms of her own health.

As she waited in her doctor’s office for injections of cortisone for her arthritis, she began paging through an old dog-eared copy of the Saturday Evening Post when she came across an article by Anthony Sattilero, then president of Methodist Hospital in Philadelphia when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Sattilero overcame a grim prognosis and went on to become a leading advocate for the macrobiotic movement.

Cottrell’s life changed in that moment. Her research led her to the Kushi Institute, named for Michio Kushi, the Japanese health crusader who helped to introduce the concept to the United States in the 1950s.

“That was 34 years ago,” said Cottrell in her genteel North Carolina drawl. “I’ll be 84 years old tomorrow, and I hope I’ll be around to needle all of you about your diets for many years more.” I was stunned; this tall, striking woman looked younger than most of the 70-year-olds I know.

Cottrell was one of a lineup of more than a dozen people from all walks of life who shared a litany of truth-is-stranger-than-fiction on the Recovery Panel, a highlight of the annual Holistic Holiday at Sea and a source of inspiration for many – including my father, who sat next to me and listened transfixed, with tears in his eyes. Dad would be 73 tomorrow, and shared more than a birthday with Dr. Maggie, as the physician-turned-macrobiotic counselor is known. Dad started this journey last August, hoping to overcome mesothelioma – one of the most intransigent and lethal forms of cancer known, having resisted any kind of cure from the medical establishment. This panel – in fact, this cruise – is medicine in itself for him and my mother, who don’t find too many kindred spirits in rural Missouri as they pursue this path.

Cottrell was followed by a powerful lineup of testimonials from people of all walks of life, whose ailments read like the roster in a hospital. Janet Fitzsimmons, a nurse from Cleveland who was given three to six months to live after being diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer. Judy MacKenney of Massachussetts told of the day 21 years ago that a bone marrow aspiration revealed Non-Hodgkins lymphoma throughout her lymphatic system and in her spine. Doctors could offer no cure, only a temporary remission – it became a treadmill of medications: one to move the bowels, and one to stop them moving; one to help me sleep, and one to help me eat.”

“I went to a class to learn how to die gracefully,” she recalls, and found “Love, Medicine and Miracles,” a book by Dr. Bernie Siegel, in the library. It was the first indication she’d had that a change in diet and lifestyle could save her life. Her research took her down the same path as Dr. Maggie: “I realized that I just have to go back to Mother Nature and eat the grains and beans and vegetables,” she said. “From that point on, things began to change for me.”

Then there was orthopedic surgeon James Conway, diagnosed at the age of 56 with the coronary heart disease that had killed his father and all four grandparents – “My father had every cardiac procedure known to mankind, and I saw that as my future,” he recalls. He woke up in 2009 with severe arm pain. A cardiac catheterization was scheduled and his doctor recommended a triple bypass. While he was waiting for his surgery, a friend gave him a copy of Dr. T. Colin Campbell’s groundbreaking book, The China Study, which discussed the work of Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn in using a vegan diet to reverse coronary disease.

He called his doctor and canceled the bypass.

“I wanted to try a different way,” he said. “Most people get a bypass and then five years later it’s another bypass or a stent.

“This gave me hope that I could be in control of my health – and as a surgeon, I like to be in control!”

Conway went and saw the documentary “Forks over Knives” featuring the stars of this cruise/conference – Drs. Campbell, Caldwell and Bernard – and he was sold. Three years later, he’s a committed and healthy vegan.

The stories went on and on: Rose Parker, stricken with the breast cancer that had just taken her sister. Ellen Doremus, polycystic ovaries; Betty Hoehn, non-Hodgkins lymphoma; Rose Parker, breast cancer; Robert Pirello, severe osteoporosis; George Morris, heart disease, pleural myopathy and prostate cancer; Jim Miller, non-Hodgkins lymphoma; Dr. James Conway, coronary heart disease; Roger Mulley, chemical hepatitis caused by environmental exposure to mustard gas; and Ginny Harper, Krohn’s disease. Each adopted a plant-based diet; and Christina Pirello, leukemia. Each recovered, most within a question of months.

Each of them had somehow been given a lifeline when they learned of plant-based nutrition as a healing strategy, and each of them were able to take control of their lives and turn them around.

Each story was an inspiration all on its own. I looked over at my father from time to time and saw him at rapt attention – more than once, on the verge of tears. Two hours of these heart-rending accounts drew a standing ovation. I wish I had time and space to share each story. But this was just one panel on one day in the Cruising to Wellness lineup. It seemed to me that I might need to get my own dietary house in order. Certainly the inspiration is here.

-Tracy L. Barnett

Freelance writer Tracy Barnett is reporting from the Caribbean from the Holistic Holiday at Sea, She will be documenting the holistic cruise over the next week through a series of blog entries. Stay tuned!

Sunday dawned somewhere over the high seas, and we emerged poolside to find the yoga instructor cheerily calling out over a stiff ocean breeze: “Remember, surrender all resistance; we’re in battlefield conditions. This will strengthen your practice!”

A hundred pairs of arms reached for the sky as the last shades of pink faded away, and another brisk troupe circled the track overhead. “Just go to the edge of your comfort zone – remember, it’s vacation yoga!”

It’s morning workout time on the MSC Poesia, the chartered cruise line for the Holistic Holiday at Sea, and poolside chats are at a minimum – 1,200 cruise passengers are here with a mission, and I’m no exception. I’m here with my parents – Dad, who has recently made the switch from meat-and-potatoes guy to hardcore macrobiotic in an attempt to beat back a terminal cancer diagnosis, and it didn’t take long to find we’re surrounded by kindred spirits. For them, it’s not just a cruise; it’s a matter of life or death.

After breakfast we made a quick break for the packed Pigalle Lounge, where there’s barely room to squeeze in for a cooking demo by Christina Pirello, charismatic macrobiotic chef, television personality and author of bestsellers such as I’m Mad as Hell and I’m Not Going to Eat it Anymore.  Pirello was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of 26 and instead of going for medical treatment, went macrobiotic; she’s one of dozens here with similar stories.

The irrepressible redhead peppers her presentation with one-liners aimed at bad eaters, non-cooks and the food industry (“Twizzlers, Diet Coke and big butt cookies are all vegan,” she warns) as she whips up a red lentil soup with corn and a pan-fried tofu with vegetables. Her cooking class is a challenge to all of us to step up our game. “There are many levels of illness, and most of us don’t pay attention until we get pretty deep,” she says, enumerating them along with the signs of health: Clarity of thought, appetite for life, good sleep, good memory, and stamina.

Her ultimate invocation will stay with me for a long time.

“We live in serious times and we need leaders with stamina,” she said. “If you don’t have stamina, step aside and let someone who does. Without stamina, nothing will change; we have to stand up and fight.”

What she’s talking about is clear to this fired-up crowd, mad at the food industry, mad at Big Pharma, mad at a medical industry they see as rigged toward profit over health, treatment over prevention, palliative care over definitive cure. Heavy stuff for a float on the Caribbean, but nobody seems to be moving toward the pool.

It’s easy to forget we’re aboard a cruise ship with this packed schedule, four to six workshops to choose from at any given time. But it wasn’t until after lunch – a truly delightful five-course gourmet macrobiotic extravaganza featuring delights like tempeh with soy-simmered shitake and wasabe sauce, orange arame watercress salad and lentil walnut paté – that I realized how serious this crowd really was.

We were more than a thousand strong in the bright purple Carlo Fellini theater, listening to “Understanding the Scientific Evidence for Plant-Based Nutrition” by Dr. Colin T. Campbell, author of The China Study, relating the story of his discovery that high levels of animal-based protein – specifically milk products – cause cancer. High, but yet not as high as the USDA’s Recommended Daily Allowance – 20% protein, compared to the RDA’s maximum of 35%.

The story he lays out is at once compelling and infuriating when it begins to become clear that study after peer-reviewed study demonstrating the link over more than two decades of research has produced barely a ripple in the wider world, particularly after the years he’s spent meeting with top-level policymakers on Capitol Hill and sharing the need for a different, less pharmaceutical-dominated model. But it’s a story this audience knows well.

“Why are we sticking our heads in the sand?” he asked rhetorically. “Why is the professional and policy-making world failing to take action on this data?”

His answer boils down to one word: Money. Lobbyists from the medical industry have so thoroughly infiltrated the government and medical profession that there is no longer an objective approach to judgment, either at the individual or collective level.

Campbell’s research showed not only a persuasive causal link between animal proteins and cancer, but it went further. Amazingly, in one study with mice, he was able to actually turn the cancer on and off by varying the dose of animal protein.

His work was corresponded by that of Dr. Neil Barnard, who showed a similar causal link between animal proteins and diabetes, and a remarkable recovery rate among Type II diabetes patients who went on a macrobiotic diet. And on another front is Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn Jr., who has similarly shown major turnarounds in heart disease among patients who turn to a plant-based diet.

Caldwell’s talk was followed by a similarly riveting one by Barnard, and then another by Gabriel Cousins, another medical doctor who is also a rabbi and a yogi and a Native American fire dancer as well as a vegan practitioner and teacher, speaking on the spiritual underpinnings of veganism – and then it was time for the vegan ice-cream social, thankfully, as my head was about to explode. My parents, however, were smiling and nodding through all of it – this is material that reinforces their own self-study.

Tomorrow’s program looks equally motivating. Meanwhile, Dad shared his story with a tiny grey-haired woman waiting in line for lunch, as we were. Betty Hoehn shared hers, as well, and it was a stunner. A little over a decade ago, she was diagnosed with leukemia and told she had about nine years to live – not happy news, but not enough to send her into a tailspin, as she was 62 already. It wasn’t until four years later, when the disease had progressed to Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, that she realized she had much less time than she’d thought. At the oncologist’s office, she learned she’d have to have a kidney removed, but that even so, it probably wouldn’t help much, as her spleen was growing rapidly and her prognosis was grim.

For some reason she’ll never quite fathom – “I call it a God incident – not a co-incidence,” she says – she picked up a magazine at the oncologist’s office and it happened to have an ad on the back page for the Holistic Holiday at Sea health cruise. She shared it with her husband Al. “He said, let’s do it,” she recalls. “After breakfast lunch and dinner with all these people telling us their healing stories, I went back to my cabin and I said, ‘I’m feeling better already.’”

She went on to adopt a macrobiotic diet, along with Al, who teamed up with her on the cooking. A few months later she went in and had her T-cells counted; the technician called her aside and said she couldn’t find enough to indicate that there was cancer. And then she received a call on her cell phone while she was in the grocery store. It was her doctor; her cancer was gone. She recalls with a laugh pushing her cart down the aisles, tears rolling down her face.

I looked at my father who had been hanging on every word. He was pretty weepy-eyed, himself, at the moment. It turned out that Betty was about to turn 73 tomorrow – just like Dad.

Five years later, Al has recovered from his Type II diabetes – and she is cancer free.

Hoehn is one of a lineup who will share their stories tomorrow in a Recovery Panel of survivors of all kinds of diseases. That’s the type of inspiration that keeps people like Holm coming back year after year. Tomorrow’s another day with another lineup of inspirations.

-Tracy L. Barnett

Freelance writer Tracy Barnett is reporting from the Caribbean from the Holistic Holiday at Sea, She will be documenting the holistic cruise over the next week through a series of blog entries. Stay tuned!

Gary Brunk, recently diagnosed with mesothelioma, is fighting for his life with a holistic health regimen, accompanied by his wife Judy (left) and daughter Tracy L. Barnett, a travel writer. The trio set sail this week with the Holistic Holiday at Sea, a macrobiotic healing cruise.

AIRBORNE OVER MEXICO – Six months ago, when my father was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, my friend Michelle responded right away.

“You should take him on the holistic health cruise,” she said. I dismissed the idea at once – in the first place, I don’t like the idea of cruises anyway – a floating hotel at sea, I’ve always imagined them. I’m an independent traveler who chafes at the cumbersomeness of groups of more than two. Besides, on my Dad’s rapidly dwindling retired factory worker budget, and my freelance budget, who was going to pay for it?

“Nonsense,” said Michelle. “You’re a travel writer. Pitch this to some magazines. You can do it.”

She was talking about Holistic Holiday at Sea, a cruise dedicated to macrobiotic eating, yoga, meditation and a whole regimen of wellness strategies. I contacted Sandy Pukel, the cruise organizer, hoping he’d give us a discount that would work with our budgets. He was reluctant. His cruises always sell out, he pointed out, and there’s already been plenty of publicity. But he left the door open, and I began pitching the story to magazines.

Meanwhile, Dad was struggling with the decision of a lifetime. He had paid a visit to the state’s best cancer center, where they had given him a grim prognosis, delivered by a cheery doctor named Maria in a rapid-fire technobabble: Mesothelioma, nearly always fatal within a year of diagnosis. With chemotherapy, he might hope to live a few more months. It was already probably too advanced for surgery, and radiation for the lining of the lungs was not advised.

Dad listened quietly, taking in the information but clearly skeptical. He’d already had the preliminary diagnosis and some time to research. My parents had always been skeptics of the health care system, but now that Dad’s life was on the line, they’d come with an open mind, ready to embrace the best option. They wanted to know, however, that their doctor was schooled in nutrition and open to alternative medicine.

Dad tossed out a test question. “What if I change my diet?” he asked. “Do you think that would make a difference?”

“Not really,” she responded, the half-smile still frozen on her face.

“So I can eat anything I want?”

She nodded.

“Biscuits and gravy?” This, with a hint of wistfulness.

“Sure! Eat whatever makes you feel good,” she said. As if to say, it doesn’t matter – you’re going to die anyway, you might as well enjoy your last days.

That was the moment, I think, when Dad said goodbye to the medical-industrial complex – and also to biscuits and gravy, a beloved comfort food from his Southern roots.

As we walked out of the cavernous complex into the sun, Dad shook his head. “It’s unbelievable,” he said. “These people really don’t know anything about nutrition and what it can do.”

Dad had always been the nutritional scofflaw to Mom’s dietary disciplinarian; she’d experiment with macrobiotics while he’d shovel in the meat and potatoes, loading up on multiple dessert servings at every opportunity. But now it was a matter of life and death.

Dad found a naturopath who worked with him to make the switch. He would have a brutal six-month anti-cancer regimen: no meat, no dairy, no wheat, no sugar, no caffeine, nothing fried. More than half of what he ate should be raw. Now instead of roast beef, he’d be shoveling in spoonfuls of supplements. Harshest of all was the cesium chloride, what his doctor termed “natural chemo.” Everything was designed to boost his immune system and shift his pH to an alkaline state, which is believed to be hostile to cancer.

It wasn’t long before meals became an eternal struggle. Mom knocked herself out with green drinks, super salads, and vegan versions of everything ranging from pizza to chili. Meanwhile, Dad dreamed of coffee heavily laced with half-and-half, barbecued pork steaks, bacon and eggs. His appetite was gone, and his motivation was going with it. He’d already lost 30 pounds since the diagnosis; he’d lose another 20 in this three months.

To support him in his struggle, I gave up meat as well – and for a time, dairy products and sugar and coffee, though that part was tough to stick to. I knew it was for more than Dad, though. It was for me, too. I survived a bout with cervical cancer myself in 2007, and I know I’m at risk. So Dad was inspiring me to do what I needed to do anyway.

I knew he needed inspiration – something that would give him joy in his new life without the foods he loved. Something to look forward to in the months ahead, something to keep him hanging on. The cruise was a bright bubble on the horizon. I never knew whether it would materialize, and I worried about giving false hopes – but I kept holding it out there, and I kept trying.

I came back to Missouri just before Thanksgiving, right when the brutal three months was coming to an end. Dad greeted me with an elation I hadn’t seen since before the diagnosis. “You know what I just did?” he asked. “I had an EGG!”

Gradually he was able to add a few small cherished items to the diet – three eggs and three small servings of fish each week, and the occasional serving of venison. Perhaps more significantly, the cesium chloride treatments were winding to a close, and his appetite was coming back. The color began returning to his face. Slowly, bit by bit, his strength began to return. It seemed too good to be true, but the naturopathic treatments and the diet seemed to be having an effect.

Still, the challenge remained. Life without cheese, coffee, cream, milk, butter, steaks, desserts – it was a pretty grim horizon from Dad’s perspective.

Three weeks from departure time, an e-mail showed up in my box. “Are you still interested?”

It seems there had been a cancellation, and Sandy was willing to cut us a deal. We were on.

And now my parents and I are on our way – they, from chilly Missouri, me, from sunny Mexico – set to converge at the Port Everglades Cruise Terminal for the first Caribbean Cruise of our lives.

My hope is that this will be a journey into a new level of consciousness, one in which we can take full responsibility for our own well-being, and full joy for a diet that is life-affirming – and that together, we’ll be making memories that will last many years – for all three of us.

The last golden rays of 2011 slipped away gloriously yesterday, lingering across the chalky face of the Pinnacles, an ancient towering limestone formation in the north of Boone County, Missouri – one of the places on this planet I will always call home.

The unseasonable warmth had us removing layers as we scrambled up to catch a glimpse of the world from on high. Another climatic oddity in a year that was full of them. Change is in the air, for those with eyes to see: We are closing the book on a year that saw vast swaths of the American Southwest go up in smoke, millions of dollars of hurricane damage in Vermont, a monster tornado that erased big chunks of Joplin, massive flooding in Australia, the Phillippines and Southeast Asia and record-breaking heat waves in Europe and much of the United States.

My mother’s garden in the Missouri countryside was cooked before it could be harvested. Where I live, in Mexico, widespread crop failure due to extended drought pushed more subsistence farmers to leave the land for the traffic-choked cities or for a desperate, life-threatening dash for El Norte, the forbidden promise of employment across the northern border. But today, on this balmy December day, global warming seems a welcome respite from the bone-chilling cold that usually accompanies us at this time of year. So I won’t complain.

Much has been written about this turning of the ages; no place on Earth is more excited about the Mayan prophecies than Mexico, birthplace of the Mayan calendar that ends this year. To me, it’s impossible not to link this prophecy with the profound changes we are facing. I’m not speaking of Armageddon – rather, a time of reckoning as we end a cycle of industrial excess. The Mayan people I have spoken with are laughing at the notion that the end of the calendar means the end of the world. It’s simply the end of a cycle, and the beginning of a new one, they reassure anyone who asks. But in more serious conversations, they shared with me their hope, as fervent as my own, that a long-awaited shift is pending, and in fact has already begun.

“After five centuries of oppression, we’re ready for a change,” Rony, a Mayan friend from Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, told me. “It’s the only hope we have.”

We in the global North have a much different perspective than a poor Guatemalan. But like Rony, I stand convinced that a shift in our paradigm – our way of structuring the world, and indeed, our way of thinking – is long overdue. It could well be that 2012 will be just another blip in the ongoing march of human events: Like the much-ballyhooed Y2K, which many feared would leave the world in the dark, we might wake up the morning after and laugh.

But an irrevocable shift has already begun, and the Earth is rumbling beneath our feet. Our climate is changing around us, and the petroleum and other carbon-based fuels we’ve based our civilization upon is rapidly disappearing. Those twin crises are feeding a third, more visible one: the financial crisis that has the global economy hanging by a thread.

What better moment to reflect on the possibilities that the transition ahead might offer us. Rather than wait until crisis is staring us in the face, let’s confront it together and plan a gradual reduction in our dependence on oil. Transition Town movements and other grassroots groups around the world are not waiting for their governments to do it; they are already immersed in the work of creating and implementing energy descent plans, reconstructing webs of relationships in their communities, strengthening local economies and building resilience into their local communities. They are envisioning a future less dependent on consumerism and more dependent on each other.

Like Rony, I don’t claim to know what the end of the Mayan calendar really means. But like him, I stand in the fervent hope that the noblest instincts of the human spirit will prevail in the transition that faces us this year and in the years to come.

I close with words of wisdom from my friend Holger Hieronimi, a Mexican-German permaculture teacher and designer:

“The change is happening today, here and now. It’s like the transformation of a voracious and predatory caterpillar, into a butterfly of many colors. It’s happening on every level, throughout the entire system, within us, and beyond us as well. It means the redesign of landscapes internal and external. It means leaving the comfortable place of security, and preparing oneself for times of insecurity, uncertainty, even convulsions, and a total reorganization of the system.

It is a change of a society of industrial growth toward a new culture that sustains life.

Instead of resisting the change, we can be creative participants and protagonists in this process, supporting our families and communities in this difficult process of transformation.”

(Read the entire essay in Spanish on his website, here.)

Happy 2012. Let’s embrace the new and let go of the old with love, hope and light. Bring on the butterflies.

Unforgettable moments flip through the slideshow of my memory: my father’s boyish grin lighting up in spite of himself as he stood, lifejacket up around his ears, the dolphin leaning in and kissing his cheek. Shaking his head in disbelief as our two waiters explained the special six-course meal that the famous French chef at Piaf, Michele Mustiere, had prepared for him, taking into account all of the complicated restrictions of his diet. Seeing him lying back on a canopied lounge on the beach, soaking up the sun and the attentions of an efficient and watchful staff.

My factory-worker dad, father of nine and grandfather of a houseful of rambunctious little ones, had never come close to such luxury. He hadn’t even known that it existed. A shadetree mechanic and consummate fixer of broken things, I found him examining the cooling system in our suite and chatting up the shuttle drivers and motorcycle salesmen we would meet along the way.

Recently diagnosed with mesothelioma, an asbestos-induced cancer with a grim prognosis, he had decided to work with a naturopathic doctor to boost his immune system in an attempt to beat back the cancer. One strategy was a radical change in diet; my meat-and-potatoes Dad was a sudden vegan. Another, according to all that we had read, was to keep living to the fullest, doing things that brought him joy.

“I’m not afraid to die,” he told me not long after his diagnosis. “But as long as I’m here, I’m going to live.”

I wanted to support him in that vow on every level. I had long dreamed of bringing my parents to Mexico, my adopted second country, to share with them a bit of the culture that I had come to love. Now I knew there was no time to waste. I persuaded them to get their passports, and in December, we escaped the dreary Midwest winter for nine precious days on the Yucatan Penninsula.

“Just when you think it can’t get any better… it does,” he mused as we wound our way down the thatch-roofed passageway through the jungle, one beautiful vista opening after another; here a garden with a small waterfall, there a cenote filled with clear spring water. Everything had been developed in this resort with an eye toward protecting the fragile seaside ecosystem; Grand Velas has won numerous awards for its environmental stewardship, and it’s evident as we look around us – especially as we walked along the picture-perfect beach and saw the long expanses of green that extended between Grand Velas and neighboring resorts. An environment all the more appealing for my forest-dwelling folks.

There were moments not made for Kodak on this trip, to be sure. The rental car agency that charged us twice the price for insurance what we’d paid for the online vehicle rental; the frantic hour spent looking for them when I lost them to Merida’s chaotic traffic; the unpleasant surprise when Dad reached out to grab a tree in the jungle walk at Xel Ha – and pulled his hand away to find it crawling with biting ants; his long silences as I drove, catching a farway look in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I’d say.

“Watch out, you’re about to hit that speed bump,” he’d respond.

Moments like these I ached to know what was on his mind – and more importantly, that he was really on the mend, that the diet and all the supplements and naturopathic treatments were doing the trick, that his low energy was due to his healing process and not his decline.

This was not for us to know, as he gently reminded me time and again. “It’s all in the Lord’s hands,” he would say.

I would take a deep breath and nod.

The first five days of our trip we’d spent on a road trip to Merida, where we stayed three days in the picturesque colonial city and two days at an atmospheric and picturesque restored hacienda, Hacienda Petac. Friday we drove back to Cancun, touring Chichen Itza and a bit of the colonial city of Valladolid along the way. We spent the night at the JW Marriott in the Zona Hotelera, spending a relaxed morning on the beach before heading down to Grand Velas on the Riviera Maya – named by Conde Nast and AAA as one of the world’s finest hotels. We had saved the best for last.

Saturday afternoon we arrived at Grand Velas, driving over a moat and through a gateway in the vast expanse of white stone that walled off this exclusive compound. “Welcome home,” said the young man with the clipboard, and we crossed another blue waterway onto a narrow lane that wound through the jungle. We found our way to the elegant thatch-roofed lobby. Our car was whisked away and our personal butler, Aldo, saw us to our spacious picture-perfect Zen Suite, with a giant jacuzzi and French doors that opened out onto the room and a patio that opened out onto a water garden complete with bougainvillea and a lilac-colored water lily. Beyond the tiny garden extended the jungle; beyond that, the mangrove forest, and beyond that, the beach and the brilliant blue Caribbean.

All this beauty was hard to leave behind, but dinner at Frida’s, one of the resort’s seven award-winning restaurants, awaited; named for the iconic Frida Kahlo, whose portrait brightens up the entry with an earthy radiance, the decor, like the menu, presents Mexican traditions with a fresh and modern twist. A classically dressed Mexican singer and guitarist serenaded us with romantic ballads as we dined. To my delight, salmon al pastor was on the menu. How I’d longed to share one of my onetime Mexican favorites – tacos al pastor, with its succulent pork marinated in the juices of a pineapple and turned on a rotisserie in front of the fire. Now, since an occasional serving of fish was allowed in the second phase of his diet, I could share the essence of this typical taste treat with him. He loved it almost as much as I did.

Day Two began early with an hour’s drive south to Tulum, with its ancient pyramids on the coast. The stark white limestone stood out against the brilliant blue sky and the multihued turquoise and cerulean waters, and he pronounced the view worth the walk – a circuit that a year ago he could have breezed through before breakfast had become a rigorous workout, but one he completed with good cheer.

Dinner found us at the unforgettable Piaf, named for the tiny French singer with a voice that conquered hearts the world over. “Think of us, not as your waiters, but as your tour guides on this culinary adventure,” said Adolfo, one of two young men who meticulously attended us, as he handed Dad a damp cloth to wipe his hands before commencing a procession of works of culinary art, beginning with a salad of mixed lettuces and flower petals accompanied with a red wine sorbet and a quail egg.

The dishes were dismayingly tiny, to my Dad’s way of thinking, but I promised he would not go hungry. Six courses later, Chef Mustiere himself stood before us and explained the way he’d prepared our dessert himself – a strawberry savayón, a confection sweetened with port wine, alcohol evaporated off, and topped with a golden-brown merengue – all, apparently, on my Dad’s diet. Dad nodded his appreciation to the white-garbed gentleman – “It’s all just great,” he said, and posed sheepishly for a few photos.

“Can I ask for seconds?” he wanted to know. But the chef was already gone.

Monday was the exciting climax of our Riviera Maya adventure, with a dolphin swim scheduled at Xel-Ha, one of several nature-oriented theme parks along the coast. Irasema was our guide, taking us on a walk that led through the jungle and past all manner of means to entertain ourselves in the aquatic wonderland of the Yucatan: cenotes where you could dive in, enter a cave and emerge downstream on the shore of an inlet; ropes you could swing on like a modern-day Tarzan; a cliff you could dive off of into the deep blue waters below; and a “lazy river” that you could lie on an inner tube and wind your way through the park for nearly an hour.

Dad’s a country boy who grew up on the river, and just last summer, I’d have been struggling to keep up with him. But these days his circulation was not what it used to be, and he was afraid of catching a chill, so we walked along the path and wistfully watched others splashing joyfully along the way.

Nonetheless, come 1:30, we found ourselves lined up for the orientation with the dolphin trainer. “Prepare yourselves for the experience of a lifetime,” the excited young man advised us. Dad looked dubious and fiddled with his lifejacket. Mom looked tiny in her child-sized jacket. We lined up with the three young girls who were assigned to our group – Sophie, Zoey and Phoebe, aged from 7 to 11 – and followed our guide to the dock.

“It looks cold!” said Dad.

“It’s going to be an adventure!” said Mom.

Both of them were right.

Our dolphin was named for Hunahpu, one of the twin heroes whose stories were told in the ancient Mayan text the Popol Vuh. Like his namesake, a feisty soccer player, our Hunahpu was a playful fellow indeed, flirting and kissing and splashing and dancing in turn with each of us. As gentle as he seemed, we also had a glimpse of his strength when we formed a circle and he swam rapidly around and around us, surrounding us in a powerful wave that nearly knocked us over.

Dad’s tense face relaxed into a smile as the dolphin performed his antics, and he seemed to have all but forgotten the cold by the climax – the dolphin push. “No, no, no, I think that’s a little too much,” he said as I repeated to him the procedure outlined by the trainers. Two dolphins would place their noses at the base of each foot and push him rapidly through the water, eventually lifting him upright as if he were skiing.

“You love skiing, Dad – remember?” I cajoled him. “And this is easier – the dolphins do all the work!”

Finally, he consented. One of the girls and I went first to show him how it was done – and it was exhilarating to feel the two shiny noses planted on the soles of my feet, and my body lifting from the force of forward movement. I turned to see Dad preparing for his turn, hoping that I’d been right, and that it wouldn’t be too much for him.

I needn’t have worried. The same Dad who’d taught me to ski, coaxing me through my fear bit by bit to my legs from the cockpit of his beloved boat, took to the dolphin push like a champ, nearly rising to a full stand before taking the plunge. He emerged grinning from ear to ear.

“That was something,” he said.

But Dad is a man not given to idle talk, and I wasn’t sure if I’d hit the mark with all of this activity. Was he enjoying it all – or just humoring me? Would he have preferred to just lounge in our suite and surf the massive flat-screen TV?

It wasn’t until the day after we returned that I got my answer. I tuned in as I heard him relate the whole tale to his friends and brothers on the phone.

“You just had to see it to believe it,” he’d say. “…and there were these chefs…. and we had a butler… and they treat you like a king… and the dolphin kissed us, and we kissed the dolphins.”

“And me, an old boy from Iron County, Missouri. It was just more than I could have imagined.”

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

The sound of running spring water and the night noises of the jungle surround me, the toil and trouble of the city far behind.

This long-anticipated journey with my parents – their first to Mexico, and the first stamp on their brand-new passports – had gotten off to an admittedly bumpy start, what with a raucus all-night party in our hotel on the first night, getting lost in the chaos of the city’s Centro Historico, a virulent case of bronchitis for their driver and guide – yours truly – and too many other complications to mention. Had I made a mistake? My ailing father was exhausted – and this trip had been planned as a healing retreat for him.

But as we passed through the colorful towns on the outskirts of Merida and entered the ornate iron gate into the shady front courtyard of Hacienda Petac, I felt the tension dissolve. Marlene, one of more than a dozen Mayan women who attended to our every need during our stay, materialized from one of the three graceful arches of the hacienda with a traditionally embroidered dress, a beautiful smile and a tray of tempting red drinks.

My heart sank – I was sure they coudn’t be on my father’s diet. They almost certainly had sugar in them, and would be another disappointment. But there was Colleen, greeting us with a hug and a rundown of the ingredients: hibiscus tea and orange juice. Pure, simple and delicious. Dad reached for it and downed it, delighted.

It was the first surprise of many that were to unfold in the three days ahead. The two of them shook their heads in amazement as Colleen, the hacienda’s manager, led them on a brief tour of the property and to their choice of rooms, each of them ample and beautiful spaces, filled with atmosphere and lovingly decorated with exquisite fresh flower arrangements everywhere – from the beds to the sinks to the floors to the tiny pockets at front of the bathrobes.

The hacienda itself was a page out of the past, with its graceful arches, leather-backed chairs, lush gardens, antique brick oven and vintage tile floors. The sound of running water that served as a calming backdrop came from a fountain made of a giant chimney. Colleen explained a bit of the history here as my parents admired the crystal spring water falling into the pool below the chimney; this had been a hennequin plantation, and this oven had been used to fuel the fires that processed the hennequin, or sisal, for rope that made so many fortunes in this corner of the world until the rise of the plastics industry rendered it obsolete.

The hacienda had operated at reduced capacity until the ’70s, and lay in ruins for several decades until Houstonians Dev and Chuck Stern discovered its fallen walls and decade columns and envisioned what it could be. Together, and with the help of a Mexican architect and construction crew, they brought it back to glorious life.

“Just amazing,” said Dad.

“It’s just too beautiful to believe,” said Mom.

The death sentence handed down by my fathers’ doctors months ago at the cancer center far behind, they leaned back, looked into each others’ eyes and smiled. It seemed that anything was possible.

A cacaphony of bird calls surrounded us as the sun began to descend, and my parents got settled in their picture-perfect suite as the Mayan ladies prepared a delicious vegan guacamole to enjoy on the terrace until dinner. My parents sampled it and relaxed as the sun went down, rejoicing in their good fortune.

“Is everything ok?” Colleen dropped by to find out.

“More than ok,” said Dad. “I think you’ve got yourself a little piece of Eden here on Earth.”

***

Back in the classic talavera-tiled Mexican kitchen, a crew of Mayan women, immaculate in their white embroidered huipiles, bustled about preparing dinner. Here again, the staff did not disappoint: a vegan version of tortilla soup, followed by a Yucatecan favorite, pok chuk. Usually made with pork, Colleen had come up with an ingenious substitute – roasted shitake mushrooms, swathed in a savory chiltomate sauce, sprinkled with roasted red onions and wrapped in warm, fresh corn tortillas straight from the comal.

My father kept shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

That night, the Mayan ladies led them through the gardens down a candle-lined walkway to the spa to soak in the jacuzzi, two childhood sweethearts who had never tired of each other.

The next day was one surprise after another, beginning with breakfast by the pool, vegan huevos rancheros on a flower-bedecked table.

My father had the first pedicure of his life, and was a bit taken aback by it all but delighted to find out how good it felt.

That was followed by a sumptuous vegetable soup and a dreamy massage under the magical hands of Mayan masseuse Maryeli. Then the evening commenced with a command performance by Los Tres Yucatecos, one of the most beloved trova trios on the Yucatan Peninsula all for the three of us.

Melodies and harmonies of regional and national favorites echoed from the ancient stones and classic arches as I quietly translated bits and pieces of romantic ballads for my parents.

Dinner was a spread fit for a king: a flaky, moist filleted sea bass served with roast vegetables and a dessert of baked apples stuffed with maple-drizzled apple, spice and nut filling. For my father, denied a season of desserts, it was heaven. His diet forbade sugar but allowed an occasional low-fructose natural sweetener, like maple, and Colleen had taken it and run with it.

The next day, sadly, was our last. Not to let a moment escape, Colleen learned that my mother is an avid birder and lined us up with an excellent bilingual birding guide, Miguel Mendez, who brought the jungle to life for us. His uncanny birdcalls brought the avian life to us and his sharp eye helped us distinguish them from the branches and leaves.

After another generous breakfast, it was finally time to head off to Chichen Itza and the Caribbean coast – Cancun and the Riviera Maya beckoned. But it was with reluctance that we bade our farewells to each of the lovely faces that had become so familiar. Hacienda Petac had made its mark on us all – and one that we would never forget.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

By Tracy L. Barnett
Magis Magazine
October 2011

“Fierce winds ripped huge branches off the thousand-year-old redwood, sending them crashing to the ground two hundred feet below. The upper platform, where I lived, rested in branches about 180 feet in the air … As the tree branches whipped around, they shredded the tarp that served as my shelter. Sleet and hail sliced through the tattered pieces of what used to be my roof and walls. Every new gust flipped the platform up into the air, threatening to hurl me over the edge.”
— Julia “Butterfly” Hill, The Legacy of Luna

It’s hard to say what was the most dramatic moment in that 738 days that Julia “Butterfly” Hill spent atop that platform in a redwood tree named Luna. Perhaps it was the day of that bitter storm and many others that ensued. Perhaps it was the day that a massive helicopter buzzed her tree and nearly blew her to her death with the 300 mph winds created by its updrafts. Perhaps it was the day that a fellow tree sitter had the rope he was standing on cut out from under him by “Climber Dan,” a logger hired by the timber companies to antagonize and remove intransigent activists from the trees they were trying to save from the loggers’ blades.

The full text of this article is currently only available in Spanish. I am currently seeking a publisher for the English version; please contact me at tracy@tracybarnettonline.com if you are interested.

To read the rest of the article click here:

JuliaButterflyHill-in-Magis(oct-nov2011

On Day Two of our Panama adventure, we climbed 1,800 feet to the Valle de Anton to see the world’s second-largest volcanic crater – second only to the Ngorogoro in Tanzania. We were met by Ivan Hoyos of Ancon Expeditions, Panama’s only Virtuoso tour provider and a conservation-oriented company linked with one of Panama’s oldest conservation groups. Ivan, who is cited in Lonely Planet, is a lively interpreter of the country’s history, culture, ecology, and almost anything that might interest a traveler.

Panama, Ivan was quick to tell us, is an ecotourism rival to Costa Rica that in many ways exceeds the superlatives of its northern neighbor. “Panama actually has more bird species than Costa Rica, and it also has more protected area,” he said. “What Costa Rica has is fantastic marketing.” Panama derives the lion’s share of its GNP from canal-related commerce, making tourism a secondary, but increasingly appreciated, source of revenue.

The Valle of Anton was our main destination for the day, ending back in Panama City for two days of urban exploration.

Nestled among the cloud-draped peaks of the Cordillera Central, the central mountain range that runs like a spine down the middle of the country, the community of the Valle sparkles in the morning sun with terra-cotta roofs and colorful storefronts and houses.

After our stay on the beach, an hour’s drive up into the mountains took us into an entirely different world. We curved up and up through huge stands of rainforest, stopping to gasp at the occasional vistas of dramatic, bright green peaks against the blue sky. One series of peaks, La India Dormida (the sleeping Indian woman), has a poignant story behind it, which Ivan related as we made out her reclining profile along the skyline.

Our first stop, after the mirador with its dramatic spreading vista, was at the Chorro Macho, a 85-foot waterfall at the heart of a private jungle reserve that is open to the public, offering trails and canopy tours. Massive strangler figs competed for space with dozens of rainforest trees, hanging with enormous and lush philodendron vines. A cacaphony of marvelous birdsong enveloped us as we made our way down to the rushing river below, stopping to watch the birds flit from tree to tree.

After our steep climb back to the human world of cars and pavement, we were more than ready to indulge our human appetites in a sumptuous spread at the Casa de Lourdes, a charming restauarant and B&B set in a colonial-style home with a breathaking view of the misty Cerro Gaitan and surrounding gardens from its collonaded terrace.

Lourdes Fabrega de Ward, founder of the famed Golosinas restaurant in Panama City, was unfortunately not there to greet us, but her husband, the crisp British retired diplomat Edmund Ward, did the honors. He told the story of how Lourdes, a graduate of the national university who went to London for her master’s in foreign relations, decided to open a restaurant. “She couldn’t even boil water when she started,” he said with a laugh.

These days, with a first-rate staff to bring her creative menus to life, she has no need to boil water. We lingered happily over the result, a delightful repast of seafood cocktail, corvina (sea bass) with tamarind sauce and a maracuyá (passion fruit) mousse not soon to be forgotten.

Fully satiated, we headed off to explore the local market. I had some gift shopping to do, so I perused a fine assortment of molas – an art form originated by the indigenous Kuna people who live in the islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama – and for my comadre Maite’s birthday, I ended up selecting one made by a beautiful Kuna woman in her traditional costume, a beautiful black bag adorned with an appliquéd toucan amid a background of brightly colored geometric designs.

Other typical craft items included framed feathers painted with delicate depictions of Panamanian birds; slices of tropical trees painted with the regional landscapes; ceramic depictions of the Panamanian golden frog, now so critically endangered that there may be none left in the wild; and a wide assortment of other novelties.

We ended the day back in Panama City with an unforgettable tasting menu at Barrandas, the signature restaurant of Chef Cuquita Arias, called the “Martha Stewart of Panama” – indeed, Cuquita studied under Martha Stewart, but it’s hard to imagine the American homemaking icon matching Cuquita’s warmth and color.

Round after round of carefully crafted delicacies, each of them a tiny work of culinary art, were presented on long, colorful wooden display panels for our inspection and consumption. Cuquita came out to explain the story behind each of them – recipes that reveled in her love of Panamanian tradition.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

It’s been a long commute from the time my alarm rang at 4 am until my taxi driver deposited me at the glistening lobby of the Bristol Buenaventura at 9 pm. There were times when I asked myself if I was crazy to take this assignment. Now that I’m here, I see that it would have been crazy not to.

I arrived so late that all I’ve seen is the view from my balcony and the menu – and it’s enough to convince me. I was greeted with a bowl of fresh fruit and orchids, chocolate truffles and a coconut lemonade to die for. The view is like a movie set: a romantic, made-for-TV cattail-fringed lake with a thatched-roof shelter overhanging it and a palm-flanked pool lit up in the darkness as if suspended over the lake. This is my view as I dine on the roasted vegetables and polenta with poached egg that I ordered from my specially prepared vegetarian menu. The sound of tree frogs and rushing water lull me into a restful serenity.

Tomorrow it’s a run on the beach that lies beyond the darkness, followed by breakfast and an adventure of some sort – hobie cat sailing? a drive through the jungle? Not sure, but whatever happens, I’m sure it will be worth the wait.

Our day at the Bristol Buenaventura passed all too quickly, playing in the waves on a jet ski, sinking into pure luxury with a heavenly massage at the Corotú Spa, and swimming laps in the lovely pool. I swam up to the swim-up bar and ordered a caipirinha, and I swam under the bridges and to the outdoor jacuzzi, where I let the warm jets pick up where the massage left off – working away the stress of the past weeks.

There was, of course, work to do as well – a tour of the grounds, including the Jack Nicklaus 18-hole golf course, with the first nine holes to open in November and the last nine in February, with sweeping vistas of the sea. A clubhouse called the 19th Hole is also underway, with a pro shop, a bar, and a restaurant called Prime 19.

The grounds themselves are immaculate, with 114 rooms and 15 villas to choose from. Rooms look out onto a Disneyland-perfect blue lake, fringed with reeds and a thatch-roofed palapa for special events. On the other side of the lake lie a world of things to explore: bridges arching over the meandering blue ofa series of pools, including the infinity pool lined with palms; the poolhouse and restauarant; and the sinewy figures of Los Amantes, the lovers, a bronze sculpture by Manuel Carbonell, the last of the great Cuban Master Sculptors.

Beyond the poolhouse, a landscaped brick path winds its way though the villas toward the sea, past the tennis courts and beach volleyball net and on to the charming Faro, or lighthouse, another delightful venue of the resort. Here the guest can dine or order drinks to sip while watching the waves from the chaise lounges or yet another infinity pool, or wander down to play in the waves.

Twice we began our day with an invigorating run along the beach, feeling the fresh moist air against our faces.

The hotel’s cuisine left nothing to be desired, with a full lineup of gourmet delights in the Tamarindo Restaurant and the Tagua Grill. A grilled peach salad with goat cheese croquets, a chilled avocado soup, roasted vegetables with polenta satisfied this vegetarian, but a wide range ofseafood and meat options pack the creative and varied menu.

Our last night was magical with a boat ride from the lake and down a lazy river to the dock at the Faro, where we enjoyed a nighttime barbecue under the stars, a spread we shared on the deck overlooking the crashing waves. For some reason the electricity had gone down for awhile, and backup generators kept the resort humming, but lucky for us, the stars shone especially brightly for the minimal lighting. After dinner we walked along the waves and to our amazement spotted the pulsing sparkles of mysterious phosphorescent creatures that inhabit the waters under the surf.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.