Stalking the Stork

Merhaba from Istanbul

2012-02-10T15:51:00.000-08:00

At least, that's how the post was going to start.

Yes, I'm still alive. 2012 is the Year of the Dragon according to the Chinese calendar. I was born in the Year of the Dragon (we don't need to dwell on which one). That means 2012 is supposed to be super lucky for me and mine... well, okay for me. So far, it hasn't worked out that way, especially for my mom.

Here's what I was set to post the second week of January:

Istanbul is cold in January. Not just cold; a damp, achy chill that seems to penetrate how ever many layers of clothing you've wrapped yourself in. It's also rainy.

So, perhaps continuing the thread of parental torture I began in my last post, this is where we've brought my mother to celebrate her 80th birthday (which is actually this coming Friday and which we'll celebrate with my aunt in a hopefully warm Palm Springs when we pick Argos up from the doggy camp where he spent the past week). Turkish airlines was offering a too-good-to-miss January fare from L.A. to Istanbul, so for the same price of one ticket to Johannesburg, all three of us are in the former capital of the Byzantine/Ottoman Empire.

Travelling with your elderly parent I imagine is a bit like travelling with children -- take it slow, limit yourself to a couple of sights each day, and pack plenty of patience. We're staying in a little bed and breakfast right below the Blue Mosque in the old section of the city, Sultanahmet. Over the past month, we've let her know she's going somewhere, somewhere cold, and to pack accordingly. For some reason, she decided she was going to Montreal, which was fine with us, because if she packed warmly enough for Montreal, Istanbul wouldn't pose any problem.

I didn't finish.

The one person on earth who can pin my mom's arm behind her back and make her beg for mercy in the drama department is my aunt. When I told her of our Istanbul plans -- clinched by a 500 dollar round trip fare from LAX -- I tried to get her to join us, even offering to pay her fare. "I'll think about it," she told me. The next day, she sent me a cut-and-pasted travel advisory from that inspiration to thousands of timid American tourists, the U.S. State Department. It warned of all the ills that could befall us in Turkey -- mostly in Turkish Kurdistan, which is like saying that you should avoid San Diego because someone might be pissed off in Denver. Not only that, she said, but "you'll KILL your mother. Are you INSANE?"

Istanbul was lovely. Cold and damp, but lovely -- even though cabbies there try harder than their counterparts in many cities (Delhi excepted) to inflate the fare and refuse to take even an 80-year-old woman anywhere if it's not clear across the city -- and even though I left my wallet in the back of a cab and had to frantically call the U.S. to cancel my credit cards. We brought my mom back fully intact and went to Palm Springs to confound my aunt's predictions. That evening, Friday, as we were heading home with a very happy, stinky Argos, she developed a slight cough. On Tuesday, she was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia -- and my aunt wasn't speaking to me.

She spent the week there. That Friday, she had a CT scan which showed a mass on her lung which might have been due to the pneumonia -- or might be cancerous, a product of her supposedly early stage breast cancer last summer. They won't know until a second scan later this month. The news came just as we were about to sign the paperwork for the loan to add on to the house in preparation for the twins.

Now, all is on hold. If my mom is sick, we can't subject her to life in a construction zone. If she's not, we'll still be living in a construction zone when the twins arrive. Either way, it appears the twins' first home stateside will be in an apartment somewhere. But for now, my mother is in decent spirits, pretty much recovered, and back home... and all is strangely calm. Aside from a nagging sense of filial guilt and that voice in my head that keeps squeaking -- in spite of a vigorous self-defense and my aunt's apology -- that maybe she was right.

Happy New Year!

2012-01-02T13:06:00.000-08:00

We had a low-key New Year's Eve at the home of our neighbors. We brought grapes to eat at midnight, following the Spanish custom of eating one grape for each peal of the belltower at Madrid's Puerta del Sol. I cued up the ceremony on Spanish television to coincide with midnight California time. New Year's Day was quiet too -- but on the way home from lunch at our favorite Chinese place, my mom started begging us to take her to the L.A. Equestrian Center near Griffith Park, where the equine guests of the Rose Parade stay the night before. I was nursing a slight hangover and really wanted to go home to nap, but I figured indulging was good practice for what lies ahead. My mother is obsessed with horses.

By day, he pulls the Wells Fargo stagecoach. By night, he's Crispín, Mexican wrestler

This morning, we're sitting watching the Rose Parade.

My parents never took me to the Rose Parade, in spite of living close enough to the parade route to, if I ran outside really quickly, see the planes flying in formation over the crowds. Not that I was ever in the crowd.

"What? It helps keep my weight down..."

"Great, add that to your pile of grievances," says my mom. "Why don't you ever remember the SWEET things?" Well, I do, but frankly, the sweet things don't elicit a wrist-to-the-forehead dramatic outburst from her, so they're just not as much fun. Most fun: just bring up smoking. For fans of the show "Mad Men," my parents were like Don and Betty Draper, minus the bitterness and the high level of marital angst. The show features Betty and her early-to-mid-1960s suburban housewife friends waddling in, hugely pregnant, for a visit in each other's kitchens, smoking and drinking up a storm. I was born in '64, the year the U.S. Surgeon General released the famous report linking smoking with... well, death. So I ask: "Mom, didn't it occur to you that maybe it was a bad idea to smoke and drink while you were pregnant?" Response: "WHAT? WHAT? WE DIDN'T KNOW!! Tear my HEART out! FLOG me! STONE me! WE DIDN'T KNOW!!" Not only is this an exact quote, she'll say something like this anytime I raise the subject. So, c'mon, mentioning the time she crafted a tour of Southern California Spanish missions, the Queen Mary, Lion Country Safari and the San Diego Zoo for my spring break just doesn't compare. Fortunately, she quit about 20 years ago.

She also introduced me to horses. When she was growing up, she kept hers in back of the house, living at the edge of what was then the developed part of Los Angeles -- to the south, Hollywood; to the north, groves of orange and walnut trees. We still live in the same block, but needless to say, L.A. swapped its orange groves for cheap post-war tract homes as it pushed up against the mountains and out towards the desert, and having a horse in what's now the middle of the city is out of the question. But we live about three miles from Griffith Park with its bridle trails and boarding stables, and that's where she made sure I spent a good part of my childhood, taking riding lessons (which I loved) and shoveling the stall of the psychotic mare she bought when I was in the fourth grade (which I hated).

So no. No camping out at the Rose Parade. No joining the crowds lining Sunset Boulevard for the Hollywood Christmas Parade. And you know what? Now that I'm a grown-up and think about the crowds and the parking and the money and the frayed nerves, I don't blame her (shhh, don't tell her!).

But this morning, as we were watching the parade, Adrián said "this is something we'll have to do with the kids." "What, sit and watch on TV?" I asked with apprehension. "No," he said. "I mean, go watch in person."

Sigh.

We'll close with a thematic video courtesy of Mark at Our Simple Lives (I left out the part about being put out to roast in the sun... but my mom never shared her cocktails, damnit):

Bon nadal

2011-12-25T11:19:00.000-08:00

The morning is done... the gifts are open. Last night's tamales are vanished and the turkey is preparing to go in the oven.

All baby-themed gifts.

Last night we told two more friends, our neighbors -- they also said they were thrilled, but didn't offer to babysit. Pity, and they live so close...

My half-sister spent Christmas Eve and morning with us and just headed to LAX to fly to the Bay Area to spend the rest of the holiday with my other half-sister. She knew about our India adventure and the purpose behind it, but didn't know we were expecting twins. She said she's excited at the prospect of being an aunt again (my other sister's kids are just four years younger than me). I offered to send the twins to stay with her in Manhattan for, oh, the next five years or so. She said she doesn't want to be an aunt THAT badly.

Someone's had enough of the holidays...

Argos is quiet and subdued this morning. We think he has a bread hangover after eating an entire loaf of sourdough destined for the turkey dressing. Or maybe it's just that he knows I'm posting un-dobermanly photos of him.

Note the Californian touches

Wherever you're celebrating and whatever your celebrating, I hope this has been a happy and fulfilling holiday season, and I wish you the best for 2012.

חלק שני - The reveal

2011-12-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

I'll tell you a dirty little secret. Keep it quiet, okay?

Here it is: I love Christmas.

My internal Yuletide alarm starts clanging as the days get shorter, and I battle with myself to not break out the Christmas CDs in October. I could probably get away with it, since my tastes run to weird medieval and renaissance disks that don't sound very Christmas-y to most around me and that they find only slightly more enjoyable than being drawn and quartered. I've tried to get my husband involved by buying albums like "Navidad Renacentista" or "Navidad Ibérica," but that only resulted in my knowing the words to songs like "Riu riu chiu" and "E la don don," that nobody knows even in Spain. Okay, I know all the words to "The Twelve Days of Christmas" too. Just don't force me to sit through "My Grown Up Christmas Wish."

Only in Santa Monica -- fair trade chocolate Hanukkah gelt and artisanal dreidels

Know why it's a dirty little secret? I'm technically Jewish. Yep, Jewish mom (from whom I ironically inherited the Christmas gene) and WASP dad (who hated Christmas), whiter than the snows of Maine from which he sprang. No religion. Not even an effusive Jewish grandmother. And a big-ass noble fir in our living room every December. Jewish identity in our home was always expressed through food, mainly a weekly or so trip to the deli. And maybe about a dozen dirty words in Yiddish. I can speak a passable Hebrew, but that's thanks to four years in the university preparing for a career in archaeology that never materialized, not anything my parents did.

So I was pleased last night to assuage my annual twinge of ethnic guilt by attending an impromptu Hanukkah party at the home of some very good friends of ours. Conveniently, they invited most of our remaining good friends who are still in the dark about our impending event.

Four thousand years of calories on one plate

It's not as though we've kept our mouths completely shut -- a select group of friends has known what we've been up to from the start. Mostly, they're people who either already have kids or are investigating the process. And while it occasionally resulted in a revealing post that I hurridly had to delete from my Facebook page, for the most part everyone has kept his or her mouth shut.

The best reaction was from our friend Patrick, whose jaw dropped and whose hands flew to the sides of his face and hovered there for half a minute. He then offered to babysit. We were pretty sure they already knew -- I thought I remembered someone telling me that so and so had asked about our trip to India last April -- but no, they all assured us our news came as an enormous surprise.

Ninety percent of the friends are now in the loop. That leaves work.

My boss is back in the office on the 27th.

חג שמח לכולם! (For the Hebraically impaired...it says "chag sameach l'kulam," that is "a happy holiday to everyone!")

The first reveal

2011-12-20T16:11:00.000-08:00

For the past ten years or so, we make an annual pilgrimage to visit two separate sets of friends in San Francisco, who (conveniently for us) tend to have parties on the same weekend in December.

This year, of course, we brought with us a secret so closely guarded, it's known only to my mother, her sister, about a dozen friends in L.A. and the throngs that flock to this blog. We were a little worried at what the reaction would be to the big 12th Week reveal -- one of our friends is notorious for loving dogs but finding children about as pleasant as listening to Mariah Carey and Celine Dion sing a duet of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

We spent most of Saturday helping one of our friends get his beautiful house atop Potrero Hill ready for his big holiday bash on Sunday. That evening, fortified on the evening's first glass of wine, we took a big breath and broke the news to three of our best friends.

"I KNEW it!" our host shouted. "Didn't I tell you guys that's why they went to India?" Turns out he has another set of friends in San Francisco who are also doing surrogacy in India. He demanded we move back to San Francisco so he can be a proper uncle.

Mmm... tastes like jamón serrano

At the small party thrown later Saturday by our other friends, while Adrián entertained their dog by allowing him to lick the back of his neck for 15 minutes straight... well...

"Wha... no, really?" said she of the child aversion. "Um... WHY?" But her husband was delighted at our news and promised to make up for any her slack in the auntie-uncle relationship.

And a funny thing happened at the party the next day -- right when I was getting a little sad thinking that this was the last year we'd be able to all be together pre-holidays, for the first time, the party was filled with children: toddlers, first-graders, a lesbian couple nursing their two-month-old in the bedroom. A new chapter begins.

While we were still in SF, our latest ultrasound arrived -- everything looking good and the babies looking more like babies, though Adrián thinks one of them looks a bit evil, as if rubbing palms together planning world domination. At least the clown nose has disappeared...

Nose news is good news

2011-12-06T15:11:00.000-08:00

Any resemblance to this child is purely coincidental

One summer, when I was about seven and staying with my grandparents in L.A. on my annual visit from Hawaii, my grandfather caught me picking my nose. We were watching TV on the sofa and my finger absent-mindedly found its way into my nostril.

My grandfather looked over and casually said "You know what's going to happen, right? You're going to stretch out your nostrils and they'll never go back to the way they were."

"Nuh uh," I said, lowering my finger uncertainly.

"It's true. I used to have a nose like yours. Then I picked it, and look at it now."

I was horrified. My grandfather surely had one of the largest probosci ever to light on a human face. Each of his nostrils was cavernous. As a child, it looked to me as if I could run the tracks of my electric train (a big Lionel, not one of those wimpy Tyco things) up one nostril and out the other, which would have been a lot more fun than that stupid styrafoam mountain that came with the train set, though similar in size and shape. His nose jutted from his face in a magnificent arc that would have made a macaw proud.

My point is that, while I didn't inherit the Nathan nose, I know it's lurking in my genes, preparing to enthusiastically assert itself in a new generation (my mom got it, but I promised I wouldn't talk about why she no longer has it. All I'll say is that it also was a rite of passage for a lot of girls at my high school). And our donor appears to have a healthy schnoz.

Now, look what appeared in my inbox this morning:

Is that baby wearing a clown nose?

Okay, okay, I know it's likely what's left of the yolk sac. And other nose-news is quite good -- Dr. Jolly noted nasal bones on both on this morning's report.

Bicho 1:
Approx. gestational age: 12 weeks 0 days
BPD - 14mm (help me out here, is that a little small?)
CRL - 53mm
Nuchal translucency - 0.9mm
No obvious gross transgenital anomaly (nuchal translucency and the presence of a nasal bone suggest a lower risk of Down's Syndrome and other genetic abnormalities -- normal is up to 2.0mm at 11 weeks)

Bicho 2:
Approx. gestational age: 11 weeks 4 days
BPD- 13mm (will we have children with very small heads but very large noses?)
CRL - 47mm
Nuchal lucency: 1.1mm

By the way, I'm trying to comment on all your blogs, but for some reason, Blogger keeps telling me I don't have access. Not even to comment on my own. But I am reading...

Wayward texts

2011-12-02T23:48:00.001-08:00

Mystery texter in the 510: Sorry, a little scattered. Stopped for a couple of beers with buddies on way home and haven't had din yet. For sure let's catch up off line and check out your works. :)

Mystery texter in the 510: So funny I still know ur number by heart. Probably the only one I do.

Me: Awww... that's sweet.

Me: But... um... who is this?

Mystery texter:

Training children

2011-11-30T18:37:00.000-08:00

Ho ho.. yeah, whatever.

She wants the Trader Joe's cat-shaped ginger cookies, and without a word, the clear plastic mini-tub joins a similar package of mini-chocolate chip cookies in the cart.

"No, honey," I say with strained patience. "Today's not a day for that."

She is not amused.

"Okay, if you want the ginger cookies, you have to put the chocolate chip cookies back," I say. You're supposed to give them choices. The chocolate chip cookies stay; ginger cats go back on the shelf.

A few steps and, before I can intervene, she's grabbed a package of puff pastry twists. Into the cart they go.

"Those are yucky," I say. "They're not good for you."

She purses her lips. I worry a tantrum may follow. She looks at the new package of cookies and reaches for it. Then she looks at the label on the front.

"It says no animal fats and no high fructose corn syrup," she reads. "What's wrong with that?"

Shopping with your mother is like being out with a daughter who won't allow you to tell her "no."

We are what you might call a multi-generational household. Adrián and I have lived with my mother since moving back to Los Angeles in 2007, at first out of housing-bubble-induced necessity, then out of a growing sense of horror at how the woman feeds herself. The woman never met a saturated fat she didn't like, never turns down a processed food product, practically weeps if a meal doesn't include red meat. We plan to break ground soon on an addition that will allow us to house three generations (four will have lived in it, since it was my grandparent's house when I was a kid) and let us reward my mom's hospitality by allowing her to babysit two squalling twins.

Say we make a tasty chicken stew with fresh vegetables from the back yard -- "nothing for me dear, I already ate," she says. If we're lucky, she'll eat a few spoonfuls. Or if we serve her a small bowl of Greek yogurt with honey and fresh berries for breakfast: "I can't eat that much," she'll say, staring at the three tablespoons of yogurt and half-dozen raspberries. But let us place before her a plate of cha siu pork at Sam Woo's Barbecue and she develops the appetite of a 300 pound man who hasn't eaten in a week. I wonder how this woman ever encouraged my taste for fruits and vegetables. Hell, sometimes I wonder how I survived to adulthood if this is how she fed me.

Incredibly, the woman is surprisingly healthy, in spite of what we hope was a brief encounter with breast cancer over the summer (she's fine, knock wood).

"Look at the back," I say. "It's made with palm oil. Palm oil is saturated. You'd be better off eating a stick of butter."

That would actually suit her just fine. Palm oil doesn't. She puts the pastry twists back on the shelf.

Parents are children with training wheels. But I've won this one, for now.

Now we can call them twins

2011-11-25T12:42:00.000-08:00

Don't spook the rednecks! They might stampede!

While shopping fans across the US pushed, pulled and pepper-sprayed each other in the annual orgy of pre-Christmas consumerism known as Black Friday, we were opening our latest scan -- the first one that shows something that may be vaguely human:

According to Dr. Jolly, our remaining fetuses look healthy -- Twin One is 36 mm, gestational age of 10 weeks four days, with a heart rate of 160 beats per minute. Twin Two is 29 mm, gestational age of 9 weeks five days, with a heart rate of 156 beats per minute.

And if it's not too late for a Thanksgiving posting -- my cousin spent the holiday at Plymouth, where the native Wampanoag gave the Pilgrims food and in return the Pilgrims gave the Wampanoag... smallpox. She took a photo of this cringe-worthy plaque, because you know that if they had to spell it out, people have actually said this stuff:

Actually, "hey you!" works fine, too.

I suppose that after 400 years, one gets weary.

That Thing No One Likes to Talk About

2011-11-24T13:56:00.001-08:00

And then there were two.

Our surrogate had the selective reduction yesterday. We got the news this morning, and, truth be told, we're both very glad it's out of the way, hoping the procedure wasn't frightening or painful for the sweet, cheerful-looking woman who's carrying our children. The email from SCI says she's doing fine, and so are our twins.

Both of us are firmly in support of a woman's right to choose what she does with her body -- and hey, in spite of what some opponents of surrogacy would say, isn't choosing to become a surrogate another expression of that freedom?

I've read about couples feeling a since of loss after the procedure. Nope, not here. While the shots of KCL stopped two heartbeats, I don't feel they were quite human yet -- soon, too uncomfortably soon to feel nothing, but not yet. Since we found out we were pregnant, we've never thought of ourselves as having four... just two. According to this 2007 article from the Washington Post (which is great article if you want all the gory details):

Selective reduction is one of the most unpleasant facts of fertility medicine, which has helped hundreds of thousands of couples have children but has also produced a sharp rise in high-risk multiple pregnancies. There is no way to know how many pregnancies achieved by fertility treatment start out as triplets or quadruplets and are quietly reduced to something more manageable. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which publishes an annual report on fertility clinic outcomes, does not include selective-reduction figures because of the reluctance to report them.

We understand there was never any real possibility of bringing four babies to term. It radically increases the risk to both surrogate and baby:

Triplets pregnancies are far riskier than most people realize: Carrying three babies to term would more than double the woman's risk of developing the most severe diseases of pregnancy, such as preeclampsia. The average triplet is born two months premature, significantly raising the risk of disabilities such as cerebral palsy and of lifelong damage to the infant's lungs, eyes, brain and other organs. By reducing the pregnancy to twins, the woman and her husband would decrease the risk of severe prematurity. And the risk of losing her entire pregnancy would fall from 15 percent to 4 percent.

We wouldn't have the resources to raise four children, anyway. And while they're beginning to take on a human form, they're still more potential than human, the size of a lima bean. At this stage, they look more like these things than a baby:

A potato bug...

...an alien...

...or la Duquesa de Alba.

Alive, but are they human?

And yet... there's the profound awareness of having passed one of those points where fate pivots: you will be this, not that. This one survives, that one doesn't. What just happened will affect the rest of our lives in every way.

I'm still waiting for a full report, so I'm not sure why the two eliminated embryos were chosen. For now, I'm assuming all were healthy and normal and that the procedure targeted the two easiest to reach . So I keep thinking... if that nearly random needle had chosen another, who would they have become? What was lost? And what will we tell our kids if they ever ask "what, you mean it could have been me?"

Well, yes. It could have. But we all only exist because of a lucky string of accidents... my mom's family left Europe in the 1880s rather than stick around for the Holocaust... my dad's family were lucky enough not to starve those first few winters in 17th century New England... I wasn't flattened by a truck crossing Wilshire Boulevard last year.

It's all luck, all where the ball on the roulette wheel stops.

But I do know the most important thing I'll tell our children: "we got exactly the kids we were meant to have."

The whisker vote

2011-11-21T15:21:00.000-08:00

So over the past few weeks, Adrián once again decided to grow a beard:

I think it makes him look like a hot professor (which he is). But even though he claims immunity, he too is susceptible to vanity. He doesn't like the white part that insists on erupting on his chin, like the greying muzzle of a weary, faithful dog (which I have, too, and is the whole reason I no longer experiment with facial hair, but at least I admit my motives) and announced a few days ago he planned to shave it off. That's something he didn't do when even he was compared to this man:

But this time, he claimed, his resolve was cold and steely. The reason: he felt his facial adornment is uncomfortably similar to this man's:

Mariano Rajoy is Spain's new prime minister.

No hace falta meter el dedo con Rajoy en el buzón.

There was much gnashing of teeth in our household as the elections approached and poll after poll showed the conservative party, the Partido Popular, surfing to victory on the crest of a wave of economic misery. Somehow, the PP is much better at getting campaign literature all the way to California than the socialists, PSOE, the party that generally gets Adrián's vote. The PP now has 186 out of 350 seats in parliament and faces the task of convincing the world that Spain won't follow Greece, Ireland and Portugal down the financial toilet.

"There will be no miracles," Rajoy said. "We haven't promised any." But besides promising austerity measures that are hoped will help the country right its economic ship and convince Angela Merkel not to spank them, the PP certainly has suggested many things, among them undoing Spain's tough new law prohibiting smoking in enclosed public places (which makes our visits much more pleasant and aligns Spain with, well, the rest of the developed world) to annul Spain's law granting gay and lesbian couples the right to marry, which conceivably would undo our marriage. Rajoy has said he'll hold his tongue until the Consitutional Court rules on a challenged filed to the law by the PP. One family law expert predicts that the court will uphold the law. If not, couples who married since 2005 would be likely to stay married while new same-sex couples would be unable to marry... which is exactly the situation we face in California, though in this case the interviewer wrongly says Californian couples are in legal limbo.

Here's a BBC story about the election:

Despite his indignation, Adrián never found time to go to the consulate to vote. But when I woke up this morning, his beard was gone.

Nuestros cuatro bichitos

2011-11-10T10:47:00.001-08:00

Is it just me, or would this go well with cocktail sauce?

My breasts are increasing in size, looking bigger and feeling heavier. They have become quite tender to touch.

The nipples have changed, the areola (the darker skin around the nipple) darker in color and tingling.

I feel a bit low and irritable at times; this is largely due to the changing levels of hormones in my body.

I become very emotional or irrational at times and suffer from mood swings. I cry at things that had previously not affected me.

Okay. Not really.
But maybe that's why I teared up watching "How to Train Your Dragon" on a recent flight. Hey, along with all the above changes, that's what websites like familyeducation.com would have me believe, so that's the story I'll stick to.

In general, I like that website -- it gives us a "Hey! What are they doing NOW?" day-by-day look at our developing progeny. But I have to ask: do these websites not have any male readers? Do straight dads not care about this stuff? Couldn't they be a little more inclusive to their readers -- male and female -- who are going through surrogacy? Oh well... I suppose we're still a tiny minority of the reproducing public.

In other news, according to these websites, our embies have gone from looking like shrimp or sea slugs, to lizards, and now look something like tiny aliens (with shrimp-like tails that make me think of olive oil and garlic). They're about 12mm long, and Adrián has christened them "los bichos;" the bugs.

The results of our second scan were waiting when I opened the laptop this morning, before even getting out of bed. We still have four bichos, all doing well:

The heartrates clock in at 150, 158, 160 and 160 -- like last time, three seem more or less the same and one lags a bit behind, but all seem strong. Selective reduction in two weeks. Yuck.

The first scan

2011-10-27T23:43:00.000-07:00

Right.

We're pregnant. Very pregnant. Very, very, very very pregnant. Like, having puppies pregnant.

The day after Diwali, we had our first scan. Here's what arrived at 7:00 this morning (I was up at 6:00, compulsively refreshing my inbox):

Congratulations...!!!

We hope you are doing fine.

We would like to inform you that as per our schedule we have done USG scan for R.

Kindly find the enclosed report for the same dated 27th October, 2011.

Please note that this scan was done a little bit late due to Diwali holidays.

We are very happy to inform you that four heartbeats have been seen during the scan.

Dr. Shivani has reviewed the report and found everything within normal limit.

We would also like to inform you that R's next scan will be done within two weeks.

We will keep you updated with her progress & new status.

Four. With heartbeats, yet (90, 98, 104 and 110 bpm). See for yourself:

Mixed emotions: We're very happy that this means a very good probability of taking home at least one baby. But it also means that in a month, unless two of the embryos decide to disappear, we'll have to confront fetal reduction, turning the four into two. Not a pleasant thought.

Compartint l'alegria?

2011-10-22T00:53:00.000-07:00

El Jason em demana que escriga alguna cosa al blog ara, en aquest precís moment, quan són quasi dos quarts d´una de la matinada. La veritat és que estic cansat i en tinc molta, de son però ho intentaré. N'hi ha una cosa que m'agradaria comentar: l'assumpte de quan anunciar la notícia a la gent que estimes, a la teua família. Imagine que el millor moment és aquell en que saps de debò que l'arribada del teu fill és inminent; quan saps que en realitat el fet d'anunciar-ho no té ni mitja ni cap d'importància i que tan sols vols compartir l'alegria que suposa el tenir aquest element que estaba faltant per a que la teua vida fos redona, completa. El procés ja está escomençat i no hi ha volta enrera. El moment de la generositat ha arribat tot plegat i dintre de ben poc vull compartir la bona nova amb tothom. Xarico, les meues nebodes i nebot, mon pare i Cati...Tots ells estaran ben contents d'allò que ens aguarda al Jason i a mi..., especialment si eixa alegria es multiplica per dos.

And the survey says....

2011-10-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

India is quite literally on the other side of the world from California -- 13 hours difference, and I became intimately acquainted with every minute of every one of those hours as the jetlag slowly wore off on our return from Delhi last April. So given the time difference, I spent most of yesterday evening compulsively checking my email, as if the results of the first hCG test would be done and sent by 8:00 am Delhi time.

Naturally, the first thing I did after waking up this morning was to pull the laptop from under the bed -- here's what was waiting for me:

We would like to inform you that as per our schedule we have done a Beta HCG test for R.

We are happy to inform you that her beta value is 548.63, which is very good.

Please find the attached file for the same.

We would like to congratulate you as you are pregnant now.

We will now do a USG scan for her within a week to check the pregnancy sacs.

Once her scan will be done, we will get back to you at the earliest.

SCI wishing you good luck for this beautiful journey ahead.

Er... should we be thinking about adding TWO extra bedrooms to the house...?

Killing time at DEL

2011-10-07T18:22:00.000-07:00

Delhi, April 12 -- “No, I don’t have a ticket printout!” exclaimed the annoyed passenger. Fifty-five-ish. Apparently Chinese by birth, as I could tell from his accent and the name on his passport. Apparently American by naturalization, as I could see from the passport itself.

We were already behind the counter at the Delhi International Airport “Visitor Centre,” waiting as the glacially slow airport internet connection loaded the American Airlines webpage so we could print our own ticket. “I’ve been all over the world,” he continued. “No airport makes you do this.” I gave him a resigned smile from behind the counter and told him that, well, it’s just the way it was here. The agent had let me sit there to print my ticket. He had the patience of a sadhu. He needed it, because his English wasn’t up to handling the simultaneous complaints of a dozen annoyed Western travelers. I’m now checked through to LAX, but the system wouldn’t let me print Adrian’s boarding pass as it has somehow suddenly decided that the name on his passport doesn’t match the name on his ticket. At 9:30, when the AA check-in counter opens, I’m told I need to enter with my boarding pass, my passport and Adrian’s passport – without Adrian – because, of course, having a second party present your passport and get your boarding pass makes us all much safer from terrorists.

While the maelstrom of humanity and aggressive touts that once greeted arrivals at Indira Gandhi International Airport are long gone, Delhi must be the only airport to penalize travelers for arriving early. We got to the airport shortly before seven. As two Argentines were refused entry to the terminal just ahead of us, I remembered with a sinking feeling in my stomach reading somewhere that you needed a paper ticket to enter. Who travels with that anymore?

“What time your flight?” asked the security guard. “Midnight,” I told him. He motioned us towards the Visitors Center, a glass-walled ghetto of foreign early arrivals. If you tire of sitting in the crowded, fluorescent-lit box, a narrow chute leads to an elevator down to the arrivals level of the airport, so Adrian and I now sit at the sad but convenient little coffee concession where we began our day following our arrival from Udaipur. Sad, because India is not a coffee-drinking culture and so any coffee concession there is by definition bound to be sad, frequented by Westerners tired of masala chai yet desperate for a caffeine fix (have I mentioned how sick I am of masala chai?). Convenient because – hallelujah! – there’s a mobile and laptop charging station with a universal outlet!

7:30 pm… one more hour before I attempt to win my husband his boarding pass. Amazing how tranquil Indian airports are compared to train stations. Actually, there are six universal outlets on the pillar next to our table. Only one works. Get away. It’s ours.

A Westerner of Indian origin approaches the battery of outlets and pulls out the charger for his mobile. “They’re all broken,” I warn him.

“You have the only one in the whole terminal that works,” he says. “I’ve looked!” Turns out he’s Aussie and was heading back after two weeks in India for a relative’s wedding. I let him plug his phone into my laptop as he calls to give a status report to his ride back home in Sydney.

“The way things work in this country stretch belief,” he tells us. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” We did, but somehow it seems that the Indian Westerners I’ve talked to on this trip have less patience for the chaos, inefficiency and disorder of Indian cities than others who grew up in Chicago, Paris or Oslo.

His call completed, he heads up to the departures level tourist ghetto to await his flight. A hefty man in shorts, Japanese passport and mobile in hand, is now squatting next to the battery of outlets, futilely trying each as the plug falls impotently out.

“India,” he sighs in exasperation.

At 8:30 p.m., I go upstairs to get Adrián his boarding pass. They're perfectly happy to let me enter departures with someone else's passport and to print me a boarding pass in someone else's name.

At nine p.m., we finally rouse ourselves from our quiet corner and head back upstairs, triumphantly entering the terminal with our printed boarding passes. We pass through security without issue, have a long, leisurely dinner surrounded by drunken Western businessmen at a fancy buffet, only to encounter another x-ray machine and metal scan at our gate. The young, portly woman at this security checkpoint has a perfect American accent and the soft, delightful demeanor of a Bronx cab driver. She says I have to get rid of the three liters of water that I bought beyond the first security check to take on the flight.

“I don’t know why you bought it,” she sneers. “Everyone knows you can’t take water on a flight. You have to throw it away.”

“I’ve been all over the world,” I begin. “No airport makes you…”

I stop, remembering the man back at the entrance of the Visitors Centre. Instead, I guzzle three of the half-liter bottles, defiantly fixing my eyes on her as I gulp. I stop to breathe.

“Gonna drink any more or do you want to toss them now?” she asks.

Chin high, I slowly take one more bottle, holding it up as I screw off the plastic top. I drink it in one go, replace the empty bottle with its three empty and two full brethren in the plastic bag from whence it came, set the bag on the table in front of her, and woozily turn to board our flight.

Halfway down the jetway, we’re patted down in a final security check. Just in case water girl missed something. Could've been worse; it could have BEEN water girl doing the groping. We settle into our seats on the 777 -- bulkheads! Bliss! -- exhausted and feeling lucky to have made it aboard.

India.

Three weeks later we’d already be missing it.

Burying the lead

2011-10-07T17:53:00.000-07:00

Our heroes at ISIS with the wonderful Dr. Shivani

Okay, so it's been a long, dreary summer -- my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, had surgery and radiation (she's fine, thanks, they caught it extremely early), and a new job that keeps me very busy.

But the news is this: we did our transfer yesterday; four grade 1 embryos. So we're in our two-week wait. We also are proud parents of 12 more grade 1 and 2 embryos, safely on ice.

Holy shit. This is happening.

Oh, and a final joke para los hispanoparlantes. We saw this vehicle, called a "Montero" in the States and in Spanish-speaking countries but "Pajero" in India and in countries without a large Spanish-speaking population, on the way to the airport. If you google its meaning, you'll see why it's funny -- not to mention relevant to the whole male IVF perspective. I couldn't help feel it was directed at me:

And the end of the trip

2011-10-07T17:31:00.000-07:00

Pushkar
And to think, we skipped Jodhpur and Jaisalmer to come here.
Pushkar sounds good on paper... a small, holy city surrounded by mountaintop temples, a holy lake at its center where Brahma dropped a lotus.

What the guidebooks don't tell you is that Pushkar is dirty and filled with aggressive fake priests who try to press flowers in your hand, then demand money. It caters to backpackers and stoners in search of bhang lassis. The holy lake is strangling, its water supply cut to a trickle, filled with thick algae, the slimy back of some unwholesome, black, five foot long fish occasionally breaking the surface. Lucky for us we only booked one day here.

The highlight of our visit was a hike to the temple of Savitri, on a beautiful triangular peak just outside town. Just at the base of the hill, we met Indra, who served us the best masala chai we had on the whole trip. She had set up shop in a lean-to made of sticks and worked from a propane stove and a battered aluminum pot. We watched as she pounded cardamom and fresh ginger with a rock, then dropped it into the boiling milk. We sat on stumps and talked a little with Indra while we drank the chai. She was an Adivasi woman who made from the trek to Pushkar every day from a village about five miles away. She was illiterate, but her English was good; it always amazes me when someone picks up a language just from chatting with tourists.

The view from the peaceful temple at the top almost made the trip to grimy Pushkar worthwhile. The temple belongs to the goddess Savitri, a wife of Brahma. It seems that once, Brahma was in a hurry to perform a ritual sacrifice for which he needed his wife present. Savitri was nowhere to be found, so he married a handy milkmaid. The ritual was performed on time, but Savitri was not pleased. She cursed Brahma, saying that Pushkar would be the only place in India where he would be worshipped. To this day, Savitri has her temple on one peak, Gayatri, the milkmaid-cum-goddess, has hers on another, and Brahma gets the slimy lake in the middle.

Udaipur
We took a night train to Udaipur, the city with the palace on the lake made famous by the James Bond movie "Octopussy." It's also the most beautiful city in the world, at least according to the Khan family, whom we met on the platform in Ajmer.

Given our experience in Bharatpur, when we noticed people staring at us and heard "where are you from," we wanted to go into "no entiendo" mode. But this time was different -- an extended family traveling back from visiting relatives in Ajmer, and we quickly found ourselves surrounded by all ages of Khan children, stumbling over each other to practice their perfect English on us. We had told them we were from Spain (I don't really think it was necessary to maintain the charade... I didn't run into any anti-American sentiments in India), but at least this time we admitted to speaking English.

They peppered us with questions about life in Europe. They asked us to sing. And howled with laughter when we sang "Asereje," the annoying re-do of "Rappers Delight" that almost metastasized a few summers ago into another worldwide "Macarena." Seems the song was a big hit in India. They made us promise to come by their house in Udaipur for dinner the next evening. We wanted to, but decided that somehow, explaining why two forty-something men were still "single" and traveling together would be too much to explain. I'm sorry now we didn't take them up on their invitation.

Udaipur may or may not be the world's most beautiful city, but it was the prettiest place we visited in India -- and the cleanest. It's located on a series of hills surrounding a series of lakes, palaces and private homes crowding the lakeshore. This was another splurge for us -- while there was no way on earth we could afford the famous Lake Palace (it's now a hotel), we stayed at the Jagat Niwas Palace -- an old haveli (villa) right on the lake. It was furnished with Indian antiques and the rooftop restaurant was fantastic.

View from the City Palace

But you know what happened? After more than a week of eating heavy curries and greasy ghee, our entrails finally rebelled. One final meal at the hotel restaurant, one final masala chai, and that was it. I don't mean barfing or desperate sprints for the toilet -- only that the thought of another big meal or the merest hint of masala chai made our throats seize up and our stomachs clench into tight little balls. For the rest of the trip we ate grilled chicken, a chapati or two, and yogurt. There was so much I wanted to try on that menu, too... I think it took me two months before I dared drink masala chai again.

Besides the lake, one of Udaipur's main attractions is the City Palace, still home to the Maharaja of Mewar. It's a hodgepodge of architectural styles; the oldest parts date to the 16th century, the newest to the 20th. Not all of it works, but it's an interesting look at Rajasthan's recent past. And the views are spectacular.

Ach, ja, ich liebe mein Octopussy!

Octopussy may have come out in the 1980s, but it's still a blockbuster here. Restaurants here out-do each other in using the movie to promote themselves: "Rooftop restaurant - Octopussy show!" "German bakery - Octopussy viewing nightly at 8:30" (not sure what the connection is there), "Best tandoori - best Octopussy show." In Udaipur, Roger Moore is forever young.

We saved one of the best parts of the trip for our second-to-last day. One of the things that attracted us to Udaipur was the concentration of interesting sights in the area -- massive forts, temples and tribal villages. So we hired a driver who took us out of the city, far from anything that ever would have interested James Bond, and plunged into the Aravali Hills.

It was here that we truly felt we'd arrived from another planet. We drove through villages without electricity, past women in bright Rajasthani skirts harvesting wheat with massive sheaves on their heads, at one point stopping where a man was sitting driving oxen to turn a water wheel. He gave A his crop so we could have a photo op -- it was clear we weren't the first tourists he'd done this with, but it was good to be out of an environment where people live from tourism and get a look at the real rural India. There aren't many places I've traveled that felt as profoundly different as this did.

Our first stop was Kumbhalgarh Fort, which looked like something out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (which I thought was a really stupid movie, in case you're wondering)(though I loved Raiders of the Lost Ark). It was a breathlessly hot day, but we still enjoyed the hike up to the top of the fort -- and again, after the crowds of tourists in Delhi and the hordes at the Taj, we marvelled that there weren't more people here -- a handful of Westerners, slightly more numerous Indian tourists, but in general, we often had corridors and ramparts to ourselves. Kumbhalgarh was built by Mewari maharajahs in the 15th century and has a wildlife sanctuary nearby where you can go on Ranthambore-style safaris (minus the tigers... not that we saw any at Ranthambore).

The final stop was the Jain temple at Ranakpur, which was spectacular. The next day we flew back to Delhi, and back to L.A. that night. So I leave you with photos of beautiful Ranakpur, and of the spectacular Gangaur festival, celebrating the marriage of Shiva and Parvati, that awaited us when we got back to Udaipur. And in short, here's what didn't happen to us:

We didn't get blown up.
We didn't get sick.
We didn't get robbed.
We didn't get lost.
We didn't (insert your own India travel fear here)

Okay, we didn't expect any of those things to happen anyway. My point is, if you're considering surrogacy in India, don't let the distance or foreign travel dissuade you. Do your due diligence, but don't be afraid. India is an exhausting, exasperating experience -- but it's also deeply rewarding and often, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Now off you go.

View of Lake Pichola from our hotel

More travels

2011-04-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

Ranthambore National ParkYou can credit our happy faces in this photo to our finally leaving the purgatory of the Bharatpur Junction train station, riding into Rajasthan in air-conditioned comfort to the little town of Sawai Madhopur, jumping off point for Ranthambore National Park. In spite of our delight in finally being out of Bharatpur, I came down with a hell of a cold on the train. Actually, half the car was sneezing along with me (everyone back home in LA seems to be coming down with something this week, so I got to do my own fascinating little observation of global epidemiology and how viruses jump borders with myself as guinea pig -- not that I bear any responsibility for bringing it home, mine only lasted for a day and half!). At first, I hoped it was just a reaction to the ever-visible air of the Indian countryside, but no, my drippy nose stayed with me for the next 200 kilometers.

Sawai Madhopur is a quiet little town that, aside from an annual guava festival (we missed it), doesn't have much reason to exist other than the tourists who head to Ranthambore. Centuries ago, Ranthambore had its own Rajput maharaja, who was eventually conquered by the Mughals. What this means is that the park is home to an impressive mountaintop fort, and the road in is dotted with little Islamic domed shrines that mark the graves of fallen Mughal officers, killed in the many battles fought in the area. Later, the whole area passed to the maharajas of Jaipur, who used it as a hunting preserve until independence in 1949. That means that today, it's one of the best areas in India to spot wild tigers, as well as hyenas, bears, jackals and leopards.

But it was there we discovered the key to travel across India -- a nice splurge every few days. Our first was at Ranthambore Bagh, an eco-resort founded by nature photographer Dicky Singh. The tents were far from roughing it -- comfy beds, rugs, and mosquito netting, with a shaded porch perfect for vegging on a hot afternoon.

We were there late in the tourist season, so there were only a few other guests, which meant we had to eat waaaaay more than we wanted at the wonderful Rajasthani buffet (that's right, it was all their fault - they made us overeat). A musical family from Bikaner played traditional music from the region and their daughter danced. Naturally, we finished our dinner with masala chai.

Turns out we didn't see tigers -- or lions or bears or leopards or any other large carnivore on our safari in spite of being up and out in a surprisingly chilly dawn. It didn't matter --

we saw spotted deer...

Wild monkeys...

Wild peacocks...

Indian ring-neck parakeets...

.And a magpie-like bird called a treepie, which has learned that tourists mean snacks.

Oh, and cute kids.

The afternoon of our safari, we hired a guide (a real one, this time) to take us to the fort. His name was Nadim, and he knew his stuff -- trained as a biologist but obviously in love with the region, its culture and history, too. Ranthambore Fort was built about a thousand years ago and has changed hands many times. The fort is dotted with historic temples hundreds of years old, including a particularly important one to Ganesh, so we shared the ramp through the massive gates up to the mountaintop with dozens of villagers from the surrounding area.

Nadim said he first visited the fort when he was eight years old and has spent most of his life exploring the ruins of temples, palaces and barracks. He showed us some medieval grave markers with what was left of beautiful calligraphy in Persian -- and told us that when he was a kid, they were in perfect condition. Little by little, the marvels of Ranthambore Fort are being chipped away. But we were the only tourists on the mountain during our visit and the view from the top made me feel very privileged.

The next day, we relaxed at our tent until our next rendezvous with the Indian rail system early that afternoon. We were heading to Pushkar, a holy city and one of the only places in India where Brahma is worshiped. The train was supposed to arrive at about four. Our first hint of trouble was when I called ahead to see if our hotel could send a taxi to pick us up. "Call us when you arrive in Ajmer," said the hotel clerk (Ajmer is the nearest rail stop to Pushkar). "That train is always late." And indeed it was. We spent five hours on the platform at Sawai Madhopur, making more involuntary sociological observations about the customs of Indian rail passengers, as well as the dogs, cows, goats and pigs that wandered at will through the station. At least no one stared here. Besides an occasional cow.

Now it can be told

2011-04-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

Well, actually, it could be told then, too, but I'm a lazy-ass blogger.

Delhi

Is it Adrián at the Lotus Temple...

...or the Flying Nun?

So, yes, after some 20 hours travel time, we arrived in Delhi. Earlier bloggers got to experience the chaos of the old Indira Gandhi International -- mobbed by touts and taxi drivers as soon as they cast their jet-lagged eyes outside the terminal. That's all gone now. Arriving in Delhi is just like arriving anywhere else... except that we felt extra special since this was the only place we had our own driver waiting for us, arranged by Shilpi, Dr. Shivani's lovely concierge. He took us to the shiny, new ISIS Hospital, where we had the first encounter with the collection room, then to our hotel, Sai Villa in Greater Kailash, a few blocks from the M-Block Market. For the price (3400 rupees a night), it wasn't bad -- quiet and convenient. We walked to a Punjabi place in M-Block Market for tasty curries, headed back to our hotel and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep, courtesy of Ambien.

Our first full day, we headed out to explore, via the ubiquitous auto-rickshaws, the tuk tuks. Tuk tuk drivers will do their

best to rip you off, and I suspect we paid too much for several rides, until I read in our guidebook that you shouldn't pay more than four rupees or so per kilometer. By day two, when one driver tried to charge us 150 rupees each for the short trip between ISIS and the Baha'i Lotus Temple, I triumphantly ordered him to pull over, unless he'd take us both for 100 rupees (still too much, but I felt generous). He continued to argue until another tuk tuk driver pulled up and agreed to take us for 85.

You'd be hard-pressed to call New Delhi a pretty city, but it does have potential -- quite a few wide, tree-lined streets and impressive monuments. But the city seems to be crumbling under the weight of its own population, doing little to repair sidewalks, pick up litter, or clear rubble from construction projects. And while I suspect we missed the worst of the poverty, we saw plenty of people living on the potholed sidewalks with a tarp as their roof. But we weren't besieged by beggars, aside from one heartbreaking encounter outside Kutub Minar where a tiny child squeezed his way through the bars of a wrought-iron fence like a stray kitten. His mother was scrubbing pots in a dirt parking lot nearby where the family lived in a lean-to, but she wasn't paying attention. He motioned for money but was content to lean on my leg as I let him play with my camera. It reminded me so much of the three-year-old daughter of some friends of ours -- they had to be the same age, but he was half her size.

The next day, we took the aforementioned tuk tuk to the Lotus Temple (architecturally impressive, but if you're short on time, skip it) and later met with Dr. Shivani at ISIS. Then we took the new metro to Old Delhi. This was our first encounter with people who wanted to take our picture. One man asked A if he was English. Considering that one of my husband's favorite pass-times is making fun of the sunburned, drunken British tourists who flock to Benidorm back in Spain, this gave me something to tease him about for the rest of our trip.

If New Delhi is a modern city in need of a facelift, Old Delhi is the old Mughal capital with the mask removed. The metro stop let us out near Chandni Chowk, once the city's most fashionable shopping drag (well, like, 400 years ago). These days, it's a tangle of pedestrians, stalls selling everything from cucumbers to sandals, tuk tuks, bike rickshaws, animals, and smells good and bad. It leads eventually to Lal Qila, the Red Fort, one of Delhi's (and India's) most recognizable monuments. In retrospect, it's more impressive from the outside -- having now seen Agra Fort and a couple of others containing beautiful palace complexes-- but the inside is still well worth a visit.

After the Red Fort, we visited India's largest mosque, Jama Masjid -- with a spectacular view from one of its minarets (we were approached by three women -- two Indians and a Briton -- who asked us to pretend we were traveling with them, since women can only go up if they're accompanied by a male family member). We topped it all off with a delicious, greasy meal around the corner at Karim's, which I think is the restaurant that invented butter chicken. Mmmmmm. Finished off with masala chai, of course.

Agra

Next morning, up at 4:30 a.m. bound for Agra and the first of four experiences with the Indian rail system.

How Agra got its name:
Como recibió Agra su nombre:

J: A -
A: ¿Qué? What?
J: Dime a donde vamos. Tell me where we´re going.
A: Vamos a Agra. We're going to Agra.
J: Dime algo sobre Agra. Tell me something about Agra.
A: "Agra" es el femenino de "agre" en valenciano. Una dona agra tè molt mal caracter. "Agra" is the feminine of "agre" (sour) in Valenciano (A's dialect of Catalan). (In Valenciano): A sour (agra) woman has a very bad temper.
J: ¿Y cómo... cómo recibió ese nombre? And how... how did it get that name?
A: Pues que, una dona agra no es dolça, es una dona agra, molt agra. Well, a sour woman isn't sweet, she's a sour woman, very sour.
J: Ya, ya, ya, entiendo, pero ¿por qué es el nombre de la ciudad? Right, right, right, I understand, but why is it the name of the city?
A: Ah, ah, ah... porque era la novia del sultán, y tenía muy mal caracter, y el sultán hizo el monumento diciendo "eres una dona molt agra" e hizo el monumento. Ah, ah, ah... because she was the sultan's girlfriend and she had a very bad temper and the sultan built the monument saying "you are a very sour woman," and he made the monument.

Now you know.

So you know those trains from the old Forster novels, from the "Jewel in the Crown" and from countless movies? The iron steeds steaming across parched plains or up steep mountains, perhaps with crowds clinging to the rooftops? Nah. Not this time. We were in "chair class," which basically makes it like any commuter train anywhere -- air conditioned, clean and comfortable. No, scratch that, not like anywhere -- this included breakfast and a snack, with lots of masala chai.

Of course, as the trip progressed, we noticed a not-so-picturesque part of the scenery that took some of our appetite away: at first, the men squatting near the railroad tracks as the train passed didn't catch our attention. Train stations are full of squatting people -- if you can't find a seat, squat, feet flat, not on the balls of your feet with your heels up like people in the West seem to do. I tried it. It's not easy. I kept falling backwards. Try it yourself, now. I will wait.

Hard, huh? Anyway, the men along the tracks weren't just squatting. They were POOPING. One guy whipped down his pants facing the train just as we were passing, giving everyone on board a full confirmation of the fact he was going commando that day. It continued for miles, as residents of shantytowns and villages saluted the sunrise and answered the call of the train's horn by answering nature's call. We made a mental note never to walk along the tracks for the remainder of our trip.

There's no kind way to put this: Agra is a hole. But, like reaching into the toilet bowl when you accidentally drop your ring in, you have to visit Agra if you want to see the Taj Mahal. And the Taj makes it all worthwhile. But before thou shalt be rewarded by entering the sublime Taj, thou must pass a series of challenges.

Our first challenge was named Riaz. He ended up being our driver for two days, and attached himself to us like a limpet as we exited the Agra Junction train station. In spite of the nice man at the tourist information booth inside the station having told us that we should pay no more than 950 rupees a day for a driver, at the "prepaid" taxi booth outside we somehow ended up paying 3100 for two days. That's... let's see... 1550 a day. "Happy?" asked Riaz, as we walked towards his car. No... no, I had a hunch I would definitely not be happy.

Okay, it didn't start out badly. He took us to a pretty, little-visited tomb of a Mughal official whose name I forget, but the place was unique for the Chinese elements of its design. We also visited the "Baby Taj," the tomb of I'timād-ud-Daulah, who was the grandfather of Mumtaz Mahal... who's buried you-know-where. It was beautiful, and we had the place practically to ourselves.

Things started going down hill just before lunch. "Now I show you Mughal arts," Riaz said. "We're not interested in shopping, Riaz," I said. "Not to buy, not to buy," he said, making it sound like nahtubai, nahtubai. "Just to watch." Well, naturally, just to watch meant just watching while the rug seller pulled out rug after rug. Actually, it was sorta tempting -- and we reluctantly asked how much they were. He said he could ship us a 5 x 8 hand knotted wool rug for... pulling out his calculator -- 900 dollars. We said we'd think about it and left. Then Riaz took us to a very touristy restaurant, which, in spite of looking like a fluorescent-lit diner inside, had a Rajasthani singer and dancer -- a ten-year-old boy -- at the door. They started playing as we drove up, the dancer winking at us in a way that made me want to call child protective services. Or maybe his contacts were just slipping. I do that with my eyes when my contacts slip.

Actually, it's a beer label, so get your mind out of the gutter.

We could tell whenever someone was about to enter the restaurant, because that pattern -- the music starting anew -- repeated every time a new group came in. The music stopped as soon as the door closed, almost automatically, like one of those machines that squeals "hai, irashai!" when you open the door to a sushi bar.

"Are we happy?" asked Riaz, as we headed back to the car. I didn't answer. "Now I show you more Mughal art," he said.

"Riaz, we'd rather go to Agra Fort."

"Nahtubai, nahtubai," he insisted. "Just to look. You will see embroidery."

He took us to a gem shop where we were subjected to a 45 minute presentation on the art of embroidering using semi-precious stones. It was beautiful... but not the sort of thing we'd buy even if we had the money. The gem dealer pulled out the ubiquitous calculator to quote us a price and seemed genuinely crushed when we remained uninterested. As we finally headed towards Agra Fort, Riaz told us of his two daughters, how poor he was, and how he depended on commissions from the stores where he took tourists to help put food on his family's table.

By the time we got to the fort, my mood was indeed agra.
But the fort was exceedingly cool. According to the signs inside, not all the buildings originally inside exist today, but what still exists is exquisite. Like the Taj, much of the palaces inside is white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones. The various apartments once had running fountains and overlooked the Yamuna River.

Following our fort visit, we declined a visit to a marbleworking shop (Nahtubai! Nahtubai!) and had Riaz take us to our hotel, the Hotel Taj Plaza, which describes itself as "sophisticated and stylish." That's not what I would call our room, lit by fluorescent light bars and furnished with two grubby looking blankets. But overall, for a whopping 32 bucks a night, the place was clean, and it had a very nice rooftop terrace with a great view of the Taj, about a half mile away. We had papadam and beer chatting with a visiting British-Aussie couple as the sun went down.

We were up before sunrise the next morning for the obligatory sunrise visit to the Taj. It did not disappoint. In spite of the hundreds of tourists sharing the experience with us, I teared up, and it wasn't from the omnipresent smoke that seems to hang over Agra. I didn't have that reaction with the Parthenon or the pyramids or the Dome of the Rock, all of which are beautiful. Words don't do it justice -- cliched but true. Turns out, while they tell you to get there at sunrise to beat the crowds, the people thinned out around 8:00 a.m. I was told the crowd gets heavier once the morning train of Delhi-day-trippers arrives. We stayed for about three hours, soaking in the Taj from every side.

For someone who grew up around animals (most of which ended up in paellas), my husband is surprisingly ill-at-ease around them. On the way back to the hotel, A gave me the first of many wonderful photo opportunities of him recoiling from animals... this time a cow, which had been happily munching papers from a garbage can:

Cows eat garbage! Who knew?

Riaz picked us up at 10:00 a.m. and asked if we wanted to go back to the rug dealer. When we replied that, no, we really wanted to go to Fatehpur Sikri, he again told us about his daughters.

Fatehpur Sikri was the original Mughal capital, constructed entirely of red sandstone by Akbar the Great in the 16th century. Unfortunately, he didn't check the water supply -- there wasn't enough -- and the city was abandoned in favor of Agra fourteen years later. Today, it seems inhabited mainly by people who make a living scamming tourists, beginning with the "guide" into whose hands Riaz delivered us.

I don't remember his name. He was at a post outside the gates of the old city with other bogus guides, where we were told we also had to pay 50 rupees for parking on top of the 400 for guide services. A assented before I could argue, and we followed him into the complex of pristine, 500 year old buildings, me grinding my teeth.

The site is stunning. But the guide couldn't tell us much about Fatehpur beyond a narrative we'd already heard at Agra Fort -- it seems that Akbar had three queens, a Hindu, a Muslim and a Christian, and built each of them her own palace within the complex. Our guidebook said that most of what's visible at Agra Fort was actually constructed by Akbar's grandson, Shah Jahan, 100 years later, but that didn't stop the faux guides from telling the Three Queens yarn.

I overheard a guide (a real one) nearby explaining the Chinese influences on a little pavilion called the Astrologer's Seat. "Why does that building look Chinese?" I asked our alleged guide. "Yes, Chinese, Hindu, Muslim, Christian," he said. "Akbar had three queens..." I tuned him out.

Legend (and our guide) says that Akbar chose the site for his new capital because he was a follower of Salim Chisti, a Sufi holy man who lived in a cave near the old city of Sikri. Chisti predicted Akbar would have a son -- when the prediction came to pass, Akbar located his city there in gratitude (which is an odd way of expressing thanks... if the guy lived in a cave, he probably wanted to be alone, right?). Akbar built a beautiful mosque near Chisti's tomb, today a Sufi shrine. And that's where the pseudoguide directed us. "You are very special," he told us in hushed tones. "Only ten percent of the visitors who come to Agra every year come to Fatehpur Sikri. Of those, fewer visit shrine of Salim Chisti. You are chosen."

I could see where this was going.

"There is no admission to enter," he continued. "All you must do is buy a cloth to lay on tomb of saint. Money goes to poor. That is the system." He led us down a narrow corridor, open to the sky, behind the Sufi shrine. A young man dressed in white, wearing a skullcap, was seated cross-legged under an arcade, surrounded by colorful, plastic-wrapped pieces of cloth. "Three-thousand rupee," he said, as I was being encouraged by our guide to sit down in front of him. I finally spoke up. "Y'know... no," I said. "We don't need to do this. We don't need to visit the shrine."

Without a word, the guide turned and led us back out into the main plaza and into... the shrine. Turns out, no, you don't need to buy a cloth for 3000 rupees (as much as a night in a hotel!) to enter. Entry is free, though they will ask you for a small voluntary donation (and I checked as soon as I had internet access to make doubly sure that it was a scam and that I hadn't just committed a major cultural faux pas... my gut was right). We didn't say a word to the guide until we got back to the car.

"Happy?" he asked. "No," said A as he paid him the 400 rupees, "not happy." We had Riaz take us to the train station at Bharatpur two hours early and gave him a generous tip he didn't deserve, because we felt guilty he didn't get any commissions. Even though we told him at the outset we weren't buying anything.

All things considered, Agra was worth the hassle. The Taj Mahal and Fatehpur Sikri are unmissable. Just try to arrange a guide and driver (if you're using them) in advance through the government tourist office. The guidebooks warn you about all of this, and we were actually lucky that the only scam we encountered was at Fatehpur. Evidently, another more serious one has been around for decades, where gem dealers will try to get you to help them to help them get gems into your home country without having to pay duties on them. The scam involves you buying the stones yourself, but when you get home, you discover the "gems" are worthless and you have no way of getting your money back, because you were essentially breaking the law in the first place.

Bharatpur

Every trip has its lowpoint. Ours came in the form of an unlovely town called Bharatpur, where we had to catch the train to our next destination, Sawai Madhopur and Ranthambore National Park.

Our main impression of Bharatpur: trash. Heaps of it, in gutters, in piles at the intersections of dirt streets, pieces of grey plastic drifting against walls like ten seasons of windblown leaves. The guidebook said there was a major wildlife refuge nearby that attracted spectacular amounts of migratory birds... until an ill-advised irrigation project drained off all the water. Good thing we were only there to catch the train.

Indian train stations are interesting places to spend a few hours. Most passengers don't travel in the air-conditioned first- or second-class cars -- instead, they pack into cars with bars covering open windows, with fold-down beds arranged in two or three tiers. I've seen pictures of cars with unreserved seating on the internet, but didn't see any in person. At a busy station, the crowd and the noise level eddies and swirls every time a train arrives and departs, to the chants of wallahs selling chai, Persian cucumbers with lemon and salt, toasted garbanzos and other goodies for hungry travelers. The ever-present street dogs wander the platform, where families sit on the ground or squat as they wait for their train to arrive.

As I said before, we're inexpert squatters, and all the benches were taken. We sat on our suitcases for a while, until I noticed the various waiting rooms. All the signs were in Hindi. I tried one with a glass door and a clean, air-conditioned interior with comfortable seating. One woman waited inside, and when I tried to enter, a man stopped me and directed me to the tourist information office. I decided waiting room number one was Ladies' First Class. I finally found another, unairconditioned waiting room -- I think it was second class. No one stopped us when we went in and sat down. I pulled out a book and started to read, until I noticed a scurrying under some wide benches where a family was playing a board game.

If A is uncomfortable around animals in general (aside from dogs -- he loves dogs), his feelings about rodents rise to near-phobic levels. And it turns out the scurrying I noticed in the corner was some very large, active rats, squeaking loudly as they tumbled over each other, squabbling over ratly things.

My husband wasn't sharing a waiting room with rats, even if it meant he had to give up his chair and squat inexpertly on the platform.

So we went back outside, where we decided once again that our suitcases made the best seats. We'd already gotten accustomed to attracting curious stares from people, but it doesn't seem like Bharatpur gets many foreigners (can't imagine why not...), because the staring here was extreme. Sometimes the guilty party would look away if we stared back, but usually they stared as long as they could, nearly colliding with posts or other passers-by.

Finally, a group of young men sauntered over... and surrounded us as we sat on our suitcases. "No hablemos inglés," A said to me -- "let's not speak English." And so we did not. For the next 45 minutes, as the group continued to stand and stare in a semi-circle around us, not a word of English escaped our lips. They didn't threaten us. They didn't do anything but stand there with goofy grins on their faces, even when I said "namaste" to them and took a video.

J: Dime una cosa... Tell me something...
A: Qué quieres que te diga, estamos aqué rodeados de esta gente que está fascinados con nosotros, no sé porque. A lo mejor es mi aparato en la boca, ¿quién sabe? Pero en fin, no importa. Bueno, ya está. Ya puedes cortar aquí. What do you want me to say? We're surrounded by these people who are fascinated with us, I don't know why. Maybe it's the thing on my mouth, who knows? It doesn't matter. Okay, that's it. You can shut it off here.
J: (to enraptured fans) Namaste
Fans: ...
A: Te van a quitar la cámara. They'll take the camera.
J: No...

One of them, summoning what I suspected was his full command of the English language, said to me "I like your muscles." My whole body tensed as I tried not to laugh and give away the fact that we really did speak English. He wasn't hitting on me -- at least, I don't think so, was he? -

At one point, a beautiful young woman in a shalwar kameez came up to us with what appeared to be her husband. "Where are you going?" she asked us.

We had started the charade; now we had to continue it. We motioned that we didn't understand. She tried a few minutes more to talk to us while we acted like idiots. Finally, she sighed (probably knowing we were just pretending) and said "I'm sorry, I'd like to help you but since you don't speak English it's very hard to communicate with you." I felt like an asshole for not accepting her kindness as our fans continued their vigil around us.

Finally, one of them gave a colossal shout -- their train had appeared down the line. The whole group left us and ran to the edge of the platform as it pulled in, and began shoving their way onto the car as passengers were still trying to get off. It didn't look like there were seats for everyone.

Fortunately, for us, second class AC was just an older version of the train we had taken from Delhi to Agra.

Cricket is not just a chirping insect

2011-04-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

It's 2:20 in the morning and I can't sleep, even though the honking has stopped.
All afternoon and into the evening, Delhites have been erupting in spontaneous bouts of cheering, glued to the India-Sri Lanka cricket match.

It started for us this morning on our way to Qutub Minar (amazing, by the way, sort of the love child of the Alhambra and ... um... Toronto's CN Tower. Yeah, that's it.), when our tuk tuk driver asked us something. I don't think he spoke English, but anyway, I couldn't tell if what he was saying to us was in English or Hindi. I meant to learn a little more Hindi before we left but didn't have time and so stepped on the plane knowing just "namaste" (which I already knew anyway) and "dhanyavad" (thanks). We managed to pick out "Sri Lanka" and "match," so we finally figured out he was asking us if we were planning to follow the game.

Well, no. I don't get cricket. It's not just because I'm a Yank and we're all self-absorbed with our own sports. No, I just don't get sports in general. When I was a kid, quiet afternoons would be shattered with my dad's bellows as someone did something unimportant on TV. I found it startling and unsettling,like walking in on your grandmother when she's topless.

That's sort of what the folks here have been doing. They were doing it at the convenience store where we bought water this afternoon. They were doing it at dinner, where two screens featured the match. As we were walking out, there was an especially sustained eruption of cheers. "Did India just win?" we asked ourselves. Not yet. The win came more than an hour later, when, victims of jetlag, we were already asleep. Firecrackers, shouting, horns honking all announced it.

So now, two and a half hours after that, I'm once again a victim of jetlag, unable to fall back asleep. The crowds haven't made it to the greater Kailash area where we're staying, but I did step out for a second to try to shoot a quick video clip with my Blackberry. It was hard to tell if cars were honking to celebrate the victory or just because, well, this is Delhi and that's what cars do, but every few minutes one would speed by with two, three, four young men hanging out the windows, some waving Indian flags. As I was standing in front of the hotel, a man and woman pulled up, parked, and as they were walking in told me I should head towards India Gate, where half the city was in the streets. "Can we go to India Gate?" I asked my comatose husband when I got back inside. He's still asleep next to me as I write this. I'll take that as a "no."

Air Khyber Pass

2011-04-01T19:29:00.000-07:00

4/1/2011 1:54 pm Delhi time

Three and a half hours to landing. Below us, Siberia stretches off to the horizon, flat and white, which I keep checking surreptitiously as the flight attendants are maintaining total darkness inside the cabin. According to the in-flight path tracker, we passed Yekaterinburg a half hour ago and will pass the Aral Sea in just a while, with Tashkent a ways to the east.

In the U.S., those of us who live in the big, important coastal cities talk derisively about “flyover country,” states that are only worthy of passing over as quickly as possible. I’ll leave the validity of that sentiment for others to discuss (then again, you wouldn’t catch me dead living in Kansas). In this case, the country we’re flying over is full of legends, murders, wars and events that changed human history forever. We’ll pass over Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and the Khyber Pass, where Alexander and his armies passed on their way into India… how cool is that? This is where the Scythians rode, and where the Aryans mounted their invasions of Iran and India. Tashkent and Samarkand, glittering names from the journeys of Marco Polo and Genghis Khan. This may be the closest I ever get to these places. And yet the flight attendants are still enforcing the “shades-down” rule, even though it’s mid-afternoon where we’re going, most of the passengers indifferent to the wonders 36,000 feet below. Bastards.

Yeah, I love to fly. I get just as excited sitting in a window seat as I did when my mom put me solo at age six from Hilo to Los Angeles to visit my grandparents. The ever-narrowing seats, the miserable, crowded terminals you pay three times for food what you’d pay just outside the airport, and the constant whining from my fellow passengers, none of this really sours the experience for me.
Now the screen is showing where we are in relations to Baghdad, Tehran, Lahore… The Himalayas are popping up on the map’s 3-D version. It makes me think of my dad, to whom maybe I owe my fascination with all things historic. I wish he were still alive to see us make this trip – he’d have spent the past month poring over maps with us. As it is, my mom is dying of envy, but we’ve made it clear she’s not going; for A the idea of riding the rails in India with his mother-in-law (who lives with us, did I mention that?) is unpalatable, and for me, having my mom along while I wank in a cup is… eew. We did spend the past three weeks watching several Bollywood films, “Earth” and “Fire” (which I highly recommend), a cartoon version of the Ramayana (whose animation and voiceover was so putrid we had to stop) and Michael Woods’ “The Story of India” with her, so maybe that made her feel better.

So yes, we’re going to Delhi. Like most couples, we’ve had a lot of ups and downs in trying to arrive at a decision, mainly regarding our income level, our refusal to stop traveling no matter what (even more important if we have a child, I think) and our housing situation.

(Ooh… now the screen says we’re heading towards Kabul… damned war, I always wanted to go there… and looking out the window the landscape has turned flat and arid, dotted with an occasional cloud… the Steppes of Central Asia!)
We were going around in circles, unable to arrive at a final decision. So we took it in increments, as I imagine fertile straight couples do: “Honey, let’s try to have a baby.” “Okay, I’ve flushed the pills down the toilet.” Then they just keep doing what they’ve done all along, having sex until maybe something happens. It doesn’t involve (yet) doctors or surrogates or donors, it’s just a couple of incremental steps. So when that thousand-dollar fare to India popped up over New Year’s weekend, we booked. Or rather, we put it on hold… then on hold again… then on hold again… then it expired. See, we’ve always wanted to go to India, right? This doesn’t mean we’re absolutely doing this. Incremental step one.
After it expired, a week passed, and another fare became available on Cathay Pacific, which would award us our precious frequent flier miles on American. Cathay Pacific is one of my favorite airlines, probably due to the fact that the one time I flew them, to Hong Kong and back, I flew business class and had taken both a Vicodin for back pain and a Rohypnol that the producer with whom I was traveling had gotten from a pharmacist uncle in Tijuana (I slept like a log, not surprisingly). But as soon as we booked, we realized (SHIT!) that we’d booked in the wrong fare class and we wouldn’t get any frequent flier miles. We called and cancelled, 200 dollar cancellation fee be damned. “It’s a sign,” declared my atheist husband.

Well, a few days passed and an almost-as-good fare once again appeared on American. “It’s a sign,” I declared… at least a sign that we’re spending A’s spring break in India. And after much wringing of hands, yes, we can finally pursue surrogacy without either one of us reaching for the Xanax. We’ll be leaving our genetic contributions in Delhi over the weekend, then hopping on a train for Agra to see the Taj and the uber-cool abandoned Mughal capital of Fatehpur Sikri, hopping another train to Ranthambore National Park to go tiger spotting, thence to Pushkar, which now that I’ve read more about it sounds more full of Israeli stoners than Rajasthani magic so only rates a day (good thing I kinda speak Hebrew), and finally to Udaipur. I wanted to do Jaisalmer, but hell, we’re only there two weeks.

The flight map says we’re now passing just to the west of Samarkand… think there’s a parachute on board? No, we'll have to save the wonders of the Silk Road for another trip.

Well, hello there

2011-03-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it?

You might think nothing's going on and that we've abandoned all baby-making plans. Not so. Instead, until a few weeks ago, we've been in a state of quiet panic that actually began for us in Palm Springs over New Year's weekend. That was when we found a fare to India that was about what we usually pay to go to Europe, AND it was on American, so we get frequent flier miles to boot.

Our flight (LAX-ORD-DEL) leaves at 9:45 tomorrow morning. We'll be in Delhi through the weekend, then we're planning to head to Agra and Rajasthan.

Good news from the U.S. State Department and the Family Equality Council

2011-01-05T11:54:00.000-08:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE │January 5, 2011
CONTACT: Jennifer Chrisler, Executive Director
(202) 276-4311 │jennifer.chrisler@familyequality.org

State Department recognizes same-sex parents with form changes
Family Equality Council applauds new gender-neutral passport and
birth abroad forms

Washington, DC.... To recognize the growing diversity of American families, the U.S. Department of State has announced new, gender-neutral passport and Consular Report of Birth Abroad forms. Effective January 3rd, 2011, the new forms will use the title of “parent” as opposed to “mother” and “father,” better reflecting same-sex and single parents (http://www.state.gov/r/pa/prs/ps/2010/12/153636.htm).

“The updates remove significant challenges for the two million children being parented by lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender (LGBT) parents,” said Jennifer Chrisler, the executive director of Family Equality Council, which led the effort to change the forms. “The new forms prevent denial or delays for accessing fundamental aspects of American citizenship, and send a positive message of inclusion in American life for children with same-sex parents. We are grateful to both Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and President Barack Obama for prioritizing this change.”

The change comes as a result of education efforts led by Family Equality Council that illustrated the challenges faced by same-sex parents attempting to secure government documents for their children. “No family should feel the invisibility, frustration and anxiety we faced when applying for our child’s passport as a lesbian couple,” said Stephanie Hazen, mother of 6-year-old Emma Hazen-Disch.

Updating the federal government’s forms to make them more inclusive of LGBT-headed families is consistent with President Obama’s recognition of the diversity of American families. It carries significant tangible and symbolic consequences for same-sex headed families, and increases governmental efficiency by alleviating the needless confusion, delays and denials caused by outdated gender-specific forms.

###

The Family Equality Council works at all levels of government to advance full social and
legal equality for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender families, one million of whom
are raising two million children in the U.S.

Still an island

2010-11-04T16:17:00.001-07:00

Know, that on the right hand of the Indies there is an island called
California very close to the side of Terrestrial Paradise

Sergas de Esplandián, Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, 1510

Or so went one of the early Spanish novels of adventure and chivalry, the sort that Cervantes later wrote so obsessed Don Quijote that they drove him mad.

When I was a kid, I thought Spanish explorers were similarly loco. I used to get a big kick out of the old maps that showed California as an island. It was obvious that the cartographers were just making shit up, since anyone who actually bothered to sail to the top of the Gulf of California would discover that it ended at the mouth of the Colorado River, and that Baja California was a peninsula. Duh.

Well, maybe those cartographers didn't have it all wrong. On Tuesday, while the rest of the U.S. indulged in an orgy of stupidity voting into office people who deny evolution as a scientific reality, who seem to suspect Hawai'i is a foreign country, and who believe free healthcare is bad for you, California swept Democrats - in some cases quite liberal Democrats - into every major statewide office. The "GOP wave" broke on the eastern flank of the Sierra (though it was good to see that Sharon Angle, one of the Tea Party's more astonishingly stupid candidates, foundered in Nevada).

Here in California, we got a Democratic trifecta: voters rejected Meg Whitman, a billionaire who looks like Miss Piggy in a pantsuit and spent $140 million in an attempt to buy the governorship and instead elected former Governor and current AG Jerry Brown; they reelected Barbara Boxer, defeating millionaire Carly Fiorina, the evil ex-head of Hewlett Packard who ran as a shrill conservative; and it appears that San Francisco District Attorney Kamala Harris MAY defeat Los Angeles District Attorney Steve Cooley to become Brown's replacement as Attorney General (though the votes are still being counted and this all could change). This is important to me, the Spaniard, and the 18,000 other gay and lesbian couples who married in 2008, because Cooley and Whitman both said they'd seek to appeal the recent court decision striking down Prop 8 (the ruling is already on appeal by the supporters of Prop 8, but since the state has said it won't participate, the big question is if anyone has legal standing).

But I've done a similar Californian happy dance before, following the 2002 and 2004 elections, only to have later events put an abrupt stop to the joyful music: the moronic 2003 recall of Governor Gray Davis, which installed Arnold Schwarzenegger in a Republican-engineered coup d'etat; and of course, Proposition 8 in 2008, which as we all know stipulates that -- say it with me here -- "only marriage between a man or a woman is valid or recognized in California."

I helped do media relations for the "No on 8" campaign, and for about a month before the election, I went on full-time loan from my dayjob. I ended up handling a lot of the media for the field offices of the campaign, so it fell to me to chase after a bus tour the opposition organized, stopping at churches in some of the state's most conservative areas. Rather than hold counterrallies, we just arranged for some gay-friendly clergypeople to come out and stand with me to greet reporters and let them know that not all people of faith are narrowminded bigots.

Here's a rundown of the more interesting stops:

Sacramento - a teenaged girl came up to us, trying to make sure no one spotted her, and told us she and her family thought we were great, and that she couldn't stand the rest of the congregation.

Chico - a woman driving by said "sorry, I have too many kids to vote no on this." Really, a red herring, but messaging about the kids worked for the "yes" crowd. I've never understood why the "No" campaign ran screaming from any mention of children learning about lesbian and gay couples getting married. I wanted to say "what, and we don't have kids?"

Fresno - a woman from the "Yes" rally told me how presentable I looked and wondered what I was doing with "this mess," meaning the handful of hardworking local activists. I told her it was quite the backhanded compliment, and that she could be sure I did belong with them. Yes, lady, gay people wear ties, too.

Bakersfield - ever and deservingly the butt of jokes within California and beyond, I brought my mom with me to this one. We were surrounded by a torch-and-pitchfork crowd screaming "Yes on 8" while trying to talk to a reporter. I was happy they played that tape on the evening news.

Fullerton - "It's all about sex," a "Yes on 8" woman said to me.

"Uh... what do you mean," reluctantly ignoring my own rule not to feed, touch or otherwise engage.

"Women need to have sex with men. They need nutrients that semen provides."

Okay, so now I'm dumbfounded. I assume she wasn't talking blowjobs, either. I doubt she'd ever come within 20 feet of a blowjob.

"You know," I said, "I really have no response to that. You have some very interesting ideas about human anatomy, though. Have a nice day."

Fullerton was also the first time I had a conversation that I think may have opened a tiny crack of understanding in one of the church people. It seemed news to a young woman there that I had a happy life, support of my family, a profession. Then her pastor came over. Somehow we got onto the discussion of whether or not a "gay gene" was responsible for homosexuality. I told him that most studies seem to suggest that while there may be some genetic component, there may be a stronger link to development in the womb. "Oh, like a birth defect," he said. Lovely people, these "Christians."

San Diego - And then there was San Diego, or rather La Mesa, home to Skyline Church. It's where Pastor Jim Garlow, one of the biggest and most vocal backers of Prop 8, has his lair. Adrian went with me this time, and we stood with local clergy at the foot of the megachurch's driveway with our "No on 8" signs. As usual, rally-goers soon joined us and outnumbered us. I stood next to an older guy who tried to engage me, but I resisted. At one point, a guy stopped at the light started screaming at him. "Fuck you guys," he yelled, "why can't you leave us alone?!?" I stepped over to his car and calmed him down.

"See how your people are," old guy said when I stepped back on the curb.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "We get screamed at all the time."

"No you don't," he responded. "Our people don't do that."

"Yes they do. I've been called a sodomite and worse."

"Oh, but that's true."

Okay, so I wasn't enjoying the conversation much. Another few cycles of the traffic light. A scruffy old guy with a white beard pulled up, passenger window open and cute little dog with forepaws on the windowsill, looking at us. As Adrian and I started to smile, the driver suddenly scowled and spat out "What are you, a couple of COCKSUCKERS? Are you going to suck each other's COCKS?"

This time it was old guy's turn to step into traffic. When he came back, I just kept a smug smirk on my face. And then two young guys showed up with some very creative signs. One of them stood next to Adrian and elbowed him. "Hey," he said, "what do you think of this?" holding up this sign:

That's old guy's elbow, trying to wedge himself between the young Christian and my camera. Meanwhile, another Hitler Youth was exhibiting more artistic talent nearby:

I sent this photos to newspapers and TV stations, but unfortunately, they never ran. This sort of thing was far from uncommon at the rallies, but somehow never made the news. It made it possible for "Yes on 8" to claim that, why, they didn't hate anyone and were just trying to preserve the traditional definition of marriage, and it also enabled Californians to undo the civil rights of their neighbors and still feel good about it. If they had actually seen what Prop 8's most fervent supporters were up to, they might have changed their minds.

Or maybe not. Turns out California is a long way from the Terrestrial Paradise. But it beats the hell out of living under the banner of the Tea Party.

Que sí... espera... que no.. no, que sí

2010-10-10T13:17:00.000-07:00

Cuando empezamos este blog, pensaba que yo escribiría las entradas en inglés y que Adrián se encargaría con el español o incluso catalán. Como lectores habituales (si existís, gracias por existir!) ya saben, no ha habido mucho aquí en español, porque ha resultado que Adrián tiene poco afán de "bloguear," y yo... pues, he evadido la responsabilidad un poco por pereza y un poco de vergüenza de escribir en español sin alguien detrás de mi corrigiéndome mientras escribo. (No tengo ni idea porque este párrafo ha salido con mayúsculas, pero Blogger no me deja cambiarlo).

Pues, nada. Aunque parece que sería muchísimo más fácil que sea yo el padre biológico en nuestra aventura hindú por ser ciudadano estadounidense, seguimos siguiendo las noticias en España. Y parece que ahora, el registro civil español está dispuesto reconocer los niños nacidos en el extranjero por gestación subrogada... pero solo con un documento judicial de paternidad. Según el artículo abajo, que salió hace algunos días en El País, en este momento eso se dispone solo en Estados Unidos, y como sabemos todos, la gestación subrogada americana no es asequible para nosotros simples mortales.

REPORTAJE: Vida & Artes

Niño legal de mamá ilegal

Los principios frente al pragmatismo: la gestación en un 'vientre de alquiler' está prohibida en España, pero los hijos nacidos en países que la admiten están aquí - No pueden quedar desprotegidos

EMILIO DE BENITO 09/10/2010

Cuando José y Juan decidieron tener un hijo lo tuvieron claro: querían que fuera lo más "hijo suyo posible", con su carga genética. Como la naturaleza obliga, tuvieron que contar con la ayuda de una mujer. Pero ellos no querían que ella -por muy estupenda que fuera- interfiriera en su familia. Por eso acudieron a una agencia californiana, que les facilitó una gestante subrogada (lo que coloquialmente se llama vientre o madre de alquiler, un término que ellos rechazan tajantemente).

En 2008 nacieron sus gemelos. Suyos para todos, menos para la legislación española, que no les permitió inscribir a esos niños como suyos. O, al menos, que no lo permitía, porque se les exigía que dieran el nombre de la madre, algo a lo que se niegan. Además, los contratos de gestación sustitutiva son nulos en España. Pero José y Juan -nombres supuestos-, un matrimonio valenciano, no se rindieron. Llevaron adelante su exigencia de que sus hijos fueran inscritos, desde el principio, como hijos de ambos. Y por medio de una política de hechos consumados han conseguido que la Dirección General de Registros y Notariados, dependiente del Ministerio de Justicia, promulgue una instrucción que permitirá -a ellos y a otras 26 familias por lo menos- normalizar la situación de los niños.

Para ello han tenido que hacer un fuerte desembolso (el proceso puede costar unos 60.000 euros, entre lo que se paga a la mujer, los viajes, las pruebas médicas, el hospital), y es aquí donde empiezan las pegas. La catedrática de Ética de la UNED Amelia Valcárcel lo tiene claro: "Hay cuestiones vinculadas al cuerpo que no pueden ser objeto de transacción económica. Se pueden hacer de facto, pero eso no quiere decir que estén bien". Además, la catedrática ve otro problema: "No existe voluntad humana que se mantenga firme para toda la vida. Es posible que dentro de 10 años la mujer no pueda soportar la idea de lo que hizo".

Por eso, a pesar de que todo se basa en el principio del interés del menor, la decisión de regular a estos niños no ha sido fácil para las autoridades. "No podíamos ignorar que están aquí, que tienen un padre español", dice la directora de Registros y Notariados, María Ángeles Alcalá. Pero eso no quiere decir que les guste la idea. "No podemos meternos en la legislación de otros países, pero no se puede aceptar todo", afirma. Aunque está satisfecha con haber dado solución a la situación, no puede ocultar que en el fondo del proceso hay algo que le da miedo. "Cuando ves que hay agencias que ofrecen en el mismo paquete el viaje a Estados Unidos, el tratamiento médico, el útero de alquiler y volver a España con un niño te planteas muchas cosas", admite.

Y eso que, seguramente, los procesos que se dan en Estados Unidos sean los que tienen más garantías. Por eso Justicia exige a los padres de estos niños un documento -una resolución judicial de paternidad- que es obligatoria en ese país para inscribir a los niños, pero que no se usa en otros que también permiten la práctica, como India, Rusia y Ucrania (en la UE solo lo admiten Reino Unido y Grecia, aunque con muchas limitaciones, indica Alcalá).

Para el Ministerio de Justicia -y para las Cortes españolas, que aprobaron unánimemente la parte de la ley de reproducción asistida que declara nulos los contratos de gestación subrogada- hay un problema de fondo: que se use el cuerpo de la mujer como una mercancía. "Y la resolución judicial permite, por lo menos, salvaguardar sus derechos: la gestante tiene que declarar que no ha sido coaccionada, que ha actuado libremente", indica Alcalá. "Lo menos que podemos pedir es que el país de origen garantice que se han respetado sus derechos", insiste.

La directora de Registros admite que en su departamento han tenido que actuar empujados por los hechos. "Aunque esos niños no estaban desprotegidos. Uno de los padres podía haberlos inscrito como propios, y el otro adoptarlos", explica.

Pero esa solución no es admisible por los afectados. "Son hijos de los dos por igual", insiste José, siempre combativo. Además, el proceso de adopción lleva su tiempo, y en el intervalo podrían haberse dado situaciones -separación de los cónyuges, muerte del padre inscrito como biológico- que amenazara la relación del otro con los niños (por ejemplo, que los abuelos se negaran a facilitarle las visitas).

Además, hay una cuestión de igualdad, sostienen los afectados. La responsable del Área de Familia de la Federación Estatal de Lesbianas, Gais, Transexuales y Bisexuales (FELGTB), Luisa Notario, lo aclara: "La instrucción nos ha causado mucha alegría, por supuestísimo, porque a estos niños y niñas se les va a poder inscribir". "Pero no podemos dejar de señalar que hay una situación de agravio comparativo con las parejas heterosexuales. A ellas no se les cuestiona cómo han tenido el hijo, no se les pide que presenten una resolución judicial. Se da por hecho que la mujer es la madre, y se los inscribe sin más", añade. Por eso la FELGTB -y padres como José- creen que debería haberse pedido otro documento, como la transcripción literal de filiación. Pero la solución pergeñada por Justicia rechaza expresamente este tipo de documentos. "Solo con la resolución judicial tenemos la garantía de que la mujer ha sido escuchada y sus derechos respetados", insiste María Ángeles Alcalá.

Luisa Notario coincide en que la situación de las mujeres que se prestan a gestar un niño que va a ser para otros en Estados Unidos es especial. "Son de renta per cápita media alta. En Rusia o India pertenecen a capas sociales bajas, y ahí es más fácil que lo hagan coaccionadas o como una opción más para ganar dinero", lo que "en el fondo no es muy distinto de lo que sucede aquí con las jóvenes que se someten a una hiperestimulación ovárica para donar óvulos", dice.

Pero mientras unos critican la solución por tibia, otros creen que es un exceso. Nada más saberse que iba a haber una instrucción, la portavoz del Grupo Popular en el Congreso de los Diputados, Soraya Sáenz de Santamaría, reclamó al ministro de Justicia, Francisco Caamaño, que explique cómo piensa regular la inscripción en el Registro de los bebés nacidos en el extranjero mediante una práctica que en España es ilegal. "Antes se inscribía a la madre biológica, y figuraba como madre

; ahora, sin cobertura legal" se podrá inscribir a la pareja que "alquila el vientre" como progenitora. "Esto debe explicarse", aseguró.

Alcalá cree que el debate no tiene sentido. "No enjuiciamos lo que se hace fuera; lo que no podíamos era tener a los niños sin inscribir", dice.

El hecho es que, desde 1988, la ley de reproducción asistida declara nulos los posibles contratos entre una persona -sea hombre o mujer, pareja o no- y una mujer para que esta lleve a cabo un embarazo a cambio de dinero y el compromiso de entregar el hijo. "Pero en las últimas modificaciones de la ley [en 2003, con el PP, y 2004, con el PSOE] ese artículo no se debatió. La discusión estaba centrada en otros puntos", explica la diputada autonómica en Madrid Inés Sabanés, de IU. Sabanés, que se ha caracterizado por su apoyo a los movimientos de gais, lesbianas y transexuales, afirma que su coalición "no ha apostado claramente por la gestación subrogada", pero cree que "los avances en las técnicas de fecundación asistida" pueden obligar a "volver sobre el debate". Eso sí, siempre manifestando su apoyo "a una instrucción como esta, que soluciona la situación de unos niños. Porque lo que está claro es que en este tema la realidad va por delante de las leyes", apunta.

Notario, a título personal, va más allá. "¿Por qué no se puede legalizar esto? La sociedad es muy paternalista hacia nosotras, las mujeres. Si es una decisión propia y libre, debería ser legal". La representante de la FELGTB insiste en que esta no es una postura del colectivo. "A nosotros nos toca reivindicar que se solucione la situación de los niños; en la regulación de la subrogación no entramos, no es un movimiento que debamos liderar nosotros", argumenta. Una postura, por cierto, que choca frontalmente con la minoritaria Colegas, otra asociación de lesbianas, gais, transexuales y bisexuales, que apuesta claramente por la legalización de la gestación subrogada para acabar con el contrasentido de que sea legal tener hijos así en el extranjero y no se pueda hacer en España.

También una histórica del movimiento feminista como Empar Pineda cree que es una práctica que "tiene que regularse aquí para acabar con situaciones de discriminación". "No podemos cerrar los ojos a una realidad", dice. Se refiere Pineda cuando habla de discriminación a que, de todas las parejas o individuos con problemas para tener hijos, de momento solo las más pudientes pueden acudir a Estados Unidos a formalizar un contrato de gestación sustitutoria. Por ejemplo, Ricardo e Iván, una pareja de Sevilla que ha contado su caso, calcula que el proceso les costó más de 60.000 euros, incluyendo los viajes a Estados Unidos, la estancia y la atención médica de la gestante de su hijo.

Pineda recuerda que hace 30 años, cuando se empezó a hablar de técnicas de reproducción asistida, fueron las feministas quienes más se opusieron a ellas. "Había un rechazo frontal a que las nuevas tecnologías participaran en algo tan propio de las mujeres como la gestación y el parto". La situación ha evolucionado "cuando aprendimos a que no existe la mujer única, sino que somos muchas y muy distintas", dice Pineda. Por eso ella cree que lo que hay que hacer es "escuchar a las que se prestan a ser madres por sustitución".

Manuel y Marcos, una pareja de Sevilla que lleva 26 años junta, admite que hay debate, peor para ellos solo hay una prioridad: inscribir a su hijo de año y medio. Ellos han vivido el mismo proceso que el resto: viaje a Los Ángeles, gestación, nacimiento, intento de registrar al niño en el consulado, denegación por parte de este, y recurso ante la Dirección General de Registros.

Los hombres -49 años Manuel, 42 Marcos- cuentan que en cuanto se enteraron de que había esta posibilidad para ser padres volaron a Los Ángeles. "No queríamos pensar que habíamos explotado a una mujer". La vista les dejó tranquilos: "Son mujeres que ya han sido madres, que tienen trabajo, una estabilidad. Para ellas lo económico no es un problema. Podían ganar más en cualquier trabajo", dicen. Por eso ahora tienen la conciencia tranquila. Vamos, que si duermen mal no es por remordimientos, sino porque su hijo está siempre pidiéndoles atención.

Un proceso garantista

La instrucción de la Dirección General de Registros y Notariado del 7 de octubre establece los requisitos para que la resolución judicial del país donde se ha llevado a cabo la gestación subrogada sea aceptada para inscribir a los niños en España. Entre ellos:

- "Que se hubiesen garantizado los derechos procesales de las partes, en particular, de la madre gestante".

- "Que no se haya producido una vulneración del interés superior del menor y de los derechos de la madre gestante". Sobre todo "que el consentimiento de esta última se haya obtenido de forma libre y voluntaria" y que tenga "capacidad natural suficiente".

- "Que la resolución judicial es firme y que los consentimientos prestados son irrevocables, o bien, si estuvieran sujetos a un plazo de revocabilidad conforme a la legislación extranjera aplicable, que este hubiera transcurrido".

- No se admitirá "como título apto para la inscripción del nacimiento y filiación del nacido una certificación registral extranjera o la simple declaración, acompañada de certificación médica [...] en la que no conste la identidad de la madre gestante".

A New Way to Predict IVF Success: Film the Embryo

2010-10-04T12:28:00.000-07:00

Time has two articles online today about IVF -- one details a study that says that babies born through IVF may be more intelligent. The other, which I think has a more immediate relevance to the surrogacy community, talks about what may be a new way to predict a given embryo's chance of success:

A New Way to Predict IVF Success: Film the Embryo

By Alice Park Monday, October 4, 2010 |

With more than four million babies and counting, in vitro fertilization (IVF) is a well-established way for couples who otherwise couldn't have children to start or expand a family. For some, it's their only option.
It has been more than three decades since a physician produced the first successful pregnancy through IVF, a process that involves extracting and fertilizing an egg with sperm in a lab dish, creating an embryo and transferring it to a woman's womb. (That doctor, Robert Edwards, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physiology and Medicine on Monday for his achievement.) But the success rate for a live birth still remains disappointingly low, on average around 30%. So researchers at Stanford have come up with an innovative way to improve the chances of a pregnancy by selecting only the strongest and healthiest embryos. (More on

Led by Dr. Renee Reijo Pera, director of human embryonic stem cell research and education and a professor of obstetrics and gynecology, the group predicted with 93% accuracy which embryos generated during IVF were most likely to lead to a successful pregnancy. The team was able to peek into the very earliest stages of human development, when the embryo divides for the very first time in the two days after fertilization, by making a movie of the process and then measuring differences between those early steps. “What we've done is make a movie of the entire pathway and process rather than taking pictures at stagnant times,” she says.

Happy birthday to me

2010-09-28T10:56:00.000-07:00

I'm cranky and listless today. In fact, I was cranky and listless yesterday. Come to think of it, I was cranky and listless all weekend. It could be the weather -- the National Weather Service's super-duper Lord God High Thermometer in Downtown L.A. hit 113 degrees yesterday... and then broke. So maybe it was actually hotter. One thing is certain, though: if it was 113 downtown, it was closer to 120 in the Valley, even in the relatively cool part where we live. Adding insult to hot injury, a branch on our tangerine tree, heavy with fruit that will ripen close to Christmas, cracked in the heat yesterday. Or maybe I'm grouchy because I'm OLD. I turned 46 on Friday. That's three years older than my dad was when he had me. And needless to say, I'm WAY behind in my goal to father a child.

Forty-three has always been a deadline of sorts for me. I was a product of my dad's second marriage; he had two daughters by his first. The story he told was that he got drunk one night during the war, when he was stationed in Panama, and woke up married to a boozy, hard-living Army nurse. The marriage lasted for seven miserable years, and when they finally divorced, she took the two girls and left for the East Coast. He was a starving actor and figured they were better off with their family. He was wrong; not surprisingly, she was a terrible mother and her family was worse. He didn't discover all this until much later.

So when I was born, I think it represented a chance to make up for the years he lost with his daughter. He always seemed a little apologetic about his skills as a dad, even though he was always available, always affectionate, always effusive in his praise. When he died 10 years ago, neither of us felt like anything had gone unresolved or unsaid -- sparing me the need for therapy or a weekend naked in the woods banging on a drum in a circle with other men to ease the void created by a too-distant father.

So I think about that a lot: if we have a kid, how old will he or she be when we die? I was 35 when my dad died; he was 78. But he was a heavy smoker, and had a life-long love affair with red meat and ice cream. During my high school years, he survived a mild heart attack and a burst aortic aneurysm. He had been working for a few months in Arkansas, swimming laps regularly. Naturally, he blamed the exercise for the aneurysm instead of crediting it for his survival. While he had been a lifeguard in his youth and even auditioned for the role of Tarzan at the same time as Johnny Weissmuller, I imagine he found swimming inconvenient since it's hard to smoke while you're doing it.

So, while I'm three years older than my dad was at my birth, I think smoking is repugnant, I've exercised regularly since I was in college and a doctor once told me my cholesterol was so low I must be eating cardboard. Is that a game-changer? Are those of us currently in our forties so fabulous now that we get to shave 10+ years off what the calendar says?

Or maybe I should wait until it's cooler out to contemplate my own mortality.

Diēs Caniculārēs

2010-08-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Dog days:Latin: diēs caniculārēs) are the hottest, most sultry days of summer. In the northern hemisphere, they usually fall between early July and early September. In the southern hemisphere they are usually between January and early March. The actual dates vary greatly from region to region, depending on latitude and climate. Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant, or marked by dull lack of progress. The name comes from the ancient belief that Sirius, also called the Dog Star, in close proximity to the sun was responsible for the hot weather.

Thus spake Wikipedia.

Traditionally, the dog days of summer are supposed to be a time when it's too hot to summon the will to do much of anything other than lying on a cool floor with your tongue hanging out. Until this week, though, this summer has been playing coy in Southern California, with fog and only a day or two above 90 in all of June and July. And work has been extraordinarily busy, at least for me, since unlike certain people to whom I'm married I don't work an academic calendar.

But our child-rearing plans are definitely in the doldrums. Before any baby crosses the threshold, we have to add a bedroom onto the house. I contemplate the renovation process like a man about to eat a brontosaurus all by himself, unsure where to begin and overwhelmed. While we've settled on a clinic (Dr. Shivani), one self-imposed deadline after another expires as the balance of our savings account stays motionless, trapped in a sargassum (look it up) of emergency expenses that inevitably come up.

One thing I haven't blogged about are the occasional moments of panic (less frequent now) when either one or the other of us is convinced we're utterly insane for considering children 1) at our age, or 2) at our income level, or 3) (take your pick). Over the past few months, we've decided that we're still younger and better off financially than a good number of people who raise perfectly wonderful kids. We've decided we'll still be able to travel -- we may have to forego the Inca Trail for a few years, but taking the train to Macchu Pichu won't be so bad either. And it's fun to imagine the complaints of "oh, Daaaaaad.... do I have to spend the summer in Europe AGAIN?"

But first we have to get to step one, and with the thermometer outside topping 100 degrees and the dog panting in front of the fireplace, hoping to wring a bit of coolness from the brick hearth, that seems a lot farther away.

Ala... Moana... has everything.

2010-07-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

How I spent my week

Or so went the jingle when I was a seven-year-old living in Honolulu of what I believe is still Hawai'i's largest mall. This is relevant because I'm writing this from my room at the Ala Moana Hotel, which overlooks the mall's majestic Macy's parking lot. I'm here for work, not fun, so I've spent nearly the whole week in my room, glued to this damned keyboard. I've also been risking sodium poisoning stuffing myself on ahi poke (raw tuna... they sell it at Costco, who knew?), sai min (sorta like ramen), li hing mui (salted preserved plums, apparently an acquired taste that I acquired as a kid) and other foods from my childhood that are hard to find on the mainland.

The hotel is fine, though it wasn't my choice to stay here initially. This the second time my coworkers and I have come to Honolulu, and it was one of my coworkers who first booked us here. It was an ironic choice, as it turns out I have a long history with the Ala Moana.

When I was six or so, we were still living in Hilo on the Big Island. For my spring break that year, my parents took me and a teenaged girl who lived a few houses away for a trip to the big city. We stayed at the Ala Moana, which, it being Easter time, had pens set up in the mall's main corridors filled with live bunnies, and other delicate baby animals, perfect for children to torture. I got to spend lots of time at the pool with Lori the babysitter and had my first vacation romance with another six-year-old, visiting from the mainland.

One funny thing, though: my dad never took vacations. We never went anywhere fun involving an overnight stay, all three, as a family. My mom would take me for short trips, and my dad took us to live in places everyone else goes to holiday, but generally he was either working or horizontal on the sofa, reading.

Years later, my mom told me what was behind our trip to Honolulu that year... it was so daddy could get a vasectomy.

So it's true, Ala Moana does have everything. Even vasectomies.

Stalking the Stork Anniversary Edition

2010-07-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before on here how, for one blissful year, I was a travel reporter. I did four trips involving air travel while there (Santa Barbara; Durango, Colorado; Disneyworld; and a cruise to Hong Kong, Vietnam and Singapore. The stories aired on local newscasts across the country. Whenever my friends talked about how jealous they were, I shut them up quickly and spit through my fingers, or whatever you're supposed to do to ward off the evil eye. I knew it was too good to last. When the dot.com implosion sank the San Francisco-based production company I worked for I very reluctantly went back into local news, but I mourned the loss of that job for years. I mean, getting paid to travel? What's not to miss?

So occasionally when we travel, I'll write about what we find.

Two years ago this week, we took my mom, met 15 more of our friends and family from Stateside, joined 46 of Adrián's friends and family, and got married at Alicante City Hall. The question was, where to honeymoon? We considered Morocco and Lithuania (mainly because Ryan Air and Easy Jet have cheap flights to both from Alicante), but a country where we could be arrested for getting married didn't sound like an ideal place to spend our first day as husband and husband. Then Adrián found a cheap... really cheap... flight to the Canary Islands. That clinched it, so we headed to Lanzarote for a week, me with the remnants of a wedding night-induced hangover that lasted three days. After planning a wedding that was a lot larger than we expected and ten days across Spain in a car with my mom... a week of peace and quite was very much needed.

I wrote the following article about our trip. I don't do this much anymore because I spend more time obsessing about whom I need to talk to and where I need to visit than I do enjoying my travel time, and having a day job means I don't have much time to pitch what I write. This one almost ran in the SF Chronicle -- the editor asked me to rewrite it to include more about the Almodóvar angle, but it never saw the light of day. But I figured, hey, I'll publish it here, two years late:

LANZAROTE – Volcanoes, vines and viento – August, 2008

For an island that specializes in the production of sweet white wines, our first experience with a vineyard on Lanzarote –the northeasternmost of the Canary Islands – was surprisingly sour

My husband and I had stopped into a tiny, unnamed bar in a whitewashed roadside building to ask directions to La Geria, the town where most of the island’s vineyards are clustered. The noise of raised voices was like walking into a 100 decibel wall as soon as we stepped through the door – an argument already in full force. About a dozen men were shouting at each other over cañas of beer.

“What’s got everyone so upset?” I asked a local, Gerardo, who stepped out with us into the parking lot where the decibel level allowed a conversation at normal levels.

“Wine,” he said. “They’re talking about wine.”

Specifically, he said they were discussing Stratvs, the newest cellar on an island with a 200-plus year history of coaxing vines from the arid soil. Local developer Juan Francisco Rosa opened the winery to much fanfare in May after an investment of 18 million euros, including more than a million euros from the island government. It didn’t help that Stratvs wines began winning international competitions even before its doors opened to the public.

“They were already swimming in money,” said Gerardo, who wouldn’t give his last name because he worked at another winery. “They didn’t need it. They didn’t deserve it.”

Zocos

Sour grapes, perhaps, but winemaking is a fiery topic on Lanzarote, which seems appropriate on an island that boasts some 300 volcanic cones, the most recent of which date from the 19^th century. Getting anything to grow here is a challenge, but the island is home to 18 wineries. The vines hug the ground, peering over zocos, individual semi-circles of lava rocks that scallop the hillsides, protecting them from the relentless island wind. The surreal landscape draws film crews from time to time; this is where Raquel Welch ran screaming from giant anachronistic turtles in One Million Years B.C., and we missed Pedro Almodóvar and Penélope Cruz by a month. They visited the island to shoot Los abrazos rotos, which opens in the U.S. in November.

A tray bearing glasses of white wine met us on a vine-shaded patio when we finally made our way to Stratvs, the source of so much hot air back in the little bar. The tasting room is built from native lava rock and is tucked in a hillside next to the highway. We found a place among a group listening to the winery’s resident sommelier explain the blend of malvasía and muscatel grapes we thought we were about to sample.

Then he spotted us.

“Are you part of the tour?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in suspicion.

Tour?

“Uh…” I stammered, “no, we didn’t know this was a tour.”

He walked over to us, took the wineglasses out of our hands, set them back on the tray, and finished his presentation. Turns out there’s not much free wine tasting to be found on Lanzarote.

“It’s okay,” said my husband, Adrián, as we slunk out the entrance, mortified. “I already drank out of that glass he set back on the tray.” Though Adrián is no wine aficionado, he assured me the wine was quite good; semi-sweet and floral. I just hope he backwashed.

We had better luck down the road: the winery El Grifo opened its doors in 1775, less than a half century after a massive eruption resculpted the island. El Grifo still bottles sweet and semi-dry malvasía and muscatel wines from stock that dates from the 18^th Century. Today, the old presses and vats are on display in the winery’s Museo del Vino.

“We’re the oldest winery in the Canary Islands and one of ten oldest in

Spain

,” said tasting room manager Ana Cárdenas. “They’re experimenting with red wines now, but if you have limited room in your luggage, I say don’t bother. This is still the land of white wine.”

Until the 18^th Century, Lanzarote was famous for its grain, not its vines. But the 1730 eruption buried the only part of the island with natural springs, covered more than 400 homes with 30 feet of lava, and displaced and impoverished hundreds of islanders.

Mmm... donuts

While Lanzarote has largely been spared the runaway high-rise development that plagues the rest of the Canaries and

Spain

’s Mediterranean coast, it has its share of beach resorts, still so popular with the Northern European package holiday crowd that the island has been dubbed “Lanza-grotty.” But the rivers of lava belched out by the volcanoes provide a rugged-yet-easy escape from the sunnier, tourist-mobbed southern side of the island. Just past the pretty town of Yaiza on the LZ-67 begins the Malpais de la Corona (the “Badlands of the Crown”), a landscape of twisted lava, frosted in places with a lime-green or orange layer of lichen. That’s where we found the entrance to Timanfaya National Park, marked by a steel sculpture of a pitchfork-brandishing devil at the side of the road -- appropriate for a countryside straight out of Dante – and off in a hollow to one side of the road, we spotted... camels.

Camels are one of the only ways into the national park, the others being on a guagua (the local word for tour bus) or a guided hike. Farmers introduced the one-humped dromedaries to help with agricultural chores, but when tourists began arriving in large numbers back in the 1970s, the animals began hauling two-by-two loads of Brits, Germans and Scandinavians. For five Euros each, guides strapped us into basket-like seats on either side of the animal, and up we went the side of a cinder cone. Okay, it wasn’t particularly informative or comfortable. But sharing a camel train with two dozen other sunburned tourists was good for a laugh.

Fun with volcanoes

The winding road leads away from the highway and heads up the Montañas de Fuego to a spectacular visitors center atop the 1700 foot Islote de Hilario. It, like the park’s diabolical logo and many of the other attractions on the island, was designed by local artist and architect César Manrique. Islote de Hilario includes an eye-popping view through bowed plate glass windows, a restaurant that grills meats directly over volcanic heat radiating from the rocks, and light fixtures shaped like frying pans.

But when we showed up at the park’s second visitor center near the town of Mancha Blanca, we were told you need to reserve a spot in a guided hike three weeks ahead of time. “No os preocupéis,” "don't worry," a guide told us conspiratorially as she unfolded a map on the counter, “you can hike alone just outside the park boundary.” She showed us a trail that took us to two ancient volcanoes, across a desolate plain piled high with lava flows broken and beaten into stiff peaks of black meringue. The hike wasn’t difficult until we reached the steep side of the 1300-foot volcano Montaña Blanca, but the loose, rocky footing made a good pair of boots a must. As soon as we reached the rim of the volcano, we were pummeled by blasts of wind that came screaming up from the caldera, a thousand feet below. The higher we went along the uneven lip, the stronger the wind became. Halfway around, the wind forced us back.

Almodóvar's beach at Famara

It was fine; we were starving. The hike worked up our appetite for the roasted parrotfish, papas arrugadas (“wrinkly potatoes”), garlicky mojo sauces and other magnificently prepared local dishes at Casa Ramón, in the town of Caleta de Famara on the north coast. Almodóvar shot a major scene on the nearby beach, stocking it with sunbathers, kites and windsurfers. The truth is, Famara is a beach more akin to Northern California than Ibiza – while windsurfers may be common, the gusts deter all but the hardiest of sun worshippers. Fine with us; we retreated each night to our rented 19^th century farmhouse not far away, where the wind whistling through the lava rock walls outside lulled us to sleep each night.

If you go:

THE BEST WAY TO LANZAROTE

Connecting service is available on American Airlines, changing to Iberia. Passengers change airlines in Madrid for the final leg to Arrecife, Lanzarote’s capital. Budget fares are available on RyanAir and other low-cost airlines. .

TELEPHONES

To call any of the numbers below from the U.S., dial 011 (the international dialing code) followed by 34 (the country code for Spain), and then the local number.

WHERE TO STAY

Most traditional accommodations are clustered near Arrecife or on Lanzarote’s southern coast, where the fog and wind are not as apparent and sunburned hordes congregate. But you’ll find casas rurales, converted country houses offering bed-and-breakfast-like services, across the island.

Finca de las Laderas, Calle las Laderas 2, Caleta de Famara, 607.591.447, is a traditional Canario farmhouse converted into several guest apartments. Each has its own kitchen and is tastefully and comfortably furnished by owners Elke Sellmann and Juan de León Luzardo. Finca de las Laderas has a pool and is about two and a half miles from the island’s largest beach (windy, but popular with surfers) and the tiny town of Caleta de Famara. From 50 euros/night, depending on the season.

Finca de las Salinas, Calle La Cuesta, 17, Yaiza, 928.830.325, occupies the former mansion of an 18th Century salt merchant, with former stables converted into guestrooms. The casa sits in the middle of a beautiful garden in the town of Yaiza, near the wine region in La Geria. Rooms start at 61 euros/night.

Is that a cannon in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Gran Meliá Volcán Lanzarote, Urbanización Castillo del Águila, (888)956-3542 (toll-free

U.S.

reservations) is a 206-room five-star resort in Playa Blanca, one of Lanzarote’s larger tourist zones. You’ll lack the windswept solitude of towns like Famara on the island’s northern end, but the hotel isn’t far from Timanfaya National Park or Playa Papagayo, one of Lanzarote’s prettier beaches. Rooms start at 119 euros/night.

WHERE TO EAT

In Arrecife and the larger beach resorts, you’ll spot plenty of places selling fish and chips, bratwurst and gooey paella. Avoid them. Local food is fresh and delicious, lighter than mainland Spanish cuisine, and difficult to find outside the Canaries.

Casa Ramón, Carretera General, Caleta de Famara, 650.423.704, specializes in local fish – try the vieja (parrotfish), roasted with papas arrugadas (baby potatoes boiled in salty water until they emerge looking like a six-year-old after a two-hour bath), all served with red and green mojos, the traditional spicy sauce of the islands. Dinner for two runs about 40 Euros.

El Monumento al Campesino, Carretera Arrecife-Tinajo, 928 520 136, was designed by the ubiquitous César Manrique as a tribute to Lanzarote’s long-suffering peasants. The real monument isn’t the sculpture you’ll spot from the highway; it’s the museum below that features traditional Canarian crafts. The restaurant and tapas bar here are reasonable and one of the best places to try local delicacies like grilled octopus, lapas (limpets), and sweet potato and blood sausages (better than they sound). Small plates start at five Euros.

TO LEARN MORE

TURESPAÑA, Spanish Tourism Office, L.A. Office: (323) 658-7188, http://www.spain.info/.

Patronato de Turismo de Lanzarote, http://www.turismolanzarote.com/ (Spanish only), 928 811 762

Museo del Vino, Mon.-Fri., 10:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., 928 524 951

Bodegas Stratvs, every day from 1:00 – 2:00 p.m. with reservation, 928 809 977, bodega@stratvs.com (just be sure to sign up for the tour or they get really bitchy)

Timanfaya National Park Visitors Center, 928 840 839, can reserve your space in a guided hike, but be sure to call weeks ahead of time.

So... they're in favor of polygamy?

2010-07-16T17:09:00.000-07:00

Evita made me gay

2010-07-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

When I was 16, my mom told me she'd take me to see the show "Evita" if I learned a little about Eva Perón. I did. In fact, I became obsessed with 1940s Argentina, playing the eight track cassette my parents bought me until it wore out... not before they threatened to throw it in the trash after having to hear it every afternoon when I returned from school.

A few years ago, my mom remarked that I never fell victim to stereotypical gay diva worship. I replied "um... Evita?" "Well, that's not the same," she said. "You loved history." Well, yeah, and I still do, but somehow I never got as excited about Catherine the Great.

Argentina leads the world in psychiatrists, beef consumption and hair dressers per capita, and of course gave us a Dior-clad quasi-fascist dictator's wife as a gay icon. Now Argentines can be proud that they're leading the world -- especially Latin America -- in a new direction, as the first country south of Canada to offer gay and lesbian couples the full rights of marriage. The Argentine Senate passed a bill legalizing marriage equality -- with full adoption rights, something that even much of supposedly liberal Europe doesn't allow -- early this morning after a bruising wee-hours debate.

Not surprisingly, the Roman Catholic Church took a hardline stance against marriage equality for same-sex couples, marshaling some 60,000 Catholic and Evangelical faithful to march on Congress.

But yesterday, President Cristina Fernandez de Kirschner -- who in my book now replaces you-know-who as the Argentine gay icon -- addressed the topic in an interview from a trade visit to China:

Wow! While our supposed friends in the Democratic Party here in the U.S. wring their hands over conceding us our basic humanity, in Argentina Kirschner actually calls things -- that is, attitudes -- as they are: medieval, harking back to the inquisition. It never ceases to amaze me that more Americans aren't threatened by religious groups gnawing away bit by bit at any Constitutional freedom that doesn't expressly apply to freedom of religion. Oh, and the freedom to bear arms. They love that one, too.

But I digress. Meanwhile, a crowd was waiting outside el Congreso:

The forces of equality actually ran an excellent ad campaign called "The Same Love, the Same Rights." Here's one of the best... no subtitles, but it's pretty self-explanatory:

Maybe we can get them to do an ad campaign for us here in the States...

And a big מזל טוב and FELICIDADES to Amani and Bob!

2010-06-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

They welcomed their beautiful son Toby into the world Tuesday.

Through multiple attempts and disappointments, you've been an example of persistence and good humor.

Much happiness! You deserve it.

Take that, haters

2010-06-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

Nearly two years ago, the two of us joined 18,000 other gay and lesbian couples who tied the knot in California. Okay, actually, we did it in Spain and we had it planned before a lawsuit by three very effective civil rights organizations made it legal where we actually lived, but still -- we were part of very heady summer.

Comprehensive domestic partnership, providing essentially all the rights and responsibilities of marriage without the name, has been legal in the state since 2005. We registered in 2007, when A needed to add me to the vision insurance plan he receives through his employer. The process works like this: you go stand in line at the Secretary of State's office in between the man opening a muffler shop and the woman opening a nail salon. You fill turn in a couple of notarized forms that you share a residence and expenses and have been together for at least six months, sit for twenty minutes or so in a fiberglass chair that screams "institutional," and the clerk returns with a certificate of domestic partnership on heavy paper and a lovely embossed official seal of the State of California (which features a giant amazon queen and a tiny grizzly bear -- I've never been sure if the bear is supposed to be tiny or in the very near foreground), "suitable for framing." A handshake, and you're on you're way to the rest of your life, just like that. It's about as romantic as the Department of Motor Vehicles, but more efficient.

The day we "DPed," we were joined by my mom, my aunt and their cousin Anita for a brunch in West Hollywood. It was pleasant, but suffice it to say no one calls to congratulate us on the anniversary of our domestic partnership. We don't remember the date ourselves.

Flash forward a year to our wedding: with the dollar at its weakest in years against the euro and airfares nearly double what they'd been the summer before, 15 of our friends and my family made the trip to Europe; 50 of A's family were on hand. And even though nobody would have admitted to treating us differently beforehand, after the wedding it was obvious our standing as a couple had increased in everyone's eyes, from A's dad saying to me "Yeso! (he can't pronounce my name, so this is a close Spanish approximation. It happens to mean "plaster"), ahora eres parte de la familia" ("now you're part of the family") to the total strangers having a picnic on the beach who yelled "que vivan los novios!" when we passed on the sand, dressed in suits, to have our photo taken by the waves. No one knows what civil unions are, but marriage means something universal. Sure, like civil unions or domestic partnerships, it's a civil contract between two people that you'll take care of each other, assume each other's debts, and inherit each other's property... but unlike those other arrangements, it carries an enormous significance to society at large that you and your partner constitute a family.

Duh.

That's why it's been so interesting to watch backers of Proposition 8, where seven million Californians voted to divorce the two of us and bar any other lesbian and gay couples from civil marriage, as they come up with different reasons for why two men or two women marrying will cause grown men to weep, horses to spook and bunnies to eat their young (they failed at divorcing the already married couples). During the campaign itself, it was "WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?!?," where they successfully convinced 52 percent of voters that allowing us to marry would confer the message to their children that we're basically okay as human beings. Then, their best argument seems to have been "we don't know." What sort of horrors will befall society if Adam and Steve can marry? It's an experiment! We just DON'T KNOW!"

That argument didn't go over so well when they recently tried it on Judge Vaughn Walker in Perry v. Schwarzenegger the federal legal challenge to Prop 8 that wrapped up last week. So then they tried the "no one will have babies if we weaken the link between marriage and procreation" thing.

This was Ted Olson's response, just posted on the website of the American Foundation for Equal Rights:

The Supreme Court has said in -- I counted 14 cases
going back to 1888, 122 years. And these are the words of all
of those Supreme Court decisions about what marriage is. And I
set forth this distinction between what the plaintiffs have
called it and what the Supreme Court has called it.
The Supreme Court has said that: Marriage is the
most important relation in life. Now that's being withheld
from the plaintiffs. It is the foundation of society. It is
essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness. It's a right of
privacy older than the Bill of Rights and older than our
political parties. One of the liberties protected by the Due
Process Clause. A right of intimacy to the degree of being
sacred. And a liberty right equally available to a person in a
homosexual relationship as to heterosexual persons. That's the
Lawrence vs. Texas case.
Marriage, the Supreme Court has said again and again,
is a component of liberty, privacy, association, spirituality
and autonomy. It is a right possessed by persons of different
races, by persons in prison, and by individuals who are
delinquent in paying child support.
It is the right of individuals, not an indulgence
dispensed by the State of California, or any state, to favored
classes of citizens which could easily be withdrawn if the
state were to change its mind about procreation. In other
words, it is a right belonging to Californians, to persons. It
is not a right belonging to the State of California.
And the right to marry, to choose to marry, has never
been conditioned on or tied to procreation. It hardly could be
rooted in the state's interest in procreation, since the right
to marry, in Supreme Court cases, has been invoked sustaining
the right to contraceptives, to divorce, and just a few years
ago in that Lawrence case, to homosexuals.

Take that, haters.

For a look at the full transcript of closing arguments, go here: http://www.equalrightsfoundation.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Perry-Vol-13-6-16-10-Amended.pdf

A belated Father's Day

2010-06-21T22:49:00.000-07:00

"It's Fathers Day," my mom told me on Sunday.

"I don't have a father," I said, ever the curmudgeon. But I'm not, not really. Of course I have a father... it's just, well, that he's dead.

We've never been a family to mince words. While other people say "he passed" in hushed tones, we've always said DEAD. D-E-A-D. A coworker of mine in Sacramento once asked offhandedly if my parents were coming up from L.A. for Christmas. "Well, my mom is," I said. "I suppose she could bring my dad... I mean, he doesn't take up much space in the little urn and all. I suppose we could put some holly around him and use him as a centerpiece."

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't..."

He was so genuinely embarrassed that it was my turn to feel bad. But my dad would have guffawed.

Jokes aside, I miss my dad a lot. He died of lung cancer in January, 2000. I was working in Vermont at the time, and attended a reporting seminar in Florida a week or two after his diagnosis in April of 1999. Happy Fathers Day, Dad. I'm sorry you never got to meet the wonderful man I share my life with. I'm sorry you'll never meet your grandkids.

I wrote this as part of the seminar.

Looking for Marion

I stand in the Hilton's lobby, pen in hand, and dial Los Angeles.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

My voice ricochets off the cold marble.

"Hi. Sweetheart."

"How's Dad?"

For two weeks, it's been the question preoccupying both my mother and me.

"Oh, he's fine, I guess... he's having toast and a poached egg."

My mother can't say he's fine without a catch in her voice. "Would you like to talk to him?"

"Yeah."

I hear her fumbling with the phone, then my dad picks up.

"Hi, Jase."

"Hi, Dad. How you doing?"

The question sounds casual, but it's not.

"Oh shit, I feel all right," he says.

Sixty years on the West Coast and an actor's vocal training still haven't smoothed over the last traces of his hardscrabble, Down East accent.

He's quick to change the subject.

"How's your class going?"

"It's great," I say. "Listen, I'm figuring as long as I'm here, I'll try to talk to Marion."

Marion Fogg and my dad have never met. In fact, she's barely aware he exists. In most families, you would probably call her my dad's stepmother. Not in mine.

"Really? That's great. I don't think she wants to talk to us, though"

He tells me that's why he didn't keep her address and phone number, but tells me she lives in a place called Sun City.

I'd seen it on maps before, during the two years I lived in Florida -- a semi-circular blip between Tampa and Sarasota, just off 1-75. I always imagined a grand trailer park, something ala the movie Cocoon, perhaps.

"Call me tonight," my dad says. "Let me know how it goes."

My mom comes back on. "When you talk to Marion," she says quietly, no longer within earshot of my dad, I sense, "tell her he's dying."

I head my rented car over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, touching down in Manatee County. From there, the road heads east, through orange groves and palmetto scrub, finally joining up with 1-75.

Someone gave my dad Marion's name online. He was looking for anything on his father, Cassius William Fogg. My dad thinks she's his fourth wife, though his father was still on his third when they parted ways. It wasn't amicable.

"Last time I saw the f---er, I beat the shit out of him," he'd told me. He doesn't like to talk about it.

My dad spent his childhood moving from his mother, to foster homes, to his paternal grandmother, back to foster homes. When his father did make an appearance, often as not it was to deliver a beating. My dad returned the favor at age 18, then legally changed his name to his mother's maiden name.

That was in 1939. My dad doesn't know where his family is buried. He doesn't know who his family was in life, for that matter. Doctors say he has six months to find the answers.

My dad has inoperable lung cancer.

Green highway signs point out the way to Sun City.

Sun City has its own exit.

Sun City has its own boulevard, stretching off to the flat horizon in palm-lined magnificence.

My dad told me Marion works in the clubhouse, so I look for the glorified trailer I'd imagined, possibly surrounded by shuffleboard courts and crones in blue or pink stretch pants.

Instead I see what looks more like a pink stucco palace, complete with Corinthian columns and its own guardhouse. I park and head up a path toward a door marked "Sun City Information." The air smells of cedar chips and geraniums.

I ask the two 20-something receptionists if they've heard of Marion Fogg. "Um... no? Does she work at Northfield Clubhouse?"

"There's more than one?" I ask.

It turns out Sun City has no fewer than three clubhouses. The pink palace served geriatric blue bloods. Pebble Beach North and South were for the plebeians.

I get directions and join the flow of champagne and pearl-colored Cadillacs and Town Cars on Sun City Boulevard. The street is lined with offces of orthopedic surgeons and hairdressers.

I head north on Pebble Beach Boulevard, past other streets named for golf courses, past tanned and fit looking septuagenarians in golf carts, and come to a low stucco clubhouse.

A plump woman in a pantsuit is walking out of the building. I park quickly, and run across the street, catching up with her, expecting to be arrested at any minute.

"Excuse me.. could you tell me where to find Marion Fogg?"

"Yes," she says, "but not after 2."

I check my watch. 4:15.

"But she works here?" I ask.

"Oh sure. She handles all the contractors for the development here. She's very highly regarded. Are you a contractor?"

How much do I tell her?

"No," I start to fumble, "I guess you could call her my dad's stepmother, but I don't think she knows it."

He had tried to call her once before. He explained who he was, that he knew she was the widow of Cassius Fogg. She told him her husband had no children. And hung up.

"Oh," pantsuit lady says. "Well, you can check in there, but I'm almost positive she's gone home. She's listed, though."

I thank her and head inside.

Marion's name is on an offfice door, but it's locked.

An old phone hangs on the wall. It's vintage 1975, one of those gimmicky things with huge pushbuttons, like something you'd find in the Brady house. A phone book hangs underneath.

Marion is listed.

I dial, my heart in my throat, though I'm not sure why.

It rings.

It rings again.

There's a click, then a machine picks up. Damn.

"Hello, this is Marion."

Her Yankee accent makes my dad sound like a Valley Girl. It's thicker than winter ice on the Androscoggin.

"I'm not home right now, but please leave a message. I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Sure she will.

What do I say now?

"Uh... Mrs. Fogg. My name is Jason."

Without my little reporter's badge to hide behind, this isn't easy. This is personal.

"I think you spoke with my dad before," I continue. "I'm in St. Petersburg for a seminar, and found myself in the Sun City area, so I figured I'd try to get hold of you."

What a load of shit.

"My dad told me he spoke with you before, and he says he's sorry if he scared you. But we think your husband was my dad's father. I know this is probably a shock to you, and you may not believe any of this, but I'd sure appreciate it if you could give me a call."

I leave my phone number, and decide I'll try her in person. The phone book lists her address as 1301 New Bedford Avenue.

I have no idea where that is and head out blindly. I head south on Pebble Beach, past Sun City Boulevard, and head smack into a neighborhood full of streets named for New England ports. New Bedford is the second cross street.

I count down addresses, starting at 1400.

I see the little sign reading "Fogg" from a block away.

Marion lives in a pale blue stucco duplex. There's a lawn, but little greenery other than a few sunburnt azaleas gasping for life near the front door. Two plastic chairs sit on the small porch. The blinds are tightly drawn against the bright sun.

I knock on the door, my heart pounding. I wait. The neighborhood is absolutely quiet. I imagine old ladies peeking out through curtains across the street. I imagine a cruiser pulling up any minute. I ring the doorbell.

Nothing.

I walk back to the car, still looking around nervously for flashing blue lights.

I make another half-hearted attempt a half-hour later. She's still not home.

I reluctantly head back onto Sun City Boulevard to the interstate, and follow the signs to Tampa.

I'll call her tonight, I tell myself.

Maybe my dad can still get his story.

Copyright © The Poynter Institute, 801 Third Street S., St. Petersburg, FL 33701.

Well, he never did get his story. When I finally did get her on the phone, she said "my husband had no children!" and hung up on me. "Send her some photos," my mom suggested, so we did -- me, my dad, and one of Cassius. That got me a call from her attorney, saying he'd get a restraining order if I contacted her again.

Ah, family.

Actually, I'm grateful I didn't have to grow up a little gay boy with the last name of "Fogg." Things were bad enough.

Medieval bugs

2010-06-19T17:16:00.001-07:00

Ever come back from vacation needing another vacation? A week ago I returned from accompanying Adrián on his annual pilgrimage to visit his family. This year we took my mom for added fun, with the goal of taking her to the South of France. The plan was to land in Madrid, spend that day resting, then pick up a rental car and drive to a little town in the Pyrenees just across the French border. It looked like a good idea on paper. It even looked like a good idea on Google Maps. But you know what? It's a whole lot of driving. We didn't get to our hotel until 10:30 at night. And that was pretty much the pattern for the rest of the trip. The next day, we stopped at a little mountain farm and for some reason bought a kilo of Pyrenean cheese (is it just me or does that sound dirty?), which we then schlepped across about 2000 kilometers, lovingly storing it in the fridge at our hotel in Arles, where we spent three days. Arles is very interesting, packed with Roman ruins... and it turned out we just about killed my mom by making her walk from amphitheater to theater to forum to baths. Then, horses and flamingoes in the Camargue, bad bouillabaisse in Marseilles (where I made her cry because I was grouchy), Barcelona (okay, we actually had a good time there, though we forgot the cheese at the hotel. I hope they enjoyed it)! Finally, Alicante to see Adrián's family, then up at four a.m. to get her to Madrid on time for her noon flight back to the States.And then, because in the planning stages it seemed like an excellent idea but ended up more in the "what were we thinking" category, we headed to Marrakech for three days, Adrián barely recovered from a stomach virus, me about to fall victim. But here, in keeping with the theme of the blog, is a fabulous cellphone video of our visit to the ruins of El Badi palace. If you listen, you can hear the muezzin at a nearby mosque and the resident storks (look hard, you'll spot their nests) clattering their beaks.

But in spite of the delicate state of his entrails, Adrián was none the worse for wear after supposedly finding a bug in his soup at a stall in the plaza Jemaa el Fna. He was funny. I make brilliant observations like "I hear a cat" or "ooh, the light!" Yeah, and I spent 12 years as a TV reporter.

It's in Spanish. Here's a translation:

J: Adrián, you want to say something to me?
A: I ate a bug in the plaza, but it was really good...
J: Yeah? (He, of course, let me finish my soup after finding the alleged bug)
A: ...it had a very traditional flavor.
J: Flavor of what?
A: Flavor of... I don't know, but it was very traditional, very ancient, almost from the middle ages. It was a bug from the middle ages.
J: I hear a cat but I don't see it. (Are cats halal? Maybe that was the "chicken" in my tagine.)
J: And what else, besides that?
A: (Yawning) I'm having a lot of fun, all of this is really interesting, it's an incredible culture, and, well, I don't imagine it's the last time we'll come ('cause, you know, he's having so much fun). Look, a dog. (Because it's not like there's anything else to look at on the plaza)
J: A Moroccan dog. (I am on FIRE with the witty observations! Did I mention I used to be a TRAVEL reporter?)
A: The only dog I've seen. (Uh oh... are dogs halal? Maybe THAT'S what's in the tagine!)
J: (Turning camera on self) Well, I don't know what to say either... ooh, the light! But, uh, yeah, it's very interesting and ... yeah, that.

So, thanks to our leaving the real camera under the seat of our rental car, THIS is the only record of our trip. Maybe that's a good thing.

Let me know if you run across an errant third of a wheel of cheese.

Live online coverage of the federal Prop 8 trial

2010-06-16T13:46:00.000-07:00

Not surprisingly, child-rearing is central to the questioning. Defense attorney Charles Cooper has been attempting to argue that procreation is central to the institution of marriage, and that allowing same-sex couples to marry would weaken that connection, which would hurt children. Towards the end of the day, Judge Walker finally asked whether the 37,000 Californian children being raised by same-sex couples don't also have a right to that security:

American Foundation for Equal Rights

Un poco más comprensivo

2010-06-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

I read this waiting for a plane the other day in the print edition of El País on the last day of my so-called vacation. It's the most sympathetic portrait I've seen to date of a surrogate mother in a Spanish-language publication (albeit in the US, not in India), and the first to mention that the most often-used term "madre de alquiler" (rent-a-mom) is, shall we say, a bit offensive. It also has a good summation at the bottom of how Spanish law basically discriminates against gay male IPs.

http://www.elpais.com/articulo/sociedad/geste/ninos/dinero/elpepisoc/20100612elpepisoc_3/Tes#

"No gesté a los niños por dinero"

Una 'madre de alquiler' y su marido explican por qué se han prestado a tener dos hijos para otros - La práctica está prohibida en España, pero es legal en EE UU

EMILIO DE BENITO - Madrid - 12/06/2010

"No lo haría gratis, pero tampoco lo hice por dinero". Myriam Reynolds, estadounidense de 39 años (aunque nacida en México), habla con energía y simpatía de su decisión de ser -dos veces- lo que coloquialmente se llama madre de alquiler, un término que ella rechaza de plano y que prefiere cambiar por el de gestante subrogada o sustitutiva.
Sentada en un salón del hotel, Reynolds se muestra divertida según va desmontando los prejuicios que se pueden tener sobre ella. "Soy muy normal", dice, mirando a su marido, Robert Wright, seis meses más joven y nacido en Filadelfia, que se sienta junto a ella. Él, más afectado por el trastorno horario del vuelo que les ha traído a Madrid desde Colorado, asiente. La pareja -ella, psicóloga; él, enfermero- son padres de dos niñas, de cinco y seis años y medio. A los otros dos bebés que ha gestado, Reynolds se resiste a llamarlos hijos. "No lo son, no tienen mis óvulos ni su esperma", afirma convencida, contradiciendo totalmente la regulación española, que establece que la madre es la que lleva a cabo la gestación, independientemente del origen de los gametos.
La historia empezó hace cuatro años, cuando se enteró de que una amiga suya, desesperada porque no podía ser madre, estaba buscando ayuda. "Yo lo haré por ti. Tengo mucha facilidad para quedarme embarazada", le dijo. Su amiga insistió en que todo se hiciera de una manera conforme a las leyes del Estado, con todos los papeles, contrato incluido. Sabía de qué hablaba: trabajaba en una clínica de fecundación asistida y conocía el procedimiento, que es legal en la mayoría de EE UU desde 1986. "Estaba sufriendo mucho, y tenía una conexión personal con ella, así que se lo dije a Robert y él me dijo que adelante, que no tenía inconveniente".
Estados Unidos -y no todo- es de los pocos países donde hubiera podido hacerlo. También en India, Reino Unido, Grecia y Ucrania. En la mayoría de los occidentales, España incluida, la práctica está prohibida. Algo que Reynolds, "sinceramente", no entiende.
Porque a ella aquella historia le resultó tan "gratificante" que acabó trabajando para la agencia Circle Surrogacy, que es la que les ha traído a España para unos seminarios (hoy en Madrid, mañana en Barcelona) sobre gestación subrogada. Ahí se dedica a hacer asesoría con los grupos de mujeres que van a ser futuras madres sustitutivas. Lo que le permite generalizar a partir de su caso.
"La mayoría son mujeres como yo, licenciadas o incluso con másteres que están en la treintena, que ya han tenido los hijos que quieren para formar una familia. Eso de que se trata de drogadictas o marginales es mentira. De hecho, una de las condiciones que les ponen en la agencia es que tengan sus ingresos, que no lo hagan por el dinero", dice de un tirón.
Eso sí, tampoco se arredra para explicar que no lo haría gratis. "El dinero ayuda. Da claridad a la relación con los padres. A nosotros nos ha permitido tener una casa mejor, o, por lo menos, pagarla más fácilmente", indica. "¿No cobras tú por tu trabajo, por mucho que te guste? ¿No lo hacen los médicos, los profesores, los enfermeros? Aunque su trabajo sea tan bonito como salvar vidas, también lo hacen por dinero. Pues es lo mismo. Además, el proceso es largo y molesto, tienen que pincharte durante dos semanas, pierdes días de trabajo durante el embarazo y después del parto. Lo justo es que te paguen", insiste.
Al llegar a este punto, Reynolds rehúsa decir cuánto cobró ella. "La tarifa está entre 18.000 y 25.000 dólares [15.000 y 21.000 euros]". A lo que hay que sumar el coste del tratamiento de inseminación in vitro (otros 25.000 euros), los gastos médicos de la mujer y la comisión de la agencia. Total, más de 100.000 euros. "Fue un negocio, pero uno de los más gratificantes. Los padres se quedan felices, y nosotros también".
Que se lo digan a Jordi y Vicent, una pareja española que está en el hotel con su hijo de un año. El último que ha tenido Reynolds. La mujer reconoce el cariño que se tienen, pero no duda en que el hijo no es suyo, sino -"a pesar de lo que digan las leyes españolas"- de ellos. Como prueba, Reynolds y su marido mantienen una tremenda tranquilidad cuando el niño alborota: "Que lo cuiden sus padres", dicen medio riéndose.
No se trata de un comentario desde la frialdad. "Desde el principio tenía claro que no era mi hijo. A las otras madres del grupo les ha pasado lo mismo. Solo un par de veinteañeras, cuando dieron a luz, se dieron cuenta de que solo tenían un hijo y de que querían otro. Pero otro, de ella y su marido, no ese", cuenta Reynolds.
Su marido admite que, después de dos niñas, cuando vio que nacía un varón pensó en probar suerte otra vez. "Pero no. Nuestra familia ya está completa. Nuestras dos hijas tienen mucha personalidad, son muy activas y en nuestra casa ya hay suficiente follón", dice Reynolds, que lleva la voz cantante.
La mujer aporta otra visión de lo que ha hecho: "Nuestra familia es multirracial y, de alguna manera, ayudar a esta pareja de gays a tener un hijo que deseaban tanto es otra manera de comprometernos, de contribuir a la sociedad con nuestro ejemplo. Tenemos amigos que lo han pasado muy mal por no poder tener hijos. Si podemos ayudar a que alguien sea feliz, a que se vea que los gays pueden ser padres y las lesbianas, madres, estaremos contentos".
Por eso está tan orgullosa de que sus hijas hayan entendido que el último embarazo no iba a acabar dándoles un hermanito. "Ellas lo sabían, como todos a nuestro alrededor. Y lo entienden. Es parte de su crecimiento, como haber aprendido, al conocer a Jordi y a Vicent, que dos hombres, o dos mujeres, se pueden querer y casar".

Pendientes del Registro Civil

En España, la ley de reproducción asistida prohíbe, desde su primera redacción en 1988, la gestación subrogada. El texto es tajante: "Será nulo de pleno derecho el contrato por el que se convenga la gestación, con o sin precio, a cargo de una mujer que renuncia a la filiación materna a favor del contratante o de un tercero". Y en su artículo dos añade: "La filiación de los hijos nacidos por gestación de sustitución será determinada por el parto".
Este último punto es el que trae de cabeza al menos a una decena de parejas gays españolas que tienen o están en trámites de tener hijos por este método en el extranjero (la mayoría, en Estados Unidos). Porque aunque el procedimiento sea legal ahí, los consulados se niegan a registrar al hijo con dos padres, ya que entienden que debe haber una madre. Así que el niño llega a España, pero como estadounidense. La situación no se da en el caso de mujeres solas, de parejas heterosexuales o de lesbianas que recurren a esta técnica, ya que siempre pueden inscribir a la mujer (o a una de ellas) como madre.
Quienes más lejos han llegado para inscribir a su hijo son dos homosexuales de Valencia. El matrimonio consiguió que la Dirección General de Registros y Notariados emitiera un dictamen que les permitía inscribir al niño como hijo de ambos (igual que si fuera una adopción conjunta). Pero la Fiscalía lo ha recurrido, por entender que hay un fraude de ley.
Los hombres habrían podido evitar este conflicto si en vez de inscribir a los niños (en este caso han tenido dos) como hijos de ambos, lo hubieran hecho con sólo un padre y el otro hubiera iniciado un trámite de adopción. Pero ellos se niegan porque creen que es injusto para su matrimonio. El resto de las parejas que están en situación similar están a la espera.

A list of what NOT to read to your little ones

2010-03-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

I used to get a big kick out of ads on TV for a toy called "My Interactive Poo." Okay, I imagine it was actually spelled "Pooh," but the image it conjured up was, well, you know, kids playing with something they shouldn't really be interacting with. So I got a big chuckle out of this slideshow on Huffington Post, especially, of course, "Cooking with Pooh": http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/03/29/the-creepiest-childrens-b_n_513489.html#s75964

A good analysis of last year's Spanish surrogacy ruling

2010-03-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

I found this analysis of Spanish law on an international law webpage (http://conflictoflaws.net). Marta Requejo is a law professor at the University of Santiago de Compostela, so it looks as if that answers my question: the Spanish government has conferred citizenship on surrogacy-born children. Not sure we'll be testing the law ourselves, tho'.

Si algún lector español tiene más información, por favor dejame un comentario.

Spanish Homosexual Couple and Surrogate Pregnancy (II)
by Marta Requejo on March 14, 2009

In a previous post I related how a certificate issued in the U.S.A., establishing the parenthood of a baby born in this country to a surrogate mother, had been denied registration in Spain. The interested parties lodged an application for review before the Dirección General de los Registros y el Notariado (DGRN); on February 18, 2009, their appeal has been upheld. This post sums up the arguments on which the Spanish resolution is based.

The DGRN starts selecting the correct methodological approach: the request for registration in Spain of a birth certificate from a foreign authority arouses questions of recognition, and not of conflicts of law; hence art. 81 Reglamento del Registro Civil should apply. According with this article, facts can be registered by means of Spanish public documents; public foreign deeds are also accepted, provided they are given force in Spain under the laws or international treaties. A foreign act has to meet three conditions in order to be suitable for registration in Spain:

.- The deed must be a public one: it has to stem from a public authority and meet the necessary requirements to be considered “full evidence” (i.e., to display privileged evidentiary strength) when used before the courts of the country of origin. Apostille or legalisation are usually called for; so does translation. In the instant case, the Californian certificate of birth and filiation satisfies those conditions.

.- The public authority granting the document has to be equivalent to the Spanish ones; that is, she mut provide with guarantees similar to those required by the Spanish law for entering into public registers. According to the DGRN, the authority responsible for civil registration in California satisfies this requirement.

.- The act contained in the foreign registration certificate must endorse a legality test involving three elements: international jurisdiction of the foreign authority, due process, and compatibility with Spanish public order. In the case in point only the third requirement seems questionable. The DGRN devotes the rest of its reasoning to explain why incorporation of the foreign certificate to the Spanish Registro Civil is not contrary to our public policy; why it “does not alter the smooth and peaceful running of the Spanish society”.

To this end the DGRN develops several points that may be summarized as follows:

1) Registering parenthood of two male subjects in the Spanish Registro Civil does not violate public order, since Spanish law admits paternity of two males in cases of adoption, and adopted children and biological children are equal in the eyes of law.

2) Spanish law allows registration of parenthood of female couples; to deny it in the case of a couple composed of two male individuals would be discriminatory.

3) To deny entry into a Spanish public register of facts concerning parenthood, already inscribed in a foreign register, would go against the best interests of the child as conceived in UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. The DGRN also recalls ECJ case law, such as Garcia Avello (C- 148/02) and Grunkin-Paul (C-353/06), where the ECJ argues in favour of a unique identity of the child. Later on the DGRN would reintroduce the argument of the child’s interest: allowing registration in Spain in the same terms as Californian registration is better than leaving the children without any registration in Spain, and also preferable to having two different entries, one in the U.S. and another one in Spain.

4) In Spanish law, parenthood is not necessarily determined from the genetic linkage of those involved.

5) The interested parties have not acted in fraud of law; they have not tried to change the nationality of children in order to prompt the application of Californian law. The babies, born to a Spanish person, are Spanish.

6) The interested parties have not engaged in forum shopping or any fraudulent attempt to circumvent the application of Spanish mandatory rules. The Californian certificate of registration is not a court decision with res judicata effect. Any party may challenge the content of the birth registration before the courts; if so, the Spanish Courts would establish the paternity of children once and for all.

Spanish homosexual couple and surrogate pregnancy
Publications on International Surrogate Motherhood
French Court Denies Recognition to American Surrogacy Judgement
Spanish International Adoption Act (Law 54/2007, of December 28)
Foreign Law before the Spanish Courts: the Need for a Reform

Is that the sequel to "Eat Drink Man Woman?"

2010-03-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

So one of the things I've started doing since I added the accursed live traffic feed at the bottom is to compulsively check it, watching as all the little flags collect around the world. Obsessive, but it seems every blogger does it. I've posted a couple of articles in Spanish in hopes of providing some information to Spanish-speaking IPs -- so far, it's pretty sparse, but I'll add more as I come across it.

I was a bit amused, though, to see that Tarrytown, New York, arrived on the blog doing a search for "alquiler mujeres strip phone," which translates to "rent women" and, you guessed it, "strip phone." Feel free to click on the link. I have a feeling a blog about two prospective gay dads isn't what Tarrytown was searching for...

My cup runneth over

2010-03-01T14:48:00.000-08:00

I have a little black, plastic bag in the back seat of our Ford Escape hybrid that contains two, little plastic collection jars. My doctor gave them to me about a month ago when I told him I needed to have a semen analysis done. They're the standard ones you carry into the bathroom with you when you have to do a urinalysis. Now, depending on how much coffee you've had on a given morning, filling one on demand under those circumstances can be challenging enough. But we're not talking about peeing in a cup here. And two? What does he think I'm going to do with two?

I feel totally inadequate.

Apparently the test takes place some three months before you plan to head to India to leave your genetic material in the hands of the medical team there (uh... not literally... I don't mean literally). We haven't yet surrendered ourselves 100 percent to the process, so the bag and its contents ride along with me wherever I go, mocking me, impugning my manhood.

No backseat passengers have seemed to notice it yet, so I haven't had to answer any questions I'd prefer not to. Truth is, I don't really mind talking about it, unless the person doing the asking is my mother. I'm afraid the mere thought of discussing the mechanics of providing a sample with my mother would make the eventual act impossible for me:

Internal dialogue: "She knows."

"No she doesn't. You can do this. She's on the other side of the city."

"She's on the other side of the city... but SHE KNOWS!"

Lucky for me my mother is unaware of this blog's existence and the lab I need to go to is in the distant suburb of Arcadia -- I barely know where that is, but it's a full valley and area code away from anywhere haunted by maternal relatives.

How's your love life?

2010-02-17T11:36:00.000-08:00

The following notice was posted on the L.A. Gay and Lesbian Center's family services webpage. It's a Bay Area-based study of gay male parents of new babies, and what effect aforementioned babies have on their sex lives. I'm guessing... not a positive one?

Participation from Male Same-Sex Parents Requested for Research Study

My name is Felix and I am a Ph.D. student of Sexology at the Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality (IASHS) in San Francisco. I am currently working on my dissertation and conducting a qualitative research study on male same-sex couples who have had their first adoptive or biological child and are within their first year as new parents. The purpose of the study is to explore any changes in sexual patterns or behavior that male same-sex parents may have experienced during their first year of parenthood and determine what sexual factors, if any, may have come into play in their relationship as well as in their parenting experience.

I am looking for nine male same-sex couples who would be willing to participate in a single's and couple's in-depth interview, as well as in a one-time focus group to openly discuss the potential changes they may have experienced in their sexuality as new parents. The total time commitment would be approximately 4 hours.

The participants will have to meet five criteria for inclusion in the sample:
1. Must be first-time parents
2. Must be the parents of only one child
3. Child must be 18 months old or younger
4. Must have a minimum of six months of parenting experience
5. Couples must have been in a relationship for a minimum of two years prior to becoming parents

Interested or inquisitive gay parents may contact me by phone at 415-531-4969 or send e-mail to me at chakool666@gmail.com. You may also contact the Dean of Students, Dr. Thomas E. Gertz, at 415-928-1133 ext. 33 for any other questions.

Hooray for Saveypood

2010-02-16T21:29:00.000-08:00

It was an achingly beautiful weekend here -- 80 degrees, brilliant sun and crystal clear air. Adrián and I loaded the doberman into the car and headed up to Runyon Canyon, a collection of undeveloped peaks and trails above Hollywood. It´s sort of like L.A.´s town square, where porn stars, Russian mafia, gay gym rats and Vietnamese grandmas all rub elbows. From the hilltops you could see all the way from the still-snowcapped San Gabriel mountains to the east to the Channel Islands off the coast.

My family's lived in L.A. since 1915 or so, which would make us one of the city's oldest landmarks... if anyone knew who we were. L.A. has a depressing fondness for tearing down notable landmarks, usually favorite hangouts of us locals, so they can put up more multi-level faux Mediterranean strip malls. Now, it's not the Parthenon, it's not the Eiffel Tower, but the Hollywood Sign is all we've got (well, now we have the Disney Concert Hall but it loses international icon points because it looks just like the Guggenheim in Bilbao).

So it was nice to to look across Cahuenga Pass, just east of Runyon, and see this:

A coalition of environmentalists and preservationists draped L.A.'s ersatz icon with letters reading "save the peak," trying to raise 12.5 million dollars to purchase the land just adjacent to the Hollywood Sign so evil developers can't build six luxury mansions right next to the "H." So far, they've come up with eight million and are hoping private citizens will contribute the rest: http://www.savehollywoodland.org/

Evidently, for about a day, the sign read "SAVEYPOOD" until they finished draping the letters. It gave me a five minute attack of the giggles. It still makes me laugh. I don't know why I find it so funny.

I can see the sign today from our office window and it's back to "HOLLYWOOD."

Now that I think about it, isn't Saveypood a city near Bangalore?

Article in "El País"

2010-02-15T11:20:00.000-08:00

Evidently, the Spanish government ruled last year that it will recognize children born to surrogacy overseas -- if only for the good of the children and not their pesky, irresponsible parents. El País is generally excellent but, like all Spanish media, they have an unfortunate fondness for the term "madre de alquiler;" that is, "rent-a-mom."

This article ran last year in "El País:"

Los hijos de 'madres de alquiler' se pueden inscribir en el registro

Justicia rectifica y permite la inscripción de dos niños concebidos por una pareja gay por gestación subrogada en California

EMILIO DE BENITO - Madrid - 10/03/2009

Son hijos de españoles y viven en España, pero estaban a punto de convertirse en sin papeles. Los dos niños -de los que los padres no quieren dar más datos- nacieron en octubre en San Diego (California), pero el consulado español no quiso inscribirlos en el correspondiente registro como hijos de españoles. La razón: en el certificado de nacimiento que les dieron no figuraba ninguna madre y sí dos padres, el matrimonio de dos hombres españoles que había donado su semen para que una mujer llevara a cabo la gestación por ellos.

Según dijo entonces la directora general de Registros y Notariados, Pilar Blanco-Morales, como esta práctica está prohibida en España, los padres habían cometido un "fraude de ley" al recurrir a la técnica en California, donde es legal. Hoy se ha sabido que la misma dirección dictaminó en febrero que los niños podían ser inscritos.

La resolución, que firma la propia Blanco-Morales, establece que "siempre es preferible proceder a dicha inscripción en nombre del interés superior del menor". Con ello se abre la puerta para casos futuros, ya que hay al menos media docena de parejas de gays que, ante las dificultades para adoptar, han recurrido a esta técnica para tener sus hijos.

But of course, it says nothing about what happens when a Spaniard has a baby via surrogacy in India and tries to bring the baby back to his home in the U.S.

No good answers

2010-02-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

We're still trying to figure out exactly what situation Spanish intended parents would face in India -- the article below says that they basically face a legal vacuum.

Vientres de alquiler, una opción en alza
Ethafne

La maternidad subrogada, comúnmente conocida como “vientre de alquiler”, es una opción en alza. Una práctica prohibida en España pero no en otros países como Estados Unidos, que reciben anualmente a cientos de personas en busca de su sueño. La única salida para todos aquellos que ven en ésta la oportunidad de formar una familia.

Más de 4.000 mujeres son las que han recurrido en Estados Unidos a un vientre de alquiler para ser madres, según datos estadísticos; entre ellas, la conocida actriz Sharon Stone que, a sus 47 años, optó por la maternidad subrogada para ser madre por segunda vez.

Una técnica que consiste en la estimulación ovárica de la mujer y como consecuencia a ésta la extracción de los óvulos que son fertilizados con los espertamotozoides del padre, lo que da paso a la formación de embriones. Estos embriones son implantados en el vientre de alquiler. En este caso, se procede a la fecundación in Vitro (FIV) con los óvulos de la madre biológica y con los espermatozoides del padre elegido o donantes en su defecto. Cuando los óvulos de la madre biológica no son óptimos, se procede directamente a la inseminación artificial (IAD) del vientre subrogado con el esperma del padre o donante.

En España todavía esta opción es ilegal según la Ley de Reproducción Asistida, ya que para nuestra legislación, la madre es siempre aquella que pare. Sin embargo, después de la aprobación en la Ley de reproducción asistida española de la gestación de la mujer de forma individual, quedaría por cubrir un importante hueco a la paternidad en solitario o el mismo derecho del hombre a ser padre solo, dado que igualmente un hombre tendría derecho a su libre paternidad y en igual de condiciones que en el supuesto de una mujer sola. Sin embargo, dado que en España esta opción no está permitida, al igual que muchas parejas (heterosexuales u homosexuales) que no pueden concebir, se encuentran excluidos de estos derechos. Hoy, en España se puede ser madre sola, pero no padre solo.

Estados Unidos es, por tanto, la gran puerta abierta cuando el derecho a la maternidad o la paternidad choca con obstáculos. De hecho, las estadísticas apuntan a que en Norteamérica las parejas homosexuales que recurren a esta práctica son cada vez más.

Su prohibición en la mayoría de los países europeos hace que muchas personas tengan que pasar por viajes nada ajustados al bolsillo y que tan solo unos pocos se lo puedan permitir. Tener un hijo con un vientre alquilado cuesta como mínimo 100.000 dólares, de los cuales la madre sustituta cobra unos 25.000 y la madre biológica, que aporta el óvulo, entre 4.000 y 10.000 dólares. El resto va para la agencia especializada, los gastos médicos y los abogados.

También figuran como habituales en la maternidad subrogada países como Gran Bretaña, Israel, Rusia, India o México. Ahora bien, excepto EE.UU., el resto de los países mencionados figuran como habituales en esta práctica pero se desconoce hasta qué punto las leyes gubernamentales de éstos la respaldan y, sobre todo, si dan garantías suficientes en la protección de los derechos de ambas partes.

Aunque Estados Unidos sea uno de los países más permisivos en este sentido, no todos sus Estados lo permiten; aquellos en los que la maternidad subrogada está prohibida son Washington, Michigan, Utah, Arizona, Nuevo México y Nueva York. California es considerado el Estado más liberal en este ámbito.

En India, también es posible. El ICMIR (Consejo Médico de Investigación de la India), organismo que rige la carrera médica en el país, controla que las madres de alquiler no superen los 45 años, que pasen la prueba del VIH y que no tomen drogas, entre otras características. En este país el precio oscila alrededor de los 30.000 dólares. Eso sí, las mujeres que alquilan su vientre en India corren el gran riesgo de ser rechazadas por la sociedad. Y las garantías no son las de las agencias estadounidenses.

Por otro lado y, aunque parezca mentira, debido al control de la natalidad por parte del Gobierno, en China también prolifera esta práctica y eso que desde 2001 el Gobierno dejó claro su prohibición. El diario “China Daily” publicaba tiempo atrás que son, sobre todo, las parejas de clase alta las que demandan esta forma de tener hijos. Quizá porque son los únicos que se pueden permitir pagar los más de seis mil dólares que cuesta el proceso. Las parejas chinas pagan por una madre de alquiler cerca de los 30.000 euros.

El hecho de recurrir a una madre de alquiler para que lleve en su vientre al bebé hasta el momento de su nacimiento, ha demostrado ser una elección que ha dado muy buenos resultados para poder ayudar a las parejas infértiles a tener bebés. No obstante, este procedimiento también ha resultado ser bastante controvertido y, en algunos casos, conlleva problemas emocionales.

Una opción que revoluciona nuevamente la idea de familia tradicional y una práctica cada vez más difundida que cuestiona la actual Ley de Reproducción Asistida. Con todo esto, solo se puede decir que la realidad es la que es y el dilema está servido…

Nocturnal admissions

2010-02-11T17:24:00.000-08:00

Adrián initiated our first, really serious "wow, maybe we're really going to do this India thing" conversation the other night. Trouble is, he chose when we were already in bed and I was already cleared for takeoff for a good night's sleep.

We talked for about an hour about how to finance the baby-making project. We've signed the papers to unload our horrible shack in Sacramento, where we met and lived for five years before moving down to L.A. For three years we've been hemorrhaging money on the first of the month as we pay the mortgage on a house we no longer live in nor want. Because we bought at the top of the market when I was swept up in the buy-a-house epidemic ("honey, we HAVE to buy a house or we'll be permanently priced out!"), we could never rent it out for anything that even approached what we paid each month. But now... just maybe (and the documents ARE all signed and faxed)... the bank has agreed to sell the hateful structure for much less than what we paid. YAY! (I hope.)

So surrogacy is something we can consider, once we undo some of the past five years of financial damage the dreaded blood-sucking house has been in our lives. Our financing options:

We save (yeah, in a perfect world, but that takes time and we're OLD, if I had a biological clock it'd be clanging, and the price of surrogacy in India keeps climbing)

We take out a loan on my mom's house (hey, she WANTS a grandchild, right? Besides, the house needs landscaping)

Hey! I know! We'll put it on a credit card! (Uh... no.)

So we decided that we could work out the specifics at some future date and that financing would probably involve a combination of the above options one and two. Within five minutes Don Dormilón was twitching happily in his sleep and my mind was turning a thousand revolutions a minute. Are we too old? Almost everyone going through the process is more or less our age, including our friends in Pasadena who now have a baby son through surrogacy. But what's it like to be 70 with a son or daughter just graduated from college (wait... that was my dad's situation, he was 43 when I was born).

And then there's our genetic material -- are our sperm past their expiration date? That's what a friend of mine said when I told him we were considering surrogacy. "Oh, don't do that," he said. "They keep the women in tents... and fathers over the age of 40 are more likely to have autistic kids." Sure enough, I found the report online... older dads have been linked to autism and all sorts of other nasty congenital conditions (hee hee... I said genital). My friend went on to suggest that we don't make enough money to have children, since it costs $20,000 a year to send children to school in Los Angeles.

I told him that middle-class people are entitled to have children too. I still want to do this.

I finally drifted off to sleep, after 20 minutes of playing mahjongg solitaire. At four a.m., Argos, our 120-pound doberman, decided that he was a little chilly and our bed looked SO much warmer. He wedged his way between us, pulling the blankets off me.

I gave up on sleep and staggered to the kitchen to make coffee.

A new beginning for an old blog

2010-02-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

This was originally the blog we used to help get people from the States to Spain for our wedding. I promised to post wedding photos on here, but somehow, one thing led to another and the pictures were never uploaded. Besides, everyone had already seen them on Facebook, aside from Adrián's Tía Eulalia, who rides a Vespa at age 75 but doesn't have a computer.

Blogging -- especially when I've tried it -- has always seemed the ultimate in navel-gazing. Some people -- political analysts, presidents and prime ministers, Nobel Prize winners -- have very interesting blogs, I'm sure (though if they're that interesting, how do they have time to blog?). But I'm not sure anyone is all that interested in how I cleaned up the dog poop in the back yard this morning or wants to hear my observations on L.A. traffic (though I imagine both topics will creep in here occasionally as they each occupy quite a bit of our time).

This is different. In the past few weeks I've read all the blogs I could find dealing with Indian surrogacy and have found them enormously helpful as we contemplate a process that is at best daunting and expensive and at worst heartbreaking -- and fucking terrifying. The surrogacy industry in India is relatively new and as yet fairly unregulated, so the best source of support and information I've found is the worldwide community of people who have gone or are going through the process. That's why I'm offering forth my brain droppings for all to read, to solicit help and support, and to offer it to anyone going down this road after us.