The Gift

 It is one our favorite pastimes here in Charleston to go on the “artwalks” they have here several times a year, as do many communities across the country. You stroll from gallery to gallery having a chance to see some wonderful art, drink some wine, maybe have a chat with some of the artists to learn more about their craft. Over time, we have found that our favorite gallery is the Robert Lange Studios on Queen Street, owned and run by Robert and his wife (and fellow artist) Megan. The energy and creativity that we see in this gallery is always stunning, whether it's a depiction of a surging ocean, landscapes that are so razor sharp you'd swear you are really looking at photographs, or portraits that tell a story or offer mystery through a turn of a smile or a laser-like stare. And, this is where the story begins.

One of the artists that displays his work at Lange is J.B. Boyd. J.B. is young, exuberant, marches to the beat of a yet to be identified drummer, and has an incredible flair for creating magic out of the local landscape. Whether it's trees or ocean or lowcountry marsh, J.B.'s work leaps off the canvas in a way that hypnotizes, seduces, and makes your eyes linger. In one of our visits to the gallery some months ago, Lily spotted one of J.B.'s works in particular and was spellbound. It was the lowcountry marsh with an unseen sun low in the sky where the highly shadowed grasses and trees were as dark and serene as the water was fabulously ablaze with the sun's reflection. The water was seemingly on fire and the effect was riveting. It painted a scene that we had observed on many occasions from our own backyard on the Isle of Palms but without the intensity and amped up beauty that J.B. had found. Lily turned to me and, with a plea that can only come from the heart, said how wonderful it would be to own this one. She gazed lovingly at the painting, but in the hubbub of the artwalk and the distraction of so many other paintings, that momentary expression of desire got distracted, and the matter was dropped. For the moment.

 

I made up my mind. I would buy this painting for Lily. I called the gallery the next morning, spoke to Robert and sealed the deal. It would be a surprise, a Christmas present. Robert suggested that one thing I could do would be to write a personalized note that would be displayed next to the painting, and one day we would walk into the gallery and surprise Lily with her gift. Pictures would be taken. A very personal history would be recorded. Brilliant. The element of surprise, the joy of watching another's joy, and the almost dark pleasure of guarding a secret. The plan was to return to the gallery shortly before Christmas and feel the excitement build.

Months went by. We went on with our lives, happily filled with all the things that have made our days here so satisfying. The painting mostly disappeared from my consciousness and, I believe, from Lily's as well. But, with the passing of Thanksgiving, the painting took center stage. The time was nearing and the moment had arrived to plan the perfect evening. There was an artwalk looming with a terrific new show at Lange and I knew Lily wanted to go, but I did not want the artwalk to be the backdrop for this present. Too noisy, too many strangers. This screamed out to be more personal, more intimate. Luckily for me, we had plans for both weekend nights and I, as nonchalantly as I could, suggested that maybe we could pick an evening for the following week, say thursday, to go pay a visit. She bit.

 

Thursday came and I was like a nervous schoolboy. I worried over non-existent obstacles that might interfere with the grand plan and blow the surprise. Would Lily change her mind and decide that we should stay home that evening? Would we have a minor fender bender on the drive into town and force us to miss the gallery's closing time? Would Mojo run off in search of deer at just the moment we were getting ready to leave? Despite my best intentions, would I start acting weird in anticipation of all this and tip off Lily's finely tuned radar that something was afoot?

 

We drove into town. I don't recall ever being so acutely aware of speed limits and stop signs. But, we made it without incident and worked our way the few blocks from the garage to the gallery. I had called ahead and furtively asked where the painting would be displayed so that I would not risk an all too knowing look from Megan or Rob hinting at its direction.

 

While I was ready to burst at the seams, Lily was in no hurry to make her way to the spot where her gift was hung. And, why should she be? As it turned out, the works displayed in the front room of the gallery were so captivating that it seemed years passed by as I bit my tongue and went with the agonizingly slow pace Lily had adopted in these insufferably long minutes. Painting by painting, wall by wall, we worked our way ever so slowly to the place where I knew drama was in store.

We approached what was at that moment the only wall that mattered. I held my breath. Lily noted with pleasure and surprise that here was the painting she had so admired so many months before. She peered closer. There was a typed note just below the painting, where you would ordinarily find the artist's name, the title to the work, and the sale price. But, on this night, there was another message. It read:

                                    
                                    To Lily

 Babe – I have long thought that this work of art belongs in your hands and no one else's. Now it is yours to hold forever. All my love, Jeff.

 

My eyes were on Lily, not the painting. And, then it happened. You could hear a pin drop in the empty gallery, but what I heard were fireworks. Lily's hands went to her face, the fingers trembled, the disbelief turned to awareness and then to rapture. The tears flowed and there were long hugs. Megan was there with a camera to capture it all. Magic. There would be time to tell the whole story, but that could wait. In these moments, all was given over to joyfulness and the wondrous amazement of what I had hoped to be the perfect gift. We sat on the swing in front of the painting and let the moment live on.

 

I don't always get things right, but on this night I did.

Gorging to the Max

I don't think it's entirely unreasonable of me to expect all-inclusive resorts to liberally post warning signs that what lays in store could be hazardous to your health.  I'm thinking maybe some diabolical figure with horns and a rictus grin standing atop a pile of absurdly bloated bodies.  Maybe, just maybe, this message might thwart one's overwhelming impulse to eat 1400 times what you normally consume.  Maybe.  I'm not sure there is a single term or phrase that best describes vacationing in an all-inclusive resort: fabulously indulgent, unspeakable gluttony, guilty pleasure, hedonism run amok, wasteful and wanton consumption, paradise.  It's so hard to decide.  In the end, it's whatever you want, whenever you want it.  Limitless choices, limitless quantities.  Think if it as a cruise without the claustrophobia and the company of 380 pound fellow travelers.

This is our lot this week as we indulge ourselves a few miles south of Playa del Carmen on the Yucatan's east coast, or, as it has now become known, the Mayan Riviera.  Here at the Catalonia Royal Tulum we are celebrating a birthday for long-time friend, Cathy, who is here with husband, Randy, and their grown children, Travis and Shannon. 

We arrived here a few days ago tired from a long flight and a 3:45 a.m. wake up alarm to be met at the airport by a seemingly friendly chap, Carlos, who, in my stupor, I thought was an associate of the transit company that would ferry us to our hotel.  But, no.  It took us a couple of minutes to realize that Carlos was a shill for a time share resort and was laying on his considerable persuasive powers and charm to seduce us into a presentation by his employer.  This, of course, was way too reminiscent of our similar experience in getting our "free" Caribbean cruise about a year ago which was as enjoyable to us as water boarding is to most right minded folks.  Free of Carlos, we are whisked away on our one hour ride south past wonderful memories of past visits to this region.

The hotel is most surely elegant.  Its lobby is open to the elements protected by a huge conical thatched roof that seems to rise several stories above where we stand.  The path to our room is through vegetation lush enough to fairly be called jungle.  A curving white-stoned path leads us through the jungle to our rooms and the beach and is not a bad substitute for the Yellow Brick Road of Oz. 

But, the recurring theme here is food and drink.  Unless you opt for a sensible continental breakfast, you are faced with a buffet that offers more customized omelets, more fresh fruit, more bread and rolls, more sausage, bacon, smoked salmon, and champagne than you see in six lifetimes.  It's crazy.  Same for lunch where the dessert display alone is ten feet long and one is faced with choices ranging from ceviche to salads to tostadas to pulled pork to sushi.  And then, five restaurants to choose from for dinner where once again you engage in the good angel/bad angel debate over how many delicacies (and calories) to inhale.  It's a wonder management just doesn't encourage you to lose the pants and go straight to togas.  And, the liquor.  Oh my, the liquor.  It's all included so you find yourself smacking down multiple cervezas at lunch followed by an afternoon (at least in my case) of mojitos (with Cuban rum!) as you semi-absentmindedly await the sunset.  I'm already thinking I should maybe ask the flight attendant on the way back for one of those seat belt extenders.

And then, there is the animal life, which abounds.  Mammals come in various sizes with various snouts.  One creature looks like a large groundhog, not unlike a capybara, but smaller.  Coati mundis travel en masse and playfully accost passers-by looking for a handout.  They do this in a most polite way standing straight up on their hind legs arms outstretched above their heads as if beseeching you for one more crumb.  Schools of fish swim around you in the shallows with a cockiness reflecting their awareness that humans are woefully too slow to threaten them.  There are toucans whose beaks are, truth be told, significantly larger than mine.  And, then there are the parrots, "Ricky" and "Martin," who seem quite content to pose with me, one cradled in my arms on his back like a baby, the other perched on my shoulder taking a bit too much interest in my hair.  Iguanas scurry here and there showing their own addiction to the local red flowers.  None of them, however, has been taught to whisper.  Their early morning screeching, whistling, cackling and clucking is, I guess, what you might call your daily wake-up call, Mexican style.

I loved this week.  Good times with old friends, blowing it out.  What's a few calories among friends?

Running Down Memory Lane

It had been planned for months. A weekend getaway to re-acquaint ourselves with memories still embedded somewhere, but in need of being refreshed. Rehoboth Beach, Delaware was in our cross hairs. One of those special places we all have where memories long submerged come blasting to the surface like a dormant geyser waiting to be experienced one more time, needing no more of a trigger than just being there. We rented a house in the North Shores section of town mere steps from earlier rentals – familiar turf. The group: folks who have shared these wonderful moments with us over the decades, some for long weekends, some for a summer's term when we would bolt the stuffy confines of Washington and head for the ocean and its promise of clear air, surf, sand and serenity. Friends who will be there for a lifetime. For Lily and me, this was the place where we raised Jesse and Alex in the summer months, and it was where the seeds of the strong magnetic pull to beaches were first born in them.

Just driving into town was enough to get the smiles going, but, for me, the deal was sealed by a run through the old neighborhoods and the town. Like my own personal tour bus with my brain serving as tour guide stimulated often by seemingly nothing but the merest visual cues and the music from my iPod blaring in my ears. I took off from our house on Harbor Road and made the turn on to Cedar Road where at number 9 resided the heart and soul of our times here. Sadly, the old, red, one-story frame house is gone now replaced by a mini-mansion box that I suppose is attractive to someone, although certainly not to me. But, the house didn't need to be there to bring it all back. Here is where a young Amy DePippo embarked on a determined course to bake a very young Alex a birthday cake decorated to look like a pool table, and make it all happen in a toaster oven. Here was where, on unrelenting rainy days, we would succumb to the elements and encourage the boys to play in the downpour out in the backyard, sometimes with the yellow slip 'n slide that was in perfect shape for rainy day play. It was here that our old chocolate lab, Hoover, would fight over the orange baton thrown far into the ocean with Randy and Cathy's border collie, Domino. Their truce was for each of them to have a firm grip on either end of the baton as they swam ashore together like a canine synchronized swim team might do.

Right around the corner was 1 Ocean Drive where our Virginia neighbor, Mark, saved a very young Markey Mark from cascading over a railing to the floor below, and where a young Jesse blithely ignored a small army of secret service personnel to walk up and introduce himself to what was then a newly elected Vice President Gore.

On I ran. Where the road passes closest to the beach, just north of town, there is a stretch of beach where they used to hold the sand castle competition, a must see for us and the boys. The creations there were a testament to a kind of creativity and architectural genius that we could only marvel at. In the evenings, this is where you wanted to be to see the moon's reflection trip along the water to the shoreline. Magical. And, then there was the boardwalk running along the beach, through town and on to the residential area to the south. People strolling arm in arm, dog walkers everywhere, babies in strollers, tattooed people of so many sizes, shapes and coutures you'd swear you had come upon the world's truest melting pot. And, there, on the right, was the kite store where on this day the breezes were strong enough to make everything spin, flutter and dazzle.

Further down the boardwalk I came upon a statue commemorating Giovanni Da Verrazzano -- a statue unknown to me from our times here -- and a testament to his exploratory forays into this region in the early 1500s. Who knew? Just as this historical reality was sinking in, up loomed the irrepressible sign for Dolle's, a big juicy red, sticky sweet sign that lords itself over the boardwalk announcing to the world its saltwater taffy and other less famous sugary treats. And, then, holy ground: Grotto Pizza where one can clearly identify the soul-melting aroma of a veggie bianco or the fresh basil from its margherita pizzas.

I pressed on. If I could laugh and run, I would have at the sight of Funland. Here was the world's epicenter as far as Jesse and Alex were concerned. Rides, games, food. A juvenile perfect storm. But, Lily and I weaved a fable back in those days advising the boys that Funland was only open when it rained. It's amazing they still talk to us. On this day, Funland was shuttered but I swear the air was filled with the aroma of popcorn and melted butter.

This run was, for me, a wonderfully sweet experience. I wanted more than anything, just this one time, to have the endurance to run forever.

Thoughts of Home

Although it was so many years ago, I vividly recall the day my family deserted our home – my childhood home – or, at least that's the way I saw it. Our family car made its way slowly up Ogden Avenue in White Plains leaving behind so many wonderful years as just so many memories rapidly vanishing in the rear view mirror. My mother refused to look back. She was ready to move on to another stage of her life; but I wasn't. I looked back trying to squeeze out as many of those memories as I could in the few seconds while our house was still visible. Maybe I thought they would be lost forever if I didn't lock them in right then. I always suspected my mother was feeling something more intense that day than she let on, but she never acknowledged that. She told my sister and me to embrace the future with my soon-to-be pursuit of a college education and my sister entering the labor force. I do recall not just a general sense of loss, but a jarring blow to my personal universe that I thought, in those moments, would take many years, if ever, to repair.

These thoughts came back to me recently as we traveled back to both New York and, more recently, Washington, D.C. I was not looking for “home,” but I was wondering if that old, warm feeling of familiarity and comfort could manifest itself again. With Washington, in particular, I knew that it surpassed even White Plains as the personification of “home” in my life. It was here that I had my career spanning more than three decades. It was here that I forged bonds with such a wide variety of people as lifelong friends. It was here that I had the first thirty wonderful years of married life, and it was here that Lily and I raised Jesse and Alex. As would be the case for anyone else who has had the pleasure of such a longstanding home stand, the memories of that period of my life are unspeakably sweet and, I dare say, never to be replicated. When we left the Washington area, there was a poignancy I felt that here, again, was the loss of “home” as I had known it for so long in exchange for an exciting, but alien, environment.

We are now in Charleston getting into the rhythm of a new life, one without children close by, career, or longstanding friends. Closing in on almost three years into this new adventure, there is so much that is now familiar – even instinctive – about this new place. We love our house and certainly the surroundings of sun, sand, and surf. Through a succession of baby steps, we are meeting people, enjoying new relationships and share an optimism about the future and the choices we have made. We refer to where we live as our “home,” but it is not home as White Plains once was or Washington. Not yet. I think that is something that can only feel complete over time, just as it did in those earlier days.

When we were in the process of leaving Washington, I recall Alex's heartfelt lament that with our departure he would not know where his home was anymore. It would not be Charleston even though he had spent four years here in college. It would no longer be Washington despite his extensive social network there because the only home he knew would no longer be his. I explained to him how eerily similar my experience was to his, and that his future would know a home even if he did not know yet where that would be or when. He understood, of course, but it was his head that was agreeing, not his heart.

I sometimes wonder what it's like for those people who live their lives in one place; where their immediate and extended families surround them as well as their friends who they've grown up with. Whatever else might plague their lives, there is no ambiguity about where “home” is. I am not jealous of those folks – I have enjoyed the changes in my life too much to dwell on that – but there is a certain warmth and security that I would think accompanies those life choices.

I have a fantasy that one day I will drive up to White Plains and have Lily, Jesse, and Alex with me. We will drive down Ogden Avenue and pull up to my old home. I will knock on the front door and someone will answer ready to shut the door on what they believe to be yet another unsolicited sales pitch, or perhaps something more threatening to them. But, I will have a few seconds to explain who I am and why I've knocked on their door. They will let us in, resisting their urge to call 911, and I will take in the sweep of what was so long ago my life. It wouldn't matter how much has changed. I would know the rooms; I will recall where the furniture was, and, best of all, I will allow a thousand memories to come washing back over me. I will show my family where my room was, where I would sit in the kitchen learning so much from my Uncle Milt, where I would sit next to my father on the couch as we listened to my mother play the piano after dinner, where I would throw a ball up against the house for hours on end in my own way mimicking my childhood baseball idols.

Maybe some day.

Monk Business

We have arrived in beautiful Montserrat, Spain -- a small settlement about an hour west of Barcelona, in the heart of Catalonia -- and we find ourselves staying in a monastery, not something we have a lot of experience with. This is a place first built in the 9th century and rebuilt from time to time as the invaders du jour took exception to the monks’ way of doing things. Let me assure you, I am confirming my loosely held belief that monks were not big on such things as jacuzzi baths or room service. No, this place is “monastic” as we tend to use that word. The beds are small, there’s no mini-bar, no tv. Hell, there isn’t even any soap. And, for what I believe to be the first time in my life, I have to sit sideways on the toilet which was obviously designed for the exclusive use of Toulouse Lautrec. But, all of this is amusingly inconsequential since whatever creature comforts it lacks is made up in the oh so continental charm of this place. Montserrat is carved into the side of a mountain which is literally dotted with towering, hooded rock formations that appear for all the world like giant penises brandishing themselves skyward toward the heavens. Seriously. The view from our monastery window is sublime looking down on the cobblestoned main square that is filled with playing children, an outdoor café, and a healthy splash of evergreens. Beyond, down the 4,000 foot drop below Montserrat, lie green valleys flecked with what I fondly imagine are vineyards. Every half hour the soul-throbbing, richly hued tones of the basilica’s bells chime in such a joyous way you’d swear they are announcing the end of war.

Although we’ve been traveling for more than 24 hours -- through three countries and three cramped airplanes -- we drop our gear at the monastery and head for the funicular which promises even grander panoramas from up the mountain. The path is steep. How steep? As we head up the mountain on the funicular, both Lily and I feel our butts slipping downhill over our seats causing us to use our feet to brace ourselves. Even the locally written guide warns that the mountain walkways are very “steepy.” The views do not disappoint as we wend our way back on foot to collapse for a well-earned nap.

Tonight: a visit to the spectacular basilica where we peek in on that night’s vespers, and then dinner in a cave-like 16th century building with rock walls and a low-slung arched ceiling. We feast on spinach salad, tagliatelle with pesto, a Spanish rosé, grilled rabbit, and a rich chocolate brownie with crème caramel.

Not a bad start.

Living the Dream

How often have you spoken the phrase “living the dream” and meant it to describe yourself? Hopefully, it’s often, right? For the next two weeks, we are living the dream. After considerable planning and an avalanche of anticipation, we have arrived in Collioure at the southwestern tip of France’s Mediterranean coast.

We have rented a house that might even raise the eyebrows of Brad and Angelina. It is located up in the hills that slide down into the Mediterranean Sea and is reachable only by a steep and tortuous ascent up a rocky and rutted path for cars and foot traffic alike with barely any signage that announces its existence. The house was first built in the 1700s and then added on to in the 1800s, and is now gorgeously updated for 21st century living. It is all stone -- the floors, many of the walls, sometimes giving it a cave-like subterranean feel. The many overhead spotlights bring it all to life. There are rough hewn timbers - sometimes entire tree trunks -- bolstering the ceilings. Befitting such an old and quirky house, each of its 5 bedrooms sit seemingly on different levels lending a sort of maze-like quality to the place. The couches are so deep two people can sleep on them (as two of the younger members of our group did). The Steinway baby grand piano awaits those more talented than we are. The stone sunroom has a long, gorgeous table that is cut from one huge slab of a tree complete with a million knots and age rings. It seats at least 13 and is impossible to lift. An apricot tree sits at our front door providing us with its delicious treats. There is a pool steps from the house, its floor tiled in a way that adds to the sparkle already provided by the sun. And, all this sits on a 23 acre private estate providing much room to roam and explore.

Sitting down the hill from us looms the most charming of chateaux, Disney-like in its appearance, rising above the surrounding vineyards like a mirage. Cinderella’s home, no doubt. And, the skies! They are the bluest of blues. As Henri Matisse said a century ago, “No sky in all France is bluer than that of Collioure. I only have to close the shutters of my room and there before me are all the colors of the Mediterranean.”

Five of us went to the market today and we returned with twenty bottles of wine and food to suit your every fancy. Lily and Maggie teamed up to create some fabulous homemade hummus which they served to us at the pool with incredibly flavorful local, herbed olives, baguettes, and chopped vegetables.

I mean, really, does it get much better than this?

Tales of the Oreo Express

As it happens, we have three rental cars in our group, two black and one white. Striking out for new adventures each morning, we form a small caravan, generally with Lily and me in front, Bob and Donna in the middle, and Maggie trailing. Sort of a black, white, black sandwich which I dub, “the Oreo Express.”

On our first day of serious exploration, we set out to find two Cathar castles each perched on a mountain top northwest of here. You might describe the Cathars as sort of a splinter group breaking off from the catholic church over -- how you say -- doctrinal issues. When the pope sent an emissary to quell the spiritual discontent, the poor guy was unfortunately executed leading to 300 years of mayhem as the pope launched crusades to put the kibosh on the whole thing. The Cathars, not to be taken lightly, retreated to their fortresses, lording over the region from the highest pinnacles of land this part of France offers.

What we found were the Chateau Queribus and the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, two of the craggiest, most magestic aeries you’re apt to find. Built in the 11th century, these magnificent testaments to human fortitude and dedication are reachable only through great and hair raising effort. And, this is by car! Arriving by a cliff hugging road about the breadth of a fat pencil -- often with no guard rail to discourage an unintentional descent into the valley many hundreds of feet below -- one is exhausted by the mere threat of such danger. For all the ridiculous effort it takes to get up to these retreats, I kept wondering aloud, why didn’t the Catholics just let the Cathars keep their castles and take over everything else. I’m just saying.

But wait. Once parked, now you must take on a vertical hike on pathways clearly unchanged in a millennium. To say they are rocky is to say there are a couple of holes in swiss cheese. One must climb up “steps” some of which seemingly require pole vaulting apparatus to be surmounted. And, once in the castles, you must negotiate skinny, spiral staircases that are helpfully assisted by a lighting condition one might best call pitch black dark.

But, the views! Ah, the views! Incomparable. If you cup your hands on either side of your eyes, you can imagine yourself flying. The valley is so very, very far below, the towns reduced to a smattering of red roofs. In the distance one way, the Mediterranean. In the other, the majesty of the Pyrenees that one can tell are even higher than you are. A lot higher. At the peak of the Chateau de Peyrepertuse, we experience the odd sight of seeing strands of our hair sticking straight up. Great gayety ensues. Many photos are taken. We conclude the static in the air is caused by gathering storms clearly visible from our perch.

Perhaps not the safest place to be in that moment.

Ces Tours d'Epingle francais; Ils Sont Fous. (Those french hairpin turns; they are crazy.)

It all seems so innocent. You gaze at the map of the French highway system and see all manner of brightly colored strands wending their way through the countryside. Some are denoted in red, some in yellow, others in white. Very pretty. What these merry designations fail to reveal is the mayhem that lies beneath.

The Oreo Express has been in high gear these past several days. Crisscrossing Languedoc-Roussillon in search of castles, wineries, art museums, and walkable ancient towns has all led to an increasing storehouse of knowledge of French roads and the vehicular mortal combat they present. Take yesterday, for example. One of our nominal destinations was the Priory at Serrabone, a 10th century retreat with an excellent pink marble representation of Roman architecture. Sounds refined enough. Looking at the map, the Priory is only mere inches west of our house, a straight shot. As the crow flies. But, we are not crows; we rely on the automobile to get us from here to there. And, cars do not fly. To get to the Priory, we must navigate a road that on the map takes on exactly the same shape as my lower intestine, worming its way through the mountains in every possible direction except straight. As if by some rudimentary law of road physics, the more turns a road has, the narrower it is.

We head up into the mountains joyously embracing the “charm” of the smaller roads. You know, that wonderful elation that can consume you when you’re “off the beaten path.” Almost imperceptibly, the road becomes steeper and, again, by natural law, narrower. The turns tighten. What was once a road that would reasonably accommodate two cars passing one another now devilishly morphs into spaghetti width trails, albeit paved. Every turn is now virtually 180 degrees. When an approaching car nears us, our backseat passengers, Hannah (Bob and Donna’s daughter) and Megan (Hannah’s buddy), audibly suck in their breath as if somehow this will facilitate the other car’s passing.

The coup de grace for all this is the fact that most of the way the only thing preventing one’s being catapulted down the mountainside is one’s overwhelming drive to live through this. Guardrails are clearly an afterthought in these parts. What started as a joyful jaunt now becomes a true white knuckling pursuit of staying alive. And, this is the scene for far too many kilometers. Lily manages to keep her screaming eruptions to a minimum, which is helpful. The backseat girls seem transfixed, perhaps traumatized. My white knuckle grip on the steering wheel goes unabated. When we arrive at the Priory, Bob immediately lays down on the grass, exhausted. I, semi-frantically, search out the toilette.

Are we having fun yet?

Living on the Edge

The day didn’t start edgy. Truly. It began as a perfect example of what has become the routine around here. Adults up first; Bob trekking down the hill to pick up our daily delivery of baguettes and croissants; breakfast; check email; read a bit. Kids arise later. Much later.

Today’s plan called for the Oreo Express to journey west, this time to Villefranche, an ancient walled town buried in the foothills of the Pyrenees. There we would pick up Le Train Jaune (the yellow train) which would whisk us away closer to Andorra and then return. That was the plan.

But, things happen. The Yellow Train looked great. Like something Charlie Chaplin might have ridden. Maybe W.C. fields. It reeked of Disney. It came complete with an open air car that seemed perfect for optimal viewing as we steamed through the countryside. But, sadly, this train was not the engine that could. Barely a mile or two out of the station, it quit. Finito. We returned to the station, got our money back and drove on. And, this is when it got interesting.

Just last night we talked about the possibility of riding the train for an hour or so, getting off, having a couple of beers, and then riding back. Simple enough. Certainly pleasurable. But, no, we couldn’t leave well enough alone. Instead of the beer, we drove to the Gorges de Carança where we were promised “death defying” footpaths. The hike up was steep, very rocky, and, at times, very challenging. But, then, just when the path leveled off, we knew why people come here. Certainly for Americans it was something you would never, ever find in our country because the liability concerns would be overwhelming; indeed, prohibitive. What we came upon was a narrow path, maybe 3 feet or so across that was literally etched into the side of a cliff several hundred feet above the valley below. And, there was no guardrail! The path was devilishly uneven with large rocks making certain you would never be entirely comfortable with your footing. All that kept you from running away screaming was a cable bolted into the side of the cliff that gave you a degree of confidence you would not hurtle to your doom with one slight misstep. Some of us gripped the cable as a drowning man might grip a life preserver thrown his way. We proceeded, our group of twelve, perhaps gaining a measure of confidence borne out of some weird sense of shared insanity.

As if to taunt us, the gods whipped up a breeze and rain, and, finally, flashes of lightning to fan the flames of our increasing doubts. While a few of us wanted to venture onward if only to see what madness might lurk around the next bend in the mountain, cooler heads prevailed and we headed down the ridiculously steep and rock-filled paths now increasingly slippery from the rain.

Exhilarating to be sure, but not what you might call a day at the beach.

Dali is Da Man

It is hardly an original thought of mine, but I earnestly believe that Salvador Dali either had more fun than any man alive, or he was seriously in need of deep psychotherapy. I tend to go with the former.

We have been exposed to Dali of late through a museum dedicated to his work in Figueres, Spain -- just a bit over the border from France -- and at his seaside home in Cadaques, Spain, a gorgeous village also just south of the border. What I came away with was this was a man whose middle name should have been “whimsy” and who likely giggled and winked his way through life. In some afterlife, somewhere, he is likely sharing convivial, drug enhanced, conversation with Mark Twain and John Lennon, explaining how on earth he could grow that zany mustache of his that jutted outward like two pencil thin skewers.

His house is so fitting. Its whitewashed, serene exterior belie the mischief awaiting inside. His studio, for example, features a pulley system that allowed him to raise or lower his large canvases to a floor below so that he could sit in an overstuffed chair and never have to move no matter how large the canvas he was working on. The outdoor pool area has a sofa shaped as a set of bright red, puffy lips. Multiple statues of the Michelin Man dot the gardens. And, one room is perfectly round with built-in couches all along the periphery. The ceiling is domed. If you stand in the middle of the room, you can hear your voice resonate as if you were shouting into the Grand Canyon. Yet, if you move two feet from that spot, all sounds normal.

The man was not shy either. It seems as if his image is featured in half of his works, from soaring ceiling frescoes to three dimensional holographs to paintings of himself from the vantage point of his feet so that as you gaze upward you are struck once again by that crazyass mustache.

It is said of Dali that he once had an epiphany that the railroad station in Perpignan, France was actually the center of the universe. In that moment, perhaps in an acid driven fog, he wrote, “Suddenly before me everything appeared with the clarity of lightning.”

Really, Sal? Really?

Basquing In It All

So. We finish up here in San Sebastian along the north coast of Spain. We have never been here before although we did find ourselves in Biarritz 33 years ago just up the coast and over the French border. The two places, sometimes home to the glitterati over the decades, are like bookends -- jeweled, exquisite bookends. Two towns that enjoy a magnificent shoreline and just scream picture postcard. The curve of the wide sandy beach here is ringed by a broad promenade ideal for strolling and people watching, perhaps with a gelato in hand. The luminous blue of the cove is dotted with white boats; throng of people do their beach thing. It is serene, slow-paced, and for us, a stark contrast from the immense energy, speed, crowds, and cacophony of Barcelona which we just left. Here in San Sebastian is a place where you stroll the old city that is not unlike the narrow alleys of so many European cities, and enjoy the shopping, the ubiquitous dog walkers, and the young children who provide a wonderful and stunning contrast to the ancient steps they play on.

And, the tapas! We had read that San Sebastian is a rising star in the culinary world, but the staple here is tapas -- those fabulous small bites that show off the creativity and culinary history of this region. Tonight, we spent an evening in one such place -- Bar Aralar Tatetxea in the old city just up the way from the beach promenade. It has the feeling of an Irish pub in a way -- friendly, crowded, noisy, but lighter and with more color. The ritual here is to work your way through the crowd, find a table (or not), and ask for a plate. The tapas are arranged in platters on the bar like some sort of red, brown, green and yellow jewelry display. You inch your way along pulling on to your plate whichever morsels you care to sample, order your drinks, and then pay before retreating to your table.

And, there the fun begins. Maybe it’s stuffed squid in a spicy garlic sauce, or octopus in oil and paprika. Maybe you would like a ball of deep fried mashed potatoes and egg, or cured ham, goat cheese and a plump sundried tomato all atop a baguette slice. Or, as we had tonight, marinated artichoke wrapped in a smoky ham and topped with a shrimp. As the saying goes, it’s all good.

Then there is Victor Omar Torres. The world is full of street artists, some great, some not. Tonight we were wildly entertained by Mr. Torres whose gift is to paint scenes - local and imagined -- on pieces of tile. The magic is that this guy does it all without a brush; his fingers and a sharp knife are his only tools. His fingers moving at warp speed, Victor spreads his paint with such assurance, such precision, and so flawlessly, it suggests he has done this thousands of times. He manages to create nuances in shades and texture that are so mind boggling you find yourself either staring agape or giggling. To create the finest lines, as with a tiny boat mast, he merely uses his fingernail to sweep color upwards to create the mast’s illusion. By rolling his thumb, he creates depth of color that make me wonder whether a paint brush could ever achieve the same result. He flicks his sharp knife to remove color leaving behind the roll of a wave or a small building on the shore. And, it’s all done in literally the span of two or three minutes. I’m telling you, it’s brilliant and it’s magical.

Lastly, there is the sunset. Sunsets make almost every scene more beautiful, but to fold in the grandeur of a sunset into a scene that is already awash in beauty, is almost unfair. The sun sets late here this time of year. Around 10 p.m. As the sun sets around the town’s surrounding hills, the sky turns an electric turquoise and pink with thin strands of rose colored clouds running through it all. The Atlantic waters take on the same coloration especially at the water’s edge where the reflected pink is as stunning as the sky’s. And, the many boats sitting calmly in the cove become almost blackened silhouettes, a sharp counterpoint to the waters they sit in.

Not a bad way to tie things up.

Looking Back. What I Loved.....

Herbed olives from the local market; Jesse comfortably speaking Spanish with the locals; sopping up the amazing sauce from the stuffed squid tapas in Barcelona; Dali’s mustache; the incredible blue of the Mediterranean; my gnocchi, pesto, pancetta and vegetable dinner; the incredible industry and dedication of the ants who hung out at the pool; the lily pond at our house; the views from the mountaintop Cathar castles; the tree canopied heart of Cerret; the sunsplashed brilliance of Cadaques; seeing the Valmy castle as our beacon guiding us home; the crispy “pork tower” I had in Girona; the croissants and baguettes that Bob faithfully retrieved every morning from down the hill; drinking beers and playing speed scrabble at the beachfront café in Collioure; the low lying clouds that drifted below the peaks of the Pyrenees; Lily’s drawings on old tiles she found on the beach or on hikes; the little carousels in Collioure and San Sebastian; Maggie’s epic turns as my sous chef; the incredible white wine from the Valmy vineyard; strolling La Rambla in Barcelona with Lily and Jesse; Jamie’s earnestness; sweet apricots from the tree at our front door; the all-consuming organ music at the Palau de Musica in Barcelona; the Oreo Express; crossing the Greenwich Meridian in the middle of nowhere Spain; Brendan’s ability to swim three laps on one breath; Donna’s ipad; the hike above the monastery in Montserrat; Lily and Maggie’s homemade hummus; the flea market in Cadaques; Picasso’s painted bowls of bullfights; cassoulet; Hannah’s incredible energy; the delicious dinner Lily and I had in the cave-like dining room in Montserrat; hearing Matt idly trying his hand at the grand piano; the admiring way women looked at Lily’s dresses in San Sebastian; the coastal drive from Cadaques to Argeles-sur-Mer; Donna’s wonderfully unrelenting enthusiasm for taking group photos; the death defying cliff hugging hike we took at Gorges de Carança; Lily's blue hat; the fabulous outdoor dinner we all enjoyed courtesy of our husband and wife team at “Le Marilyn” in Cap Leucat; Donna’s goat cheese salad; the incredible bells of the Montserrat basilica; magnum ice cream bars; the amazing artistry of Victor Omar Torres; the electrified hair of all those standing atop the Chateau de Peyrepertuse in the (literally) electrified atmosphere; old men playing bocce; Jesse’s amazing father’s day card for me (and the personally formatted Cds); and….

Mojo’s entire body wagging when we arrived home.

Small Things

I have a story; but, it is a tiny story. No major anthems to be played in this one; no great heroics or drama. No major motion picture in the works. But, in my life, as small a part of the cosmos as it is, I was buoyed by it. And, that’s enough for me.

Last week, Mojo and I engaged in what has long been our daily ritual: up at 7 and, with Mojo’s near frantic endorsement, down to the beach in scant minutes. A truly wonderful time of the day for me, but a time of exquisite and pure happiness for Mojo who looks forward to it in a way that I’m not sure most humans can fully comprehend. We returned home an hour later. In my usual style, I rinsed him off, toweled him dry, fed him breakfast, and got on with the day. What I had not noticed was that Mojo had lost his tags. All of them. The ocean’s rust inducing qualities had, over time, literally severed the metal rings holding the tags to Mojo’s collar. These would include his name tag, his Isle of Palms license, and his rabies tag. Unknown to us, Mojo had become -- in a legal sense -- nameless, illegal, and a rabies menace.

How long this situation would have endured, I cannot say. I do not check his collar for these things any more than I check my wallet to make sure my driver’s license is there. But, later that day, when I opened our mailbox, there was Mojo’s shining name tag laying in there next to the day’s mail. There was no note with it. No indication of whom had come upon it at the beach. No hint as to who had picked it up, and, without expectation of reward or recognition, had made the effort to return it to our home, silently and anonymously. Just a good, unnamed person doing what he or she thought was the right thing to do. A small kindness. How can you not smile at this slight, but warm, gesture of caring?

But, this was not the end of the story. Once I realized that Mojo’s name tag had been AWOL, I knew I needed to take steps to replace the others that were now likely on their way to Bermuda, or, more likely, resting on the ocean floor somewhere. The following day I headed down to the municipal offices of the Isle of Palms armed with my IDs and the receipt I had for Mojo’s original tag. When I approached the second floor window -- also the home of the IoP police -- there was a fellow on the other side amiably looking at me asking if he could help me. I told him I needed a replacement IoP ID tag for Mojo. He asked me for my name, and I told him, “Golland.” He looked at me for more than a normal moment, and asked, “Jeff Golland?” In that moment I stared intently back at the clerk aggressively wondering whether this guy knew me, or, just as likely, whether I knew him and had, sadly, failed to recognize him. Concluding that the guy was, in fact, a stranger, I responded that, yes, I was, indeed, Jeff Golland. Hearing that, he reached to his left and presented to me, lo and behold, my missing IoP ID tag. Not only had the tag not floated to Bermuda nor been surrendered to the ocean floor, but yet another nameless and goodhearted soul had come to the rescue. Someone out there had found this tag laying in the sand and had made the effort not just to pick it up but to take the time (and make the effort) to actually return it to the offices at the Isle of Palms in the hopes that it would find its way back to me, a total stranger. And, it did. And, I was amazed. A replacement tag would have cost only a few dollars, but some kind soul thought enough of my predicament to try to spare me the expense, and maybe make my life a bit easier.

I assure you, no music played. There were no rows of people clapping or cheering in the corridors as I walked back to my car, tag in hand. But, I might just as well have heard music in my head - uplifting, inspiring music. I couldn’t stop smiling. Would this have happened in New York or Los Angeles? Not likely. Is this what it means to live in a small town? Maybe. Would it encourage me to do the same if I should come across someone’s lost stuff?

You bet.

Gator Getters

Gator Getters. You have to think long and hard to conjure up a business name that in just two words so totally sums up what they’re about. You know right away these guys are not morticians, nor heating and plumbing contractors, nor money lenders or caterers. No, they have one, and only one, highly targeted assignment: help the world with all things alligator. I suppose they could have named themselves Gators R Us, but, after all, that would have been three words.

So, it was with great delight last week that I learned of a presentation being made by Gator Getters to the folks here at Wild Dunes. Think of it as the oral presentation of the Little Golden Book of alligators. In these parts, as they say, this kind of knowledge is fabulously useful at best, and at least interesting at a minimum. We live in a community that shares its backyards, fairways, and sometimes its pools, streets and beaches with the alligator. They are all around us, apparently about 50 or so of them of the 100,000 currently taking up residence in South Carolina. Think of all the questions you might want to ask these guys if you had the chance (and the potential need to know). For example, do gators see humans as one big amuse bouche? Or, what might be the best way to avoid them once you’re squarely in their sights? Is it better to run away in a zigzag pattern -- which is the common wisdom -- or flat out sprint in a straight line? Can you reason with them?

Our host -- a most amiable fellow named Ron. He fits the bill so perfectly he’s almost a parody of himself. Attired in a safari shirt, cargo pants, sporting a trimmed white beard and a good ol’ boy accent, Ron is the epitome of the TV animal expert a la Jim Fowler or even the venerable Marlon Perkins. Perfect. Ron has been in the gator business for many years and his obvious comfort level with the subject, his wearied humor and phlegmatic style make his lecture pitch perfect.

Ron tells us that, above everything, we must remember that alligators are dinosaurs; they have been with us for 265 million years. And so, they know a thing or two about survival. What we see today are literally the best of the best, bred to foster and nurture the species’ best representatives so that now we have a survival guru walking amongst us. In fact, of all species of animals, they may be the most finely honed to survive all the foolishness of 21st century man. Ron tries to convince a skeptical audience that alligators are not really out to get us; well, that is not unless we wander on to their turf which they like to share as much as a four year old likes to share his toys with a younger brother who is about to steal one of them. Gators live in and around the water. This is their home. In our local environment, this means the many lagoons that weave their way through the Wild Dunes community. Should you wander to the water’s edge, expect the gator to lunge out of the water like a laser aimed at your jugular. Not out of anger, mind you; only hunger. This is especially the case at night or in the early morning hours when they are the most energized. Ron attempted to contrast this with your being, let’s say, 20 feet away from them as they bask on the banks of the lagoon where, Ron promised, the gator will leave you alone. Honest.

I saw two flies in the ointment here. First, it is easy to say to yourself. “ok, stay away from the banks of a lagoon. You’ll be fine.” But, as it turns out, alligators can meander off their home turf in search of food. Like to the beach or down your street or even under your car where, incredibly, they like to take shelter. Seriously. What are the ground rules then, Ron? Huh? Second, as is so often the case, humans tend not to act so smartly in dealing with gators. For example, a lot of folks think it’s cute to feed gators around here even though it poses incredible risks and, oh by the way, is illegal. A fed gator is a dangerous gator because he now sees humans as a food source to be pursued. Great. And, so, when you encounter a gator which you are most surely happy to avoid, your prudence may be rewarded by a 30 m.p.h. sprinting gator headed straight at you in search of the culinary treats he has become accustomed to receiving.

Bottom line: treat these guys with the kind of respect normally reserved for potentates, popes and other heads of State. Check under your car every morning. And, when out walking at night, or maybe enjoying that evening stroll on the beach, take a flashlight with you.

Maybe a bazooka too.

Falling Down

As happens so often with most things in life, it begins innocently and without agenda. In this case, it’s time to walk Mojo. He’s just eaten dinner and his bowels are eagerly pointing him to the great outdoors for post-dining relief. I have him on his leash, poop bags in hand. My flip flops go on with nary a second thought, and we head out to the deck on our way to the mean streets of Wild Dunes. A repeat of a drill done at least a thousand times in the almost two years since the big guy joined our family. It’s been raining and everything has a nicely glazed sheen to it. Beautiful. And, then, fate decides to hiccup. As I work my way down to the first landing, my weight distribution shifts just a bit and the combination of the rain-slickened staircase and my less than tenacious flip flops causes me to lose my balance. My feet take off in a direction I had surely not anticipated, my body goes horizontal, and in that micro-mini second of awareness, you know nothing good is about to happen to you. My body crashes downward to be intercepted by the edge of the last step above the landing. I hit very hard and the pain shoots through me as no pain I could ever recall. I am in disbelief but the spectacular pain in my back reminds me every passing second now that what I think has happened, in fact, has.

As I lay on the landing, my right hand spastically and reflexively reaching for my back, my various body parts extend at oddly inconvenient angles. Cattywampus, some might say. Others might legitimately have mistaken me for the damaged scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz” laying in a disorganized pile by the side of the road. I moan, I scream, I grunt. In my own mind, I am groaning loud enough to be heard on Neptune. Lily, however, is no more than twenty feet away behind closed doors and, apparently, hasn’t picked up on the tumult just steps away. My mind is racing: Have I truly damaged myself? Can I get up? Have I severed my spine? Has Mojo run off? Do I still own two kidneys? Do I need an ambulance? The pain is now at DEFCON 4 and not subsiding. Lily does emerge and is aghast. She asks me if an ambulance might be needed, but for a few moments I think maybe I can shake it off. All I need to do, I say, is walk. Lily takes the leash from the amazingly patient Mojo and we head down the street. I don’t think we are more than 60 feet from our driveway when the reality sets in that “walking it off” is not the kind of serious medicine that is called for here. We head immediately back to the house and then off to the nearest emergency room.

After three hours of lolling about a seemingly empty ER, the diagnosis is presented to Lily and me: a broken rib. Internal organs: good. Internal bleeding: none. I am sent packing with a prescription for oxycodone and a shrug from the doctor that suggests there’s really nothing else to be done. I should be fine in maybe 4 to 6 weeks. What they didn’t tell me is that it might also be a good idea not to laugh, sneeze, burp, hiccup, and, for all I know, fart. Those things can set off the kind of shock waves in my way too fragile body that are not to be casually invited.

In the aftermath, when folks learn of my mishap and, naturally, want to learn how it happened, I have the strongest urge to tell them it was an unfortunate outcome from a hang gliding incident, or maybe a spelunking adventure, or possibly a heroic effort to save someone from a burning house. But, life doesn’t dish these things up quite so neatly, or quite so romantically. No, I fell victim to the mundane not the sublime, slipping and falling at my own home engaged in the simplest of tasks, and now my life is out of joint for weeks. No golf, no running, no swimming, no running with Mojo, no nothing. Nada, zip, zero.

What was it Robert Burns said almost 250 years ago? “The best laid schemes of Mice and Men oft go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy!” Yeah, maybe for the hang gliders and skydivers among us. For the rest of us… I’m not sure we are such worthy illustrations for Mr. Burns’ lofty thoughts.

Cardinal Rules

We have visitors. No, not the type you think. Not out of town friends or relatives here to soak up some rays or dine in the splendor of Charlestonian cuisine. No, these visitors are far more colorful, more ornate, yet tantalizingly more elusive. In fact, they are birds, two of them as best as I can tell. They are cardinals, or so Lily says. Mr. and Mrs. C, I call them. I’m not sure how long they are staying; we don’t seem to have much to say about that. But, their presence is more than just a bit of seasonal charm. They are intruding on our senses and at some point they could prove to be less than charming to their hosts.

The focal point of our concern is that these feathered redheads, predominantly Mrs. C, appear to have delusions of moving in, and by that I mean move IN. The grounds of our home do not appear to be quite enough for these apparently upwardly mobile social climbers. Although for millennia the trees of this world have suited their forebears well enough, Mrs. C has apparently decided to push the evolutionary envelope by house hunting, and ours is the one they’ve set their sights on.

How do I know this? We have many windows in our home, facing all directions. At this juncture, there is barely one that has gone unpecked on, if I may coin a phrase. Starting almost like clockwork at 7:45 a.m., Mrs. C starts tapping on our bedroom windows. Incessantly. The pecking by itself would be sufficient to awaken us, but the wing flapping -- charming in some circles, I’m sure -- adds a certain note of panic to this morning serenade. She repeats this overture again and again and again. At some point, Lily and I just admit defeat and get out of bed since there is simply no sleeping through this feathered assault. Sometimes, I go to the window next to my side of the bed and stare back at her during those moments when she uses her toes to secure a tenuous foothold at the window’s edge. We make eye contact. She cocks her head in 12 different directions never taking her eyes off me while I unwittingly play her game by cocking my own head from side to side as if somehow this will have some meaning for her. So far, this does not appear to be the case. She chirps, however, with a certain methodical cadence straight at me that, I swear, has to mean something. I want to yell at her through the glass, “Dude! Please say it in English.” I’m not optimistic.

A word about Mr. C. I hesitate to jump to conclusions about these things, but as far as I can tell, Mrs. C most definitely wears the pants in this family. Mr. C has made a couple of appearances, but only in a supporting role. She does the talking. He flits around a bit, sometimes clinging to the window ledges next to her, but mostly he retreats. Probably back to his man cave. He may be more brightly colored -- he does have that on her -- but if it didn’t sound so weird in this context, I’d say he was henpecked.

And so it remains to learn what it is exactly Mrs. C is seeking. Maybe she’s just fed up with the way we use our TV remotes. Maybe she’d like to see us eat more organic foods. Maybe she just has designs on the third bedroom. It’s so hard to tell. But, I’ll tell you this: I’m not loving this early morning drama day after day. I’ve been consulting with Mojo on possible solutions since it appears, as you might imagine, he has more than a casual interest in this. But, sadly, English isn’t Mojo’s strong suit either.

Running to Daylight

Imagine you are standing outside but you are boxed in, as you might be in a corral. As these things go, a small corral. Sharing the corral with you are 4,000 people who are so close to you you can not only read the labels on the insides of their shirts, but you can identify the space between their neck hairs. Any other place or time, you would likely become the target of a protective order. And, then, you are asked to run. The legs start, the adrenalin starts pumping, but there is absolutely nowhere to go.

This was pretty much the scene last Saturday morning at the beginning of the Cooper River 10K Bridge Run, an annual event of some celebrity here in Charleston. The overt task: run 6.2 miles through the streets of Mt. Pleasant, up the graceful span of the Ravenel Bridge, and then down the mean streets of Charleston to the edge of the historic district. The less advertised task: to keep from getting trampled from behind by a tidal wave of hyper motivated runners, and to pretend you are doing a nifty bit of broken field running as you dodge slower moving humans as if they are enemy linebackers. There were about 40,000 of us that day, mostly runners, but also a fair number of walkers. Some are with strollers, mini-baby racers getting their first taste of competition. Others are in costumes, as outlandish as you can get while still permitting the legs to run, as they must. One guy had his dog with him.

There are 12 “waves” or corrals, as I prefer to call them, that are set in motion, each at 3 minute intervals, as they ever so smartly unleash groups of only 4,000 at a time until the approximate crowd of 40,000 are set free upon the local streets. My wave is about mid-way to the rear, somewhat ahead of the tortoises and zombies who bring up the rear of the field. Notwithstanding the sea of humanity I stare at ahead of me (and, no doubt, the nearly countless thousands staring at me from behind), the energy and excitement is universally shared as the countdown for each group is loudly announced. Temps are in the low 50s and the sun is just clearing the tops of the surrounding buildings. Perfect.

As many others do, I put on my earpieces and get the juices flowing even stronger as the running tunes I had selected fill my head with totally extravagant and unwarranted confidence. Funny thing about listening to music as you run. Naturally, you are very aware of the masses around you, but in a strange way the music turns you inward. You are alone with your thoughts. Only the occasional jostle from another runner, or the sudden swerve you need to navigate to avoid a collision brings you back outside. It’s such an odd sensation to have such a solitary, personal experience amid the teeming hordes at your elbows and shins.

And, then, the bridge looms in front of you. It is as intimidating as it is gorgeous. As I looked up the graceful upward span absolutely choked with runners, it is as if the whole world is running as fast as it can to get to see who can get to the gates of heaven first. The span is steep. It is more than a mile, seemingly straight up, to the top of the arch. Only the fittest (or most foolish) try to maintain their normal pace as they strive for that golden moment when you reach the top and know the rest of the course is downhill and then blessedly flat. The calves start to burn, the lungs too. Movements become more labored, more mechanical. Many folks who got off to jackrabbit starts move to the sides of the course, hands on hips, chests heaving. Sisyphus -- I feel your pain, baby. I had thought I would pause at the top, take in the view; smell the roses, so to speak. But, I didn’t. I think I was so elated to make it to this point that stopping was like an insult to my effort. And, senselessly, I figured this was the perfect moment to leapfrog a lot of competitors. Yeah, right. As if this would land me among the first several thousand finishers!

The rest of the way was a blur. Almost anti-climatic. Until the end. With crowds bunched along the sidewalks, yelling their support, whatever reservoir of adrenalin there was kicked in for many as the streets of Charleston slid away under our feet, and the promise of a finish line became a quickly approaching reality. As I’m sure many folks who enter these events will tell you, there is no way you don’t sprint to the finish line once it comes in to view, like some sort of oasis in the desert. You’ve worked too hard to get here and the joy is all the fuel you need.

How did I do? Only some 12,000 or so finished ahead of me. Never had 12,000th place felt so good. Thank goodness for the tortoises and zombies.

In Over My Head

When the nice folks at the Wild Dunes Yacht Club asked me if I would be interested in becoming their new treasurer, I was quite pleased that they would think enough of me to hold out such an honor. After all, Lily and I had not been members for very long, and surely there were other deserving candidates out there. The club, which places a heavy -- some might say disproportionate -- emphasis on good time party events, seemed like a natural fit for us, and, if I could help steer the financial fortunes of the organization to help it party on, so much the better. I came to this calling buoyed by the knowledge that I had been the unofficial “banker” for years in our group houses in Rehoboth, figuring who owes what to whom, and so it seemed like a marriage made in heaven.

The current treasurer, Doug, an eminently affable and princely fellow had promised to take me through the contours of what his job entailed, and, after a few months of dithering, I finally arranged to meet with Doug at his home here to receive my tutorial. He lives barely three blocks away. We sat around the kitchen table where Doug displayed for me a binder that was half the size of Belgium and that contained fourteen metric tons of financial history, receipts, necessary forms and tables, and balance sheets that mark the backbone of any semi-serious organization. It was at that moment that I realized I had underestimated -- woefully -- the nature of what I was being asked to do. This was no beach house account where mere scribblings on a piece of scrap paper and approximations were the order of the day. This was the real deal. General Motors could not boast a much more thoroughly articulated set of books than what lay in front of me.

As Doug patiently led me through the various sections of this fabulous -- and endless -- tome, my anxieties rose in much the same way they might if I were in a line of skydivers and my time to jump into space was rapidly approaching. With each page of double entries, and with every introduction to a new form that the IRS would need to have, my throat tightened. Was this what I signed up for? Really? This was a job for crying out loud! Serious business! But -- wait a second -- I thought I was retired.

I must have reached critical mass. At some point -- I’m not sure exactly when -- I realized I was in WAY over my head notwithstanding Doug’s calm assurances that this was merely his way of doing the books and perhaps there could be other, less ritualistic, ways of performing the same overall tasks. Too late. My head was swimming amid an avalanche of receipts and inventory listings of wine bottles, club soda, and paper plates. I knew -- I just knew -- that whatever embarrassment I might suffer from backing out on my offer to become treasurer, a hasty retreat had to be trumpeted loudly.

And so, I decided I needed to tell Doug my decades old story of my first exposure to accounting. It went like this:

In my freshman year at Washington University, I was (inadvisably and temporarily) enrolled in the Business School. A required course in accounting was on the table for first semester freshmen. I struggled with this course as I had never struggled with a class previously. The material was so dry, so devoid of fun, excitement and adventure that I quickly developed a huge mental block any time I dared to dive into the material. I simply could not do it. It irritated my DNA. Thus, it came as no surprise that I flunked the mid-term which, as a newbie freshman, was the academic version of a death sentence. I went to see my professor, a kindly sort who was headed to retirement at the end of the school year. I pleaded with him to let me drop the course, but he refused since it was against university policy to allow a student to drop a course unless he or she had a C average. I winked and said, essentially, what’s the harm? Who’s to know? Just let me get out and escape to the finer pastures of the liberal arts curriculum where I so obviously belonged. My professor refused... but he did hold out an olive branch. He said, “Golland, I’ll make you a deal. Study hard for the final, do all your homework, attend all the classes, make an honest effort. If you show me any signs of intelligence, I will give you a C for the course and you can go off to a greater future in the liberal arts world.” How could I refuse? I studied hard -- as hard as I could for material that was as stimulating to me as a bowl of tepid oatmeal. I went to class, I took notes, I did the homework, I studied as well as I could for the final exam. And, by gosh, I thought I did pretty well.

A few days later I decided to go to my professor’s office to learn my fate. I knocked; he had me open the door. When he saw it was me, he said -- and for as long as I live I will never, ever forget his exact words -- “Golland, you showed me no signs of intelligence.” I died, right there on the spot. My future evaporated in front of my eyes. My GPA was doomed to mediocrity, at best. Then, as if the Greek gods themselves intervened at that that very moment, my professor said that out of his desire (more accurately, pity) not to derail my college experience so prematurely he decided to give me a C for the course despite everything. It was a retirement gift to me from the soon to depart professor. The blood slowly came back to my ashen face. I dodged a bullet -- big time. But, lest there be any lingering doubts, business, and more particularly, accounting, would not be in my future. Ever.

Doug smiled. He knew at that moment that the gig was up. He knew he would have to find another candidate to be treasurer. For my part, I had dodged another bullet, this one almost a half century later.

I left Doug’s house and smiled, so glad I had overcome my fear of the embarrassment I would feel for having let folks at the Yacht Club believe I would take the financial reins. I walked home barely feeling my weight. I was free. I would live to fight another day.

Cruisin'

Close your eyes and imagine a place that is a perfect blend of Las Vegas and Disneyland. Apparently, garish met cutesy; they fell in love, and produced one fiendishly surreal progeny they called "cruise ship."

We are aboard the Carnival Cruise Line’s “Sensation.” And, I can sort of see the logic in that name since it is your senses -- all of them -- that are stimulated here (or, perhaps I should say assaulted). First, the décor is designed, I am quite certain, to give life to whatever feelings of seasickness you’ve been earnestly trying to suppress. The walls abound with large, wavy lines crisscrossed at random intervals with jagged zigzag lines. The carpeted floors are awash in bright, clashing colors and shapes that are as alien to the wall “art” as I am to the 400 pound fellow cruiser sitting way too close to me. Glitter and small panels of reflective mirrors dot the scenery, producing an overall effect that allows you the trippiness of an acid encounter without the assistance of drugs. Second, your ears are treated to everything except silence. Choose your poison: hypercheerful p.a. announcements, muzak, raucous bands, and the, shall we say, overly ebullient hot tub denizen who can speak only at ear-splitting decibel levels. Third, as we had been advised, the food is not just plentiful, it is thrown at you much like a virtual avalanche. We have barely scratched the surface of this, but already it is hard to be more than arm’s length from plates overflowing with pasta, mashed potatoes, burger and fries. And, don’t get me started with the crazily bodacious dessert display. I have concluded that 30% of the crew are trained cardiologists. Judging from the girth of a not insubstantial number of passengers, there are a number of folks here who know just a little about how to navigate a buffet table. Pay heed and just stay out of the way.

When Lily and I first “won” this “free” cruise after attending a manic sales pitch for resort time shares, we really should have narrowed our eyes a bit to read between the lines. Nothing is free and this cruise is out to prove this point with gusto. After we had learned of our so-called free ride on the Sensation, we were advised that we would be staying in bunk beds in an interior room. When I asked if we could move to a room with a king-sized bed, they cheerfully obliged -- in return for $550. What they didn’t tell us is that for this extra sum they would simply re-arrange the twin beds by throwing them together and then fitting them with king sheets. Essentially, we paid $550 for a set of sheets. Drinks, excursions, spa treatments, dinner at Sinatra’s table -- all extra. I am reasonably certain there is no charge for the air we breathe, but I’ll have to check our statement on this later.

Our stateroom is -- how you say -- compact, much like a sardine can is compact. I’m okay with a single file rule when going to the closet or bathroom. But, as Lily will most avidly attest, it’s a bit discomfiting to realize that your room is not only windowless, but pretty much at the bottom of the ship. The only living quarters beneath ours is, I believe, Davey Jones’ Locker.

Off to dinner!

Cruisin' (with a better attitude)

Ok. We’re beginning to get the hang of this cruising thing. No epiphanies here, just some simple lessons:

1) We have learned how not to stub our toes (or, alternatively, whack our heads against the closet door) when entering and exiting the one-step up bathroom in the middle of the night.

2) We now understand that as black as it gets in our windowless room, it does not automatically mean that it is 3 a.m. It could just as easily be high noon. So, whenever I wake up I check my watch just to be sure we’re not missing lunch. Our room is not really a badly appointed box; but, it is still a box. And, the insides of boxes are very, very dark.

3) We are learning the food can be quite good here. Last night: melon and prosciutto, lobster and shrimp, and a chocolate ganache. For lunch: shrimp and calamari fritters. Plus, the sushi bar is perfect for those all-important pre-dinner snacks. Gaack! I’m becoming one of those cruise types who eat 24 hours a day. Thank goodness we walk a good bit whether it’s around in dizzying circles on the ship’s roof-top track or on land, as we did today on our hike to Paradise Island.

4) We are finally learning to navigate around the 11 or 12 decks of this boat. The first day was a living, life-sized maze. I mean, really, how do you get from the Fantasia Lounge to the Ecstasy Dining Room?

5) Start drinking at 2 p.m.

6) And, last night, on Valentine’s Day, Lily and I danced at our dinner table (as, I am quick to add, many others did as well) as our hosts broke out in an impossibly atonal version of “Amore.”

Would we do this again? Absolutely not. Even, if it was, in fact, free? Let me put it this way, if I asked you whether you’d enjoy wearing shoes for 4 days that were a size too small -- for free! -- I suspect our answers would be remarkably similar. All I know is that three mornings from now, we will open our eyes and know with absolute certainty that the sun has risen.

Amen.

Open Seas

Like so many people, I love the ocean. This late afternoon we are being treated to a sensation we don’t often feel even though we do live just steps from the beach. Seeking an escape from the shadows of the rear deck, we’ve taken up a perch on the ship’s port side -- where the sun shines warmly and the breeze we felt before has subsided. My feet are up on the railing, my chair tilted back, a tequila and oj inches away. Lily is reading, facing the sun. There is near silence here too, something that has eluded us in the past 4 days. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, beyond these railings. Just ocean and sky. To our right a bit, the lowering sun has turned the sea ablaze, blindingly so. To our left, the ocean is slate blue and so very, very flat. It is as peaceful a moment as one can reasonably expect to enjoy. Other than the muted voices of folks at near-by tables, the only sound is the ocean’s. More particularly, the sound the ocean makes as this large ship cuts through it on its way northwest. The sounds of foam and spray. There is a gorgeous randomness to the wave action out there. Some of it rolls away from us, some toward us. There are intricate patterns in the waves I have never noticed before, almost like a very fine latticework. Is it really possible these waves we are enjoying originated thousands of miles away? Brazil, maybe. West Africa? Who knows? But, I don’t want these moments to go unnoticed. They are just too serene and too beautiful.

Our ship rocks ever so slightly, just enough to remind us we are not on land. No birds, no planes, no other ships. Just us.

I am happy.

Stamped Out

I ever so vaguely recall in my youth a tepid effort by my mother to collect these silly little stamps at the local grocery -- the renowned S&H Green Stamps -- all in the not fully articulated aspiration of getting something for nothing. I mean, in my small and unworldly head at the time, that’s the way it struck me. You buy food, you get stamps, you claim stuff you really don’t need and, most importantly, you feel you’ve bested the system. We had these little books designed to hold these stamps and, despite my own doubts, we would watch their numbers grow with elevated salivation imagining all manner of trophy acquisitions that one could just not live without.

We now flash forward more than a half century and find history biting me in the ass. Why? Because our local Piggly Wiggly announced a campaign to issue “stickers” to one and all in the hopes that one great day we could all enrich ourselves with a potpourri of Cuisinart appliances and cookware. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I ever so quickly pushed aside my decades-long impression of these kinds of promotions and embraced this one with a vengeance. Here was the deal: for every $10 worth of grocery purchases, you would be issued a sticker that had a picture of the lovable pig himself on it although that was hard to tell since each sticker was no larger than a mosquito bite. When the promotion expired in January, you would check your accumulation and come reap your reward whether that might be a new frying pan, coffee maker, juicer, assorted pots, etc. You decide.

What ensued was madness. First, the stamps were so miniscule, you had to almost place them in a special padlocked container just to get them safely home. Put them in your shopping bag? Forget about it. Put them in your pocket? Gone. I am convinced the good folks at the Pig designed these things to be so small knowing that 40% of them would never make it out of their parking lot. (Speaking of which, when the checkout ladies started spreading the word that alot of customers were losing their stickers while returning to their cars, you could unerringly find an enterprising shopper or two kicking stuff around on the asphalt outside trying to dig up this lost gold.) Second, should you be lucky enough to get the stickers home, you faced the infuriating task of separating them and attempting to enter them in the microchip-sized slots in the flimsy “booklet” provided by the Pig. Stickers would stick to themselves, and it became de rigueur to mumble a fine litany of cuss words when attempting to roughly fit each stamp into its intended miniature slot. Third, irrational reasoning took hold at shopping outings when your shopping list would clearly become second banana -- if I may use that term here -- to sticker acquisition strategies. For example, maybe, just maybe, you feel a rising urge to buy another bottle of olive oil -- just so you don’t run out -- even when there might be some weeks left in the supply you already had. And, thoughts like, “you can never have enough hummus” creep into your head when passing that stuff. Ditto for the Wheat Thins. And, God forbid you should find yourself at check out and find you’re 49 cents short of getting another sticker. Panic sets in while you desperately reach across waiting shoppers in the checkout line behind you so you can stretch to reach the display of breath mints and chewing gum that would enable you to cross the magic line to that next, fabulous sticker. Fourth, whenever the shopper in front of you would decline the stickers he or she had just earned, you find yourself winking at the checkout girl asking if you could take the unclaimed stickers. And, lastly, you start working the neighbors asking them to give you their stickers if they were not otherwise collecting. These are the depths, I tell you.

After all this, the Day of Irony arrives and you have to figure out what you want to claim with your horde of hard earned stickers. Will it be the non-stick pan, the hand blender, the pour saucepan?? It is in that moment that it sinks in. The joy -- if one can call it that -- was all in the chase, not in the acquisition. Did we really need another frying pan? Would we ever use a hand blender? Didn’t I already bemoan the number of pots we owned? But, choices needed to be made, and so choices were made. In a vaguely joyless move, I opt for a 2 quart pour saucepan and the juicer. The game is over. I can breathe again.

Lemonade anyone?

Fleeting Images

I saw someone yesterday I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was me. A few fleeting images from an old video confirming that it’s true I was once a teenager. I was at a wedding reception for my cousin, Bob, and, while I can’t be certain of the date, I surmised I was about 15 or 16. My hair was dark; I was clean shaven; and I was wearing what was for that time in my life my trademark goofy black eyeglasses that looked more suited to Mr. Magoo than a wannabe man about town. I was not alone there. My sister, Susan, was seated at the other side of the large round table looking suave and sophisticated for someone about to leave her teen years behind. And, my parents were there. They weren’t on screen for more than a minute, but even in just that short span it was electric to me. It sounds so silly and old school, but seeing them “live” and not just as a still image staring back at me from within a picture frame was transfixing. My folks have been gone for decades and so seeing their moving images, even the slightest of quirks or facial expressions or arm movements took on for me a far greater significance than they were owed. My father was the debonair guy I remembered, looking dapper in his dark suit, leaning over and sharing some secret with my mom. She played to the camera with a smile worthy of an old-time movie queen. They would not have been out of place in Monte Carlo.

To a lesser degree, I reacted the same way to seeing myself, simultaneously a total stranger and yet one and the same as the older and grayer guy glued to the TV screen taking it all in more than a generation later. Who was this guy? Could I have really been that shamelessly goofy? Was I really so awkward, so gawky? When I was 15 could I possibly have projected ahead and seen what I might be like some day? Could I do the reverse, and close my eyes in an effort to put myself back into the psyche of that strange looking teenager? I know that the young Jeff was incapable of such forward leaning thought, and I know as well that the far older Jeff has left his predecessor too far behind in too many ways to attempt a similar time-tilting somersault.

Those images, as fleeting as they were, stayed with me when I went to sleep last night. They played over and over in my head. I realized that my reaction is a reflection of the time I have been here on planet earth. In today’s world, video is so ubiquitous, so accessible, so taken for granted, that young kids will always have their younger selves as company as they grow old. That mystery and excitement I felt in those all too fleeting moments will be lost to them. I don’t know that I am jealous of them or that I feel some pity for their loss of amazement and joy that surely accompanies the finding of something lost and then found.

The Coach

He walked among his players before the game. Words of encouragement. Last minute reminders. Against a backdrop of gangly 15 year olds, he stood out in his nifty new black suit and yellow tie. But, the professional look this attire offered provided no disguise for the nervous energy Coach G was exuding. He was clearly anxious; distracted. After a rousing victory in its debut performance, the San Pasqual Eagles freshman team had lost three straight. Despite endless repetition to hone offensive and defensive schemes, Alex’s players still seemed to favor mayhem, chaos, and other forms of disorganization to the neater disciplines that might characterize older teams. But, over the winter break, Alex worked daily with the boys to create some muscle memory in his schemes in the hopes of creating a semblance of order out of the chaos.

From the opening tip, there was little chance this coach would sit for more than a few rare seconds at a time. Too much adrenaline, too much emotional commitment to the task at hand. Pacing, screaming, gesturing; arms folded, arms pumping, arms outstretched, arms on hips. Alternately begging, beseeching, cheeleading, threatening his players -- it had to be exhausting. As the game progressed, I saw something that surprised me. The kids looked poised, not frantic. You could see their purposeful efforts at running the plays as coached. It didn’t always succeed, of course, but the coherent pattern to their play was unmistakable. Picks were set; kids were cutting to the basket looking for easy shots; there was movement away from the ball. The press was executed in a way that would lead to the easy baskets the coach had predicted. There was no coincidence in this. The coach allowed himself the occasional smile. During time outs, the coach was encircled by his team, and he spoke encouragingly. He casually draped his arm around the kids whose normal fate is to sit glumly at the end of the bench with little hope of playing time. Inclusion, I thought. Nice touch.

As his team’s lead increased in the second half from 10 to 15 to 20 points, the coach relaxed. His urgings diminished. He got acquainted with his chair. He cleared the bench. Victory was at hand. The final? The Eagles 48, the San Diego High School Cavers 26. A rout.

When Alex joined us in the sparsely populated bleachers after the game, he was smiling beatifically. He was calm and in the mood for assessing where he and his team was. He spoke of what he sees as the triple demands of his job: managing egos, keeping kids motivated, and getting them to play together. He spoke at length and with feeling since these were things he had clearly given much thought to. And, how sweet to see all these challenges overcome all at one time and with his parents in the stands watching closely.

Where did this wisdom come from in this 24 year old? How did he get from “there” to “here”? Why is it that parents are so often taken by surprise by the progress of their kids? Maybe, I thought, when they don’t live next door anymore, the progressions are all the more dramatic and more pronounced because you don’t see the day to day growth they experience. It is incredibly uplifting to watch.

The evening for us was alternately thrilling, amusing and always endearing. We were not the only ones who were pleased. The Eagles’ varsity coach came over to Alex after the game, congratulating him. “This was all you,” he said.

High praise, indeed.