Serenity Now!

Even just saying the word relaxation can, by itself, sometimes create a calming experience.  Maybe it's because of all that term conjures up: deep breathing, lack of stress, endorphins on the rise, simple pleasures.  You get the idea.  And, when we think of relaxation, the beauty of the concept is that it translates into an almost infinite variety of possibilities wholly dependent on the personality and psyche of the person engaged in the contemplation.  For some, it means just leaning back in a most comfortable chair or couch and contemplating nothing.  For others, it's the closing minutes of a yoga class when you can hit the floor and devolve into savasana, or "corpse pose" as it is widely known.  Often, it's sitting on a secluded beach and staring out at a most calming ocean.  Or possibly, just sitting back, feet propped up, and listening to the music that soothes your soul.  As I say, the possibilities are nearly endless.

But, when you're in Paris -- well, at least for me -- another possibility presents itself.  And, that's sitting at an outdoor table at one of the gazillions of cafes and taking in the world as it sidles past you.  There is something zen-like here, maybe even meditative if I want to lean towards the hyperbole.  It is a place without time limits, without interruptions, but one that offers a cinematic view of local life with all the color and diversity that life offers.

When Lily and I are in Paris, it is often the case that Lily loves to spend her mornings sleeping late and then engaging in her wonderful pursuit of painting until early or mid-afternoon.  That means for me that I get up earlier, have breakfast and then hit the streets in search of nothing in particular except drinking in the local vibe.  That entails walking the neighborhoods for hours -- the streets, the parks, the river walks.  But, I confess, not an insignificant objective on my part is not just the walk, as wonderful as that is, but the breaks from the walk where I can stop at a café, lean back, bask in the sun, and order up a café crème or glass of rose depending on my mood.

While it is hardly unique to Parisians, I love the pace of those strolling by.  These folks are not running off to meetings or worried about some deadlines.  At least not in a way that Americans do. Rather, they are wandering albeit with an eventual destination in mind.  This is particularly true of people sharing their stroll with someone else, whether a spouse, dating partner, or friend.  Invariably, the spirit of the conversation is positive.  No one is yelling at each other; no melodramas are unfolding.  Many are walking amiably with a baguette tucked under their arm, the end of the loaf already nibbled clean.  Being a quintessentially cosmopolitan city, Paris offers up a wide variety of languages that one can discern as strollers pass by.  Mostly French, of course, but also English, Spanish, German and a variety of eastern European and Asian languages that I am utterly unable to identify.  But, it doesn't matter.  I admit that I sometimes overhear the conversation of English speakers passing by that can be entertaining.  Like the American guy strolling by telling his friend that when he was in Portugal he kept forgetting to say "obrigado" -- which is the proper way to say thank you -- and kept saying instead "avocado."  Amusing, right?  But, by far, the better course is to  allow the chatter to simply become background music, part of a soundtrack that in sort of an existential way serves as a substitute for a soothing mantra.  Think of it as one very long "Ommm."

So, what's to look at?  Just about everything, I say.  Fashion is interesting which surprises me since I pay no attention to that anywhere else.  But, it is interesting, even amusing, to see how many different ways someone can wear a scarf, for example.  Scarves are ubiquitous and the assortment of color and design is seemingly endless.  I could be wrong about this, but I believe to be legally a French citizen one must wear a scarf no matter what the season.  Then, an ongoing inquiry is how tight can your pants be?  In Paris, both men and women seem to be finding new benchmarks for eliminating any airflow that might make contact with the lower half of their bodies, almost as if there is some health hazard there that hasn't been shared with outsiders.  And, the shoes!  How some of these women stay on their feet as they come prancing by with footwear whose heels are so thick and so high that for all the world they resemble very artfully crafted cinder blocks is a mystery to me.  On rainy days, one can take in the bombastic array of bright, multi-colored umbrellas and crazily designed raincoats that shimmer and add life to what might otherwise appear to be a dreary day.

Then there are the dogs.  Certainly, there are many who are average in size, but they are vastly outnumbered by breeds so small they, in my mind, barely qualify as canines.  Let's just say many would fit comfortably in a Louis Vuitton handbag.  And, let's not forget the wonderfully energized kids.  Like kids everywhere, they don't really recognize limitations on their range of movement or the decibel level of their playful outcries.  I love watching them streaming past on their mini-scooters weaving, mostly successfully, through the throngs on the sidewalk.  Their parents nonchalantly follow behind unconcerned about whatever mischief their young ones might engage in. Perfect.  If you should happen to be sitting at a café on a market street, like Rue Mouffetard, it brings a smile as you watch the interaction with customers and the animated, hand gesture-filled conversations taking place.  It doesn't matter what they're saying; it's the visible tableau that your senses are responding to. 

All in all, what passes in front of you while you casually sit back sipping your wine or coffee is nothing short of a cinematic landscape almost in slow motion, constantly changing, offering up a peaceful montage of life Parisian style.  Lean back, take a deep breath, smile and forget whatever it is that might have been bothering you.  In that moment, you are relaxing, and you are at peace.

Farewell Captain Matheson

I remember the first time I met him.  It was about 43 years ago, but for some reason I remember elements of that encounter vividly.  Back then I was a fledgling attorney trying to make my way in the world.  We had a paralegal in our office named Betsy (later to be known as Lily) who had told stories of her father that would fill the pages of a movie script: tales of adventure, accomplishment, and fortitude.  One day, he decided to visit his daughter at the office, and Betsy showed him into my office to make the introductions.  He was wearing a khaki safari shirt and had the look of a man of the world.  He strode in to meet me, arm extended in what would prove to be a most firm handshake.  The look on his face and the meaningful eye contact could not disguise the obvious confidence he had.  In that moment, combining the almost legendary stories I had previously heard from Betsy along with that most impressing spirit about him, he could easily have garnered the title of the "most interesting man in the world" that we see in TV ads these days.

What I learned about and from Jim Matheson, Sr. was stirring and memorable.  From an education at the Naval Academy, the University of Chicago, MIT, and Harvard to serving in a submarine off the coast of Japan in World War II, to working with Admiral Hyman Rickover in the dawning age of the nuclear submarine, to his skills as a Deputy Director and then Director of the Peace Corps in Jamaica and then Ecuador, to his directing of the Fermi Lab in Chicago, Jim was, to put it mildly, a most accomplished fellow.  Amidst all this, he even found time to get a law degree.  And, most importantly, he helped raise a family of four children: Ann, Lily, Susan and Jim.  As was so often the case with military families, they wandered the country from Massachusetts to Key West to New Hampshire to New York to California and ultimately to Northern Virginia.

Over the decades, once I became a member of the family, I would get beneath the surface and learn in greater depth more about Jim.  He was an avid debater.  Nothing spurred him on like a vodka martini and a debate of all things political.  He was not always the easiest man to contend with; his views were drop dead strong and even closer held.  He would hear you out, but it was not a commonplace thing for him to change his views after hearing the other side of the issue.  But, having those discussions were great fun if only because of his energy, passion and extensive knowledge which he freely shared.  While they were sometimes trying, they were always stimulating and energized discussions, a profile he would carry with him for the rest of his days.

Jim was a man who relished the open waters.  Starting with the navy, and then later as boat owner and sailor, it seemed to me this is where his heart was at its fullest.  And, Jim was no casual sailor.  When he took his boat out on Chesapeake Bay it was all business.  No margarita-filled lazy cruise here.  The few times I was aboard, we'd hit the waves and beat into the wind for hours on end making me think I was actually racing in a marathon, not out for some laid back afternoon dalliance with the sea.  But, again, this was a pure reflection of his passion which he so avidly embraced.

Jim died last year at the age of 96.  A life in full by any measure.  Because of his military background, Jim was entitled to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery.  Although I had lived in the Washington, D.C. area for almost four decades, I was never privy to share in such a poignant tradition.  As is true with so many things in life that are understood only in the abstraction, I had no idea the impact the ceremony would have until I experienced it myself.

It was a brisk day, at least for Lily and me.  Temps in the mid-40s, but with a clear and sun-filled sky.  As we entered the gate at Ft. Meyer, we were instructed to proceed straight to the Colonial Chapel where there would be a memorial service for Jim.  When we were all gathered, the organ music began.  If, in the preceding moments, we might have momentarily lost sight of why we were there, the music changed all that in a heartbeat.  There is something so penetrating, so resonant, about the organ music that filled the chapel, the spare decorations of the building allowing the music to fill  the room and echo in it like it was alive.  After some opening remarks, the chaplain explained that since he had not personally known Captain Matheson he thought it appropriate that all of us focus our thoughts on him as we listened to the sentimental strains of "Amazing Grace."  In those moments, my memories of Jim darted through my head in no particular order and with no hierarchy of importance.  Just random thoughts about a life led and the impact he had on so many people.

At the end of the ceremony, we headed outside to now witness the caisson waiting for Jim.  His cremated remains were carried solemnly, one gloved hand above and one below the box.  At the curbside, the box was ever so carefully set into the casket which would be taken by the six horse drawn caisson to the grave site.  It was an eighteen minute walk from the chapel to the grave, and it was along this walk that we witnessed something extraordinary.  There were many people at the cemetery that day, many just tourists but undoubtedly some visiting departed close ones of their own.  As we moved along trailing the caisson, people would line up along our path.  All stood facing us.  Many stood with their hands over their hearts; others stood and saluted to what they knew was a fallen veteran.  It is one of the images I will take with me forever.

At the grave site more words were spoken, but what brought the undeniable air of finality was the playing of taps, the firing of the guns, and the band's playing of the emotionally laden "Going Home." A most memorable day by any measure.

Rest well, Jim.  You have earned it.

Safari So Good

You're sitting in an open air Land Rover moving slowly along a wild looking plain.  The morning breeze is cooling, nicely offsetting the growing humidity.  As you lazily gaze around the local scene, you smile thinking it reminds you a bit of something out of Jurassic Park: primeval, promising things out of the ordinary, filling with feelings of anticipation.  Out to the horizon is a suggestion of hills and the beginnings of many miles of sand dunes that hug the coast.  The Indian Ocean lies just beyond.

Just as you're settling in to  this relaxing vibe, you spot some activity up ahead.  There's a group of female lions grouped together.  As you draw closer, the lions pay you no mind because they are so focused on tearing apart the body of a wildebeest they have recently killed.  The meal is being shared by the mother, her not quite fully grown young ones and their Aunt (so we are told).  Your guide slows the Rover and creeps to within a few feet of the ongoing feast.  Now that you are so amazingly close, you can smell the wildebeest meat and hear the lions tearing pieces of it away.  Their subdued growls are oddly similar to those you might hear from a group of Harley Davidsons at a low throttle.  You realize you're holding your breath.

But wait.  As crazily engrossing as this scene is, drama is about to increase.  Approaching on the right is a herd of water buffalo, large beasts not to be trifled with.  The lions look up and carefully watch the approaching horde.  The buffalo slow their pace and stare at the lions.  They are now just a few yards away from the lions and you are sitting in the front row almost uncomfortably a part of what appears to be looming combat.  The younger lions break away from  their meal, and their more sensible adults, and face the buffalo.  Heads lowered, tails slowly and menacingly wagging, they seem interested in exercising their still evolving machismo.  A tense stare down begins.

Welcome to the safari experience here at the And Beyond Phinda Game Park.  Located about a three hour drive northeast of Durban, it provides the epitome of the South African bush environment with terrain that varies from the densest of woodlands to hills that allow fantastic overviews of the game reserve to  seemingly endless miles of open plains that oftentimes provide the stage for the hunt and kill by the large beasts here.

We have a cottage here with a nice front porch that sometimes provides all manner of passing animals and weird but amusing animal and bird cries.  In the bedroom the large windows allow for staring contests with baboons who are sometimes mere inches from you.  We are advised to keep our door firmly hooked since otherwise the baboons pose a real threat to ransack your place looking for food.  To walk to the common area our path is sometimes blocked by large nyalas who lift their heads and stare as if to  ask, "who the hell are you?"  We are under strict orders not to leave our cottages after dark since all of the animals here have access to where we sleep.  This is also a place where everybody knows your name from the guide and tracker to the managers and wait staff.  They've got us labeled it seems almost immediately while we're still struggling to remember just some of their names.  This adds such a pleasing boost to  the already significant hospitality we receive and the warm welcoming feeling we get every day.

(Speaking of names, it is clear we are dealing with an art form, or better yet, a culture that is rich in imagination and daring.  There are no Bobs or Bills, no Anns or Nancys.  Oh no,  no.  Here in Phinda and elsewhere in our travels nearby, the locals' names pop with adventure and emotion.  We meet Wonder, Lucky, Happiness, December (born on Christmas day), Justice and our favorite, Shamiso Sibanda which translates to Amazing Lion.  Appellation-wise, we Americans are so hopelessly boring and simple minded, aren't we?)

Our guide is an amazing fellow named Matt.  He's only 27 but he has the encyclopedic knowledge and game world experience of a David Attenborough or a Jane Goodall.  Or maybe Tarzan.  The guy knows everything and shares it with us in a vibrant, upbeat and humor-filled way.  We receive wonderfully endless tutorials on the animal realm from the idiosyncrasies of the dung beetle to the mating habits of the bull elephant and the hierarchical  geography of everything in between.  From time to time as we are ambling through the bush, Matt pulls our open air Land Rover off the path to show us a leaf, sometimes a lethally poisonous one, other times a most beautifully fragrant one.  He teaches us the tell tale smells that can tip off the presence of a hidden animal.  This can include the popcorn "fragrance" of leopard urine or the nutty urine profile of the genet.

Accompanying Matt is Muzi, our Zulu tracker.  Muzi sits in a seat mounted just above the left headlight binoculars in hand (or floodlight at night).  This guy, too, is amazing.  He spots animals magically in an almost zen way.  While he has a devilish sense of humor and a most infectious laugh, Muzi is at heart a very calm person.  From his perch he ever so subtly signals to Matt turns we should make into the dense bush as we continually track the animals here.  And tracking is what this is all about.  Matt and  Muzi might just as well be lions themselves in a constant hunt for prey.  For the lions, of course, tracking is a matter of survival.  But for Matt and Muzi it is a game of passion that they play with a wonderful combination of intensity, grit and glee.  The art of the pursuit relies on so many clues.  Sometimes it's the tracks of the animals and the direction they lead.  Are they so fresh that they make an imprint above the latest Land Rover tracks?  How fresh are the animal droppings we see along the way?  Not just smell, but color can be probative as well.  Urine smells can take us left or right such as the popcorn-filled air of the leopard.  And, of course, the noises coming from the bush are clues that must be minded.  This is not a case of "Where's Waldo."  There's just too much knowledge and awareness being exercised for successful trackings to be considered random or lucky.  I asked Matt if he could foresee a day when chips might be imbedded in animals so that GPS could assure the accuracy of animal pursuits.  He shook his head slowly and said, no, he hopes that day never arrives. And, I soon enough realized why.  It would rob the exercise of its clue-pursuing, puzzle solving element that is at the heart of animal tracking.  The passion would be gone.

Over the next few days our twice daily game rides would allow us close-up viewings of lions, elephants, giraffes, rhinos, hippos, baboons, zebras, wildebeests, and a host of birds whose names I will likely never recall.  Matt's tutorials would continue.  Seemingly, with each animal sighting we would learn the proper titling of the groups of each type.  We all know of a herd of cows or a pride of lions.  But, did you know we refer to a "parliament" of owls, or a "dazzle" of zebras, a "coalition" of cheetahs, a "murder" of crows, or an "implausibility" of wildebeests?  No, I didn't know either.

On our last day in Phinda, the day would start dramatically enough with our closing in on two male lions who had eluded us until then.  We were headed in one direction when Muzi casually pointed to the right.  As was often the case, when Muzi pointed one way or another, Matt would chime in with, "let's give it a bash."  Or, as others might say, let's give it a try.  And soon enough, there they were.  Although lions are often referred to as the king of beasts,  they are not that.  The elephant reigns supreme.  No creature of sound mind takes on one of those dudes.  But,  there is an unquestionable majesty to the male lion with his massive size, his almost deadly calm demeanor, and, of course,  that incredible mane that might just as well be a crown.  Once again, we pulled to within about four feet of this guy.  I challenge anyone to say that their minds don't do cartwheels when a lion is that close to you and his head turns so he can stare at you squarely with those calm, or perhaps menacing, eyes.  It is wonderful to think about in the aftermath, but not so much in the moment it's happening.

But, later came the coup de grace.  Once again, Muzi spotted a few female lions off in the distance.  It was clear from their slowed, measured pace and laser-like stares they were tracking something.  Because we were a distance away, Matt got the Rover into high gear and tore through the bush to get closer.  The path was incredibly bumpy as we skirted large rocks and mini-excavations done by aardvarks which surely would have cost us an axle had we landed in one.  We would learn later that this rough ride is often referred to as an African massage.

As we got closer, we could see, amazingly, that one of the adults whisked away the young ones off to a place far from the path of the warthog we now saw.  Matt advised us this was an important move because the young ones, if left to their own devices, would reveal the lions' intentions in a fit of youthful exuberance and thereby tip off the unsuspecting warthog.  The remaining two lions separated, laying out a masterful plan to ensnare the warthog as they closed in on him.

The unevenness of the terrain plus our distance from the looming drama deprived us of being eyewitnesses to the kill.  But, the kill did indeed occur.  As we came over a slight rise, there was the lioness standing calmly with her jaws firmly draped around the warthog's neck.  The warthog was still alive judging from its screeching voice and madly scrambling but airborne legs.  Darkly fascinating but hard to watch as well.  But,  there we were telephoto lenses stretched to the max, binoculars providing more detail than one might want.  One of the lionesses veered off to bring back the young ones who had dutifully remained on the sidelines.

Our time in Phinda was up leaving us with memories that will be etched into us for the rest of our lives.  The immediacy of it all, the vivid reality of it and, yes, the savagery of it are not elements that typically dot our lives.  And, to share it all with Lily, Maggie, Jesse and Laura just heightened its meaning.  If you have not had this experience, I implore you to embrace it.  Get it on your bucket list.  Or, as Matt might say, give it a bash!

Incident at a Pub

How many times in your life have you heard someone start a joke with, "a guy walks into a bar"?  Pretty often, right?  Frequently, the guy described in the joke is apt to be hoodwinked in the few minutes following his arrival.  Well...let me introduce you to one of the newer guys in this category.  That would be me.

When we were planning our trip to Scotland and Ireland, one of the adventures that called out to me the most was having the "pub experience."  Whether it was through movies, stories from travelers, or just my imagination, I have always wanted to be immersed in the local pub atmosphere of these two countries.  It was in these places, I had imagined, that the gaiety level is incredibly heightened, the live music promises a most believable soundtrack, and the beer wonderfully amplifies the mood.  Getting down with the locals; that was the goal.

It was one of our first nights in Scotland, in Oban to be precise.  Oban is a very picturesque and charming example of Scottish coastal towns.  This one is a bit northwest of Glasgow.  There was a block in one of the local streets that seemed reserved for pubs there were so many of them.  We decided to go in to one whose name I cannot remotely remember.  It was Lily, Maggie and I.  We found a table near the back of the place sitting directly across from a couple of elderly gents who were providing music, one on an accordion, the other on some kind of drum.  Empty beer bottles were amply on display in front of them.

We could see soon enough that to get a beer one needed to get up to the bar and get the bartender's attention which I volunteered to the ladies I would do.  I got to the end of the bar and found myself staring at a display of the many beers on tap none of which were at all familiar to me.  To  my left was a huge guy seriously working on his beverage.  I looked over at him and asked him what he might suggest as a choice in beer.  He gave me a frowning look and said, "Well, what kind of beer do ya like"?  I shrugged and offered that I often like a pale ale.  His frown deepened and he looked down at me and said, "Oh no, that's a fookin' girlie drink!  You can't be a man and do that!"  I'm not sure what was more pronounced, my laughter or my embarrassment.  So, I figured a follow up question was in order and I asked the fellow to recommend a beer to me.  He pointed to his now almost empty pint and then pointed to the tap where I might find more of his favorite.  Quickly getting caught up in the moment, I gestured to the bartender that I'd like one of what the big guy had suggested.  A glass was filled and placed in front of me.

Almost immediately, a fellow to my right tapped me on the shoulder.  He looked at me and, gesturing at my newly poured beer, asked me if he might have "a wee sip."  Caught up in the mood and a desire to fit in with my new cronies, and definitely caught off guard, I said sure.  Well, the guy takes my glass and drains it!!!  Every last drop of it!  He lets out a satisfying sigh, nods his approval to me, and places the empty glass back on the bar.  I am not sure whether to be howling with laughter or deeply offended, but I could see immediately that a number of folks in the immediate vicinity were falling down laughing.  I was exclaiming out loud, "Whoa! What just happened here?"  Welcome to pub life, I concluded.

Turns out that the fellow asking for merely a wee sip, but whose ambition far exceeded his request, was the owner of the pub.  When the laughter died down, he calmly went behind the bar, got a new glass, and gave me a full one.  That's getting your chain yanked, Scottish style.  Lily and Maggie found it quite entertaining.

And, I knew this trip was going to be pretty special.

The Wild Way

Imagine that you're dreaming.  In this dream, you find yourself in a car.  But, wait, something's wrong.  You are sitting on the right hand side in what you normally consider the passenger seat.  But there, smack dab in front of you is the steering wheel jutting out from where one might normally find the glove compartment.  Your tension mounts; you unconsciously twitch.  As the dream progresses, you are now driving but on the left side of the road.  Your every impulse is to get over to the right hand lane before something very troublesome happens, but other cars around you are following the same contrary rules that you are.  You are about to turn on to another road and are gripped by great anxiety thinking and re-thinking in a succession of nanoseconds where you should aim the car.  You suddenly awaken with eyes wide open, gasping for breath.

Welcome to Scotland and Ireland where the rules of the road pretty much lead you to the conclusion that it's a world gone mad.  When planning our trip to these destinations, we knew, of course, that driving could pose a challenge.  I had driven on the left side before: once many years ago in New Zealand and eight years ago in South Africa.  But, this trip posed a different challenge.  In Scotland and Ireland, the roads are narrow.  Very narrow.  And, they are often winding with seemingly an infinite number of blind curves where in the next moment you could be confronting a bus, a truck, a car or wayward sheep.  I spoke to random folks I met on the beach before we left to see if any of them might have had this experience, and to see if they had any insights.  Conservatively, 80% of them said they lost at least one of their outside rearview mirrors.  They reported banging into oncoming cars, or parked cars, street signs or sometimes even buildings on roads that are barely wider than angel hair pasta.

So, when we got to Scotland -- Lily and me and good friend, Maggie -- I was ready to pay for whatever insurance the rental people would offer me.  I did, however, manage to constrain myself from inquiring about renting body armor suits that would liken us to a team of Pillsbury dough boys.  We had an agreement, Lily, Maggie and I that as we hit the road they should never be shy about yelling out to  me, "STAY LEFT" just to keep my mind focused.  I told them that no matter how many times they might do that I would never, ever feel irritated by it.  Our plan was for me to drive, Lily to be the navigator, and Maggie to do her best impersonation of Miss Daisy from the back seat.

Leaving the airport, naturally, I was confronted with a series of roundabouts which, to the untrained motorist (i.e., me), posed immediate brain wracking challenges.  Hearing the animated guidance of the "stay left" crowd, I tried to focus on entering these circles going clockwise, not counter clockwise as I had been doing my whole life.  Okay, easy enough, but what about exiting these circles? Do I stay in the left lane or right?  What about the guy rapidly approaching the circle from another direction?  Do I stay to his right or push myself to stay in the left lane to ease my exit further along the circle?  Remember, these are not decisions you can mull over leaning back in a reclining chair sipping a cognac.  No, decisions like these are split second experiences.  Hopefully, you choose wisely.

The first day was marked by my hitting the left side curb eight times and by me happily having only one near death experience when, at a turn, I instinctively looked right for oncoming traffic instead of left, narrowly avoiding getting t-boned by a not so happy driver who was approaching from the left (of course).  Our time spent in the car over this two week period would present Lily as the in-car sound effects lady as she would alternately screech out "eeks" or "yikes" or yowees" and other exclamations that frankly are too difficult to spell as we would barely miss an oncoming car or street sign or building.

These dramatic outpourings were never more in evidence than when we encountered the most insane of Scottish and Irish driving realities: the one lane road.  And, by this I mean one lane roads designed for two way traffic.  I mean, seriously, what were they thinking?!?  I never realized I'd be
engaging in the game of chicken whereby you are zooming down a road and see an oncoming car zooming right at you and wondering who would flinch first.  It turns out that on these roads there are small carved out spots where one may pull over to avoid head on collisions, but you're pretty much on your own in determining when and if you do that as opposed to seeing if the other guy might pull over first.  Like I say, a game of chicken, Irish style.  (I thought it so thoughtful that these roads, which are barely wide enough for one car, would actually sometimes provide a painted line down the middle as if there might be plenty of room for two cars side by side on this noodle width causeway.)

As the days passed without incident, my confidence grew and Lily and Maggie greatly diminished their helpful guidance tips.  Even Lily's outbursts of indecipherable exclamations largely vanished from our adventure's soundtrack.  There came a time when I could actually enjoy the amazingly beautiful and lush landscapes.  To describe the steep  landscapes as merely green is almost an insult.  The intensity of the color is transfixing.  The hills were routinely dotted with hundreds of sheep who often managed to escape from their already lush pastures to nibble at road sides oblivious to traffic.  I convinced myself it was sheep that were responsible for inspiring the phrase "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence."  Notwithstanding my increasing comfort with the whims and eccentricities of local driving, there were certainly times when I would do a double take when the occasional approaching car would have a golden retriever in what I would normally consider the driver's seat.  For a microsecond I could hear myself think, oh my god, that dog is driving!

Along the southwestern coast of Ireland, we would see many road signs that would label our route as "The Wild Way."  Yes, it is I would say to myself.  Yes, it is.

Almost a Bird

Mark Twain once said, "The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious.  And, why shouldn't it be?  It is the same the angels breathe."  Similarly, Wilbur Wright once remarked on flying, "More than anything else, the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination."

Haven't we all looked skyward some times in our lives and looked in wonderment at the flight of birds whether it is the effortless gliding of a group of pelicans above the ocean or perhaps a soaring eagle so high up it boggles our minds.  We have all wanted to take flight or to know what it feels like to be a bird gazing down at us.  Certainly, I am no different.  And, by flying here I am not including skydiving which, when you get right down to it, is merely an extended act of falling.  Nor do I refer to those who engage in parasailing when, after all, they are still tethered to the earth.  And, while I would like to include those individuals who engage in wingsuit flying -- you know, those intrepid souls who wear outfits that make them look oddly like flying squirrels -- who jump off cliffs and then try not to crash, most of us do not comfortably pursue that level of lunacy.

And, so, there we were: Jesse and Laura, Alex, and Lily and me arising in what seemed the middle of the night in Mexico City, all so that we could get to Teotihuacan, about an hour's drive northeast of the city.  There we would experience a sunrise flight of a hot air balloon that would take us above the Pyramid of the Sun, a pre-Aztec construction that dominates the surrounding landscape.  I won't say we were nervous; that would be misleading and overstated.  But, we were in a highly anticipatory mood, that's for certain.  In part, this emotion stemmed from the fact that we didn't know what to expect once we got airborne.  Would we be terrified?  Would we be ecstatic?  Could we remain calm?  Who knew?

As we walked out to our designated balloon, we could see the propane flames slashing the air inflating the many balloons around us.  They were hot those flames.  We could feel them.  We arrived at our balloon and learned that we would need to climb up into it and take our positions in the four corner quadrants of this large woven basket which, upon further inspection, seemed a bit delicate to be entrusted with the weight of eight passengers, propane gas tanks, and our pilot, Enrique.  Nevertheless, we stumbled our way over the edge of the basket and received our twelve second "safety briefing" from Enrique.  The sum and substance of this was to advise us to bend our knees upon re-entry.  Good to know.

And then, we left mother earth.  Rising so slowly, so gently that if you had your eyes closed you might be totally unaware you were now floating in the air.  But, how could you have your eyes closed when your brain is spilling over with excitement, anticipation, and, yes, a spoonful of fear?  The sun had not risen yet and so the only real light  was that projecting from the propane flames which seemed so close to my head my hair sometimes felt like it was about to burst into flames.  Enrique smiled and assured us the flames would not pose a threat to us.  When I asked Enrique what direction we were headed, he shrugged his shoulders and said the wind would take us wherever the wind wanted to take us. We would have no control over that.  Hmmm, really?  He made a stab at assuring us about this uncertainty by telling us he would try to land in an open field somewhere and avoid houses or other buildings or cactus fields.  Alrighty then!

And, up  we went.  At first, we were close enough to the ground to feel like we were a human Google Earth, focusing on buildings, trees, the headlights of moving cars.  But, then, we were too high for that.  Even the pyramids below seemed hopelessly insignificant now.  Then, the mountains in the distance took over.  And, then the clouds.  The air cooled.  At times, we were so surrounded by clouds you could see nothing else.  And, what a sensation that was.  I could say, I suppose, that we were experiencing the same view one might have gazing out of an airplane window.  But, what we saw and felt was so strikingly different.  We were not surrounded by metal or sitting in an upholstered seat.  We were floating outside in the air with nothing between us and the clouds but our ecstatic smiles.  So -- THIS is what birds see!

The sun rose and filtered through the clouds in an epic way.  There were nineteen other balloons aloft with us and each caught the sun's rays and brightened the already colorful patterns on each of them.  Seeing them all floating so easily out there made for an extraordinarily breathtaking wallpaper.  Photos were shot by all of us at a rate of about thirty per second, or so it seemed.  Enrique told me we were up  around 3,000 feet (or 10,000 feet above sea level).  It looked it.  We rose above the first cloud layer and then had the weird, but endearing, sight of nothing but the clouds beneath us, the sky above us, and our fellow balloonists all around us, seemingly miles apart.

When the clouds beneath us disappeared, the act of leaning a bit over the edge of the basket came into play.  It was here that you got the best sense of how fragile all of this seemed; how the only thing we had between us and the ground thousands of feet below us were this basket, hopefully enough propane to keep us aloft, and Enrique's steady hands at the controls.  Yes, it did give us that funny feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when facing some potential fate you want nothing to do with.  Giggling helped offset the fear that so badly wanted to take control.

After forty-five minutes or so, we floated slowly and gently back to earth.  When we got close, we hovered over a cactus field, the kind Enrique assured us would not be under our feet when we landed.  And, sure enough, we elevated a bit again and found a perfect landing space in an open field.  Within moments we were joined by a "ground crew" that would help us anchor the balloon and provide us with a ride back to our starting point.  As Lily and I got in to the truck's cab, what music was playing on the radio?  Why, "Safe and Sound," of course.  Really.

The ride back would enable us to sit back and think calmly about what we had just experienced.  Memories that will last a lifetime.  Twain and Wright knew what they were talking about.

Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent!

We called ourselves the “Haightful Eight.” We thought “Hateful Eight” might suggest a far more darkly sinister and angrier mood than was so clearly the case with our lighthearted group. No, this group would be far too merry, too mirthful to be bothered by any negative vibe. We thought “Haightful” more reflective of a  euphoric era, one now laced with unending gallons of wine, beer and rum if not certain leafy herbs of days gone by. Together, we would walk, dine, drink, swim, dance and laugh our way down the Croatian coast. Our vehicle? The 50 foot catamaran, the “Indian Summer” which somehow I kept referring to as the “Endless Summer.” No harm there.

To assist us in our journey, the wonderful Sanja (“Sah-nyah”) and, at the helm, Ivan (“E-vahn”). The former served as an amazing jack-of-all-trades: cook, adviser, guide, Croatian language instructor, and occasional disc jockey. Ivan, the steady hand at the helm, would perform his duties as easily and without fanfare as one might open a wine bottle, if I may use that as an analogy. Our group?  Eight friends associated by random streams of shared personal histories some dating back forty years and, in one case, more than sixty years. We gathered from California, Montana, Colorado, New York, and South Carolina. What a fabulous blend!

We would sail the azure blue waters of the Adriatic from Brac to Hvar to Korcula and other destinations which, I must confess, at this moment, I simply cannot remotely recall. On a daily basis we would stop at a variety of locations and experience the beaches of Croatia. And, what about them, these beaches? They are singularly beautiful, but, if I may say so, lacking in one meaningful way. It seems Croatia was near the back of the line when they passed out sand. What we have instead is a spectrum of rocky beaches some of which boast stones as smooth as a baby’s bottom and others clearly designed by the Marquis de Sade. None that we encountered were especially foot friendly. But, we didn't care.

At these beach stops, we would simply jump off the boat, take off in any direction, sometimes aiming for the shoreline, sometimes not. If we did reach the shoreline, we would mostly sit (gingerly) on the rocks, gaze out at the sea, drink in the secluded beauty, and decide which smooth stones were worthy souvenirs. We would agree to disagree whether the waters of the Adriatic were “bracing” or “refreshing” or “chilling,” but we could all agree the waters were crystal clear and “invigorating.”

One of our stops was Hvar. We would toodle around the island but finally make landfall at Hvar Town. I felt a special connection to this place because it was a decade ago that I visited this place with Jesse and Alex. At that time, we hiked up to the fortress overlooking the small city so that we got a rapturous panoramic view of the city below and the shimmering sea beyond. I remember thinking, as I looked out over the ramparts, that it was like looking at the gates of heaven and I always wanted to return here. Sanja had advised us that over the intervening years, Hvar had become quite the tourist destination.  She referred to it as the St. Tropez of Croatia. And, indeed, the place had become quite trafficked and blanketed by one cool cafe after another serving smartly dressed men and women. But, I didn’t care.  We hiked up to the fortress where I put on my headphones to listen to Per Byhring’s “Mr. Wednesday,” a tune that resonates with me like no other. Staring out at the sea and listening to this tune had been an ambition of mine for years. My bucket list is now a tad shorter.

I cannot let our Hvar visit pass without one more story line. When I was here with the boys long ago we happened upon a restaurant that featured what we all thought were the best mussels on planet earth. Mussels perfectly cooked in a broth rich in tomato, garlic and enough spicy heat to make it interesting. Perfect for being soaked up by a crusty bread. Here I was ten years later standing outside the very same restaurant. And, did I go in to re-create that epochal culinary experience? No, I did not. Why, you ask. Truth be told, Sanja and Ivan were about to pick us up and serve us lunch featuring a spaghetti carbonara with lobster crafted by Sanja. When we advised the boys that I had passed up this shot at mussel heaven, they were aghast. What? You travel thousands of miles and go to a place you are likely never to revisit and you pass up the best mussels ever created? Are you mad? Ahhh, I will never live this one down, and I will graciously accept the criticism that has not yet ceased to be piled upon me. (P.S., the carbonara was awesome.)

Back on the Indian Summer the party continued as we sailed between islands. Hours would pass as we read, swam, chatted, stared at the beauty of it all, ate and drank. And, what would we talk about? Well, we would delve into the momentous issues of the day of course like, what’s the difference between a mule, a donkey and a burro? If only males can be jackasses, would a female be a “jill ass” or a “jackie ass?” Sometimes we would delve intensely into the riveting and earthshaking ramifications of a Brad and Angelina break up. And, then sometimes it seemed the group might add to the list of nicknames for me. At varying times I was referred to as Rasputin (even though I disavowed any physical resemblance) or T.C. (trans century) for my alleged simultaneous resemblance to Rasputin, Marco Polo, and Einstein. Or, sometimes it was merely Yeff.

In the evenings, we would go ashore to find ourselves some dinner, often following Sanja's recommendations.  One such evening, we were in Trpanj, not far from Dubrovnik.  (Yeah, Trpanj is spelled correctly, I promise.  Just another funny example of this vowel deprived language!)  In a town of 871 people, it was not terribly hard to find a place called the "Tuna Beach Bar."  Here, we enjoyed epically good tuna sashimi and carpaccio among other fresh morsels.  What followed was a spontaneous eruption of dancing joined in by our whole group.  I mean, we held nothing back.  It was fabulously enthusiastic if a bit spastic, but since there were literally no other people at the Tuna Beach Bar I can't say we fell prey to embarrassment.  Michael Jackson, the Stones, the Pointer Sisters and other icons led the way with Sanja excelling as disc jockey.  Since we were the only patrons at the place, we sometimes asked the manager if he wanted to  close it down for the night.  He would shrug and tell us he was obliged to  keep  the place open until 2 a.m. anyway.  Good to know!

Poor Sanja. She was so earnest in her efforts to teach us some of the rudiments of the Croatian language. But, seriously, how does one try to learn such things when vowels appear about as often as sand does on Croatian beaches? Take the days of the week, for example. How about Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, to name three. What we have is: Ponedjeljak, Srijeda, and Cetvrtak. And, let’s not forget Sunday: Nedjelja. Really? In this vowel starved universe we were severely challenged. But, Sanja persevered and occasionally would connect with our less than graceful attempts at compliance. Sadly, whether it was Sanja’s howls of laughter or ours that accompanied these tutorials, we made little progress.

Upon arriving at the boat at the outset of our journey, Randy surprised us all with a gift of t-shirts to commemorate the occasion. On them, it said, “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repeat.” A few days in when we were threatening to consume about 15% of the world’s wine reserves, Randy suggested a slight revision: “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent.”

He knew what he was talking about.