Dreaming Italian Style

When a dream is realized, it is a miraculous thing. It is uplifting in a way that few things are. In those giddy, almost spiritual, moments, all is right with the world. Happiness is all you know. Some dreams are large, others small, but when they become a reality size does not matter.

I had such a dream and it has been hibernating for eight years. Back then, almost a decade ago, we rented a villa outside Lucca – in my mind, the quintessential distillation of all that is Italian. It is beautiful, scenic, charming. Big enough to offer variety, small enough not to overwhelm. It is a walled city dating back to the Etruscans and was rolled into the Roman Empire more than two thousand years ago. At our last visit, Lily, Jesse, Alex and Laura rented bikes so they could tour Lucca and, in particular, bike the ancient walls of this city. With some sadness on my part, I was left behind. After all, I did not know how to ride a bike. Off they went and returned with smiles and stories that I so much wanted to be a part of. I dreamed of gliding along beside them sharing in their laughter and maybe having a few stories of my own to tell.

When plans were made last year to return to Lucca, I knew what I had to do. And it just wasn't learning how to say “where's the bathroom” in Italian, or boning up on the wines of the Chianti region. No, I needed to learn how to ride a bike. Being left out again was simply not an option.

With both a sense of accomplishment and a healthy dollop of happiness, my road to bike proficiency is now smooth, or mostly so. At least now, having practiced for several months, I can reasonably expect not to be roadkill when I venture forth. I have my moments of uncertainty but they are dwindling and I have developed the good sense to generally anticipate potential trouble spots before they take me down. But, for almost a week after our return to Lucca, while we talked about renting bikes, nothing happened. Too many things, wonderful things, got in the way. At the end of our first week, however, the trigger was pulled and we headed for town to do the walls. Bob and Donna, Jim, Ivy and the kids, Maggie, and Lily and I found our way to Poli Bike Rentals just behind the northern Santa Maria portal to the city. We made our way up the ramp to the top of the walls.....and we started peddling.

The area at the top of the walls in Lucca is not what you might imagine. Rather than a narrow parapet where there is just enough room for an archer to aim his arrows at a marauding enemy, there is instead a relative vastness. The path is wide and paved and on either side of the path is enough room for tables, benches, and greenery. One could literally ride six abreast were it not for the competing forces of cyclists coming the other way, dog walkers, baby strollers and runners. The walls are a place to socialize; there were seemingly endless combinations of folks – some young, some old – lolling in the sunshine swapping stories, reading a book or just staring out at the beauty below.

Making our way around the walls was not just invigorating, it was euphoric. At least for me it was. To the left, you could look out over the town peering down on the reddish orange terra cotta roofs, the narrow bending streets, the rising towers, and the occasional piazzas. To the right, looking out into the distance, you could see the verdant mountains, the forests, the one-time moat that protected this place, and the hint of car traffic beyond. Above it all, the fantastic cloud formations breaking up the sun at seemingly just the right intervals.

I found myself saying “ciao” to folks on the path or at the near-by benches as if they were long-time neighbors. Often, especially among the older folks along the way, I would be met with the kind of blank stares normally reserved for seeing aliens from some far away place. In between “ciaos,” I would indulge myself in singing aloud no doubt what appeared to be a strangely atonal chorus from “Funiculi Funicula,” that iconic Neapolitan tune from the 19^th century. I mean, what else do you sing when biking in Italy? Ok, so maybe I didn't compare favorably to Pavarotti.

Mid-way we stopped and glided down the sloping ramp so that Marley and Piper could ride the small, but oh so charming carousel. A perfect resting opportunity. But, soon enough we moved on. [If I may, a word about Piper here. Although it's possible I'm mistaken about this, at 18 months Piper appears to be the world's youngest stuntman. Fear is not a concept familiar to her. Nor is moderation. This is the same child who routinely closes herself into kitchen cabinets, would walk off a cliff without hesitation, and has been known to stand innocently in the kitchen nonchalantly chewing on a caterpillar. On the bike ride, Piper was firmly ensconced in a child's seat attached to the front of Jim's bike, facing forward. Her face was barely visible under a Star Wars-like helmet. As we moved forward along the walls, Piper would scream her excitement and make the clearest of gestures suggesting that we move faster. Shortly after her carousel ride, when back on the walls, Piper would grab her father's hands (which were tightly clutching the handlebars) and, as forcibly as she could, tried to pull Jim's hands clear of the bike. She could not have more eloquently said, “I got it, dad. I'll take it from here.” Jim, in an effort that even one day Piper will be grateful for, resisted. I'm telling you, this little girl is extraordinary. Watch out for her.]

We continued on. Some of us circumnavigated the wall twice. This was an experience long in the anticipation and not one to be shortened. At the end when our bikes had been returned, and we settled in for a gelato and beer, I realized that the only part of my body that hurt was my face. At first, I wondered why. Then it hit me. This is what happens when you've been smiling unrelentingly from ear to ear.

Dreams can do that to you.

Cuba Si!

They say it lies just 90 miles away. And, by most conventional measures, this appears to be the case. But, for all its geographic proximity, Cuba might just as well be on the far side of the planet. It is a land of startling contrasts, of head scratching inconsistencies, and a land of joy and optimism amidst a sea of poverty and disintegration. It is sometimes so elusive to figure it all out, to make sense of it. As one Cuban economist would tell us, “If you think you understand Cuba, you're wrong. If you are confused, you get it.”

In my life, Cuba resonates in a way that few countries do. We have, after all, a history. For me, Cuba conjures up the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. That was a time when in my heart of hearts I felt life as we knew it was about to disappear. I recall vividly the nervousness, indeed panic, that was creeping through me as I watched the accounts of the impending head to head confrontation between the Soviets and the U.S. Navy barely more than a stone's throw from our coastline. There were missiles there; the kind that could in a flash arch upward across the Florida Straits to destroy all life in my country and, specifically, in my neighborhood in White Plains, New York. In school, we regularly practiced our “duck and cover” drills as if our flimsy wooden desks would miraculously protect us from radioactive fallout. But, I remember as well an earlier time when my parents visited Havana and stayed at the legendary Hotel Nacional, a place also frequented by mafia royalty, Frank Sinatra, and Mickey Mantle. I have some recollection of their stories of that stay which sounded so glamorous, so cool, so elegant.

So, when I got a call from my nephew, Peter, many months ago telling me of his plans to travel there, inviting me to come along, and to do so with a group as legendary as National Geographic, I didn't see an option other than to say yes, I will join you. It is true that the rum I had been drinking that evening helped spur the mood, but this was, in my eyes, the chance of a lifetime to bring these memories of mine to life – to look behind the veil of secrecy that has shrouded this place in mystery for more than a half century, at least to Americans.

What followed was, in my personal experience, epic. I would go to a Cuban baseball game. I would join on stage a choral group to sing with them. I would sit in the engineer's seat of a 109 year old locomotive as we steamed through a sugar plantation. I would play the horse jaw with a Cuban band. I would drink freshly squeezed sugar cane. I would dance with a 6 year old girl and a 70 year old woman. I would ride in a '51 Lincoln and a '54 Dodge convertible. I would be moved to tears by the performances of young adults dancing to programs they had choreographed. I would enjoy endless conversations with artists and locals of all stripes. I would visit a cigar factory and lean closely over the desk of a worker there and watch, mesmerized, by his skill in rolling cigar after perfect cigar. I would have a chance at humanitarian acts that were unanticipated just moments earlier. As a group, we would interact with artists, musicians, historians, architects, sociologists, economists, journalists, religious figures, and, yes, a horse whisperer. And, all this just scratches the surface.

Havana is a prime example of the Cuban puzzle. Old Havana is gorgeous. The grandeur of Spanish colonial architecture is proudly on display from the various plazas to the beautiful tree-lined Paseo de Prado to the Malecon, a walkway that follows the sea wall for five miles along the waterfront. The beautiful archways, multi-colored buildings, the statuary, and high energy that you find here convey a rich heritage that takes little imagination to see. Against this backdrop of picture perfect buildings, toss in a dollop of the armada of brightly colored vintage cars from the '50s, many looking like they just came off the assembly line. And, just to add spice to the mix, picture neighborhoods where there is music literally every block whether from a live band, street musicians, or a radio blaring from somewhere. Even Disney could not replicate a scene like this.

And yet, peel away this veneer and stray a couple of blocks off the touristed beaten paths, and a different story is told. Here, the buildings are dark with decay. Roofs and walls are crumbling; colors are absent. The streets are quieter. At the risk of hyperbole, there are moments when you think you are looking at a post-apocalyptic world shunned by civilization for way too long. We are told that 3.1 buildings collapse every day in Havana and, as wild a statistic as that is, it is not at all difficult to believe.

But then, just as you want to conclude that Old Havana is just a ruse propped up by the government to fool tourists, you come across a community action project in which artists, sculptors and musicians devote half of their earnings to the effort to reclaim their neighborhood from ruin. Buildings are being refurbished; streets are cleaned; art spreads out along the walls of the community. It is beautiful and it is moving. It is here that I meet Nivia, an attractive artist who captures the hope and drive of so many here. Her paintings come alive with brilliant colors and whimsical themes. I find myself buying one of her works: a depiction of tall, multi-colored buildings swaying against a moonlit evening sky as if they are made of jello, smiling. Nivia tells me they are the buildings of Havana doing the salsa. How can you not smile at this? I tell her I want this painting because this is the picture I want to take home with me as the essence of my experience here.

Cubans love their baseball. They are passionate about it. We are fortunate to be in town during the playoff season. Five of us rush off to catch a game that features Industriales, the local favorites. As we approach the stadium, the sounds emanating from within are already loud, but that only serves as a warning of what is to follow. We take our seats down the right field line and take it all in. The noise is deafening, painfully so at times. There are more horns blaring from the fans here than in a Times Square traffic jam. And, it doesn't stop. Ever. Along the walls of the stadium where in the U.S. you are apt to find billboards trumpeting all manner of commercial products, there are only signs proclaiming “dignity,” “strength,” and “freedom.” There is no huge screen in centerfield showing replays or readings of pitch speed. Only the bare story told through inning by inning scoring and the totals of runs, hits and errors. Nothing fancy here, just baseball in its purest form. It's a beautiful thing to watch. And, the ride home? A '51 Lincoln, of course.

Cubans love their music. Schools abound from coast to coast that encourage young musicians to hone their craft, whether it's the piano, the flute, the guitar or the violin. The same for dancers, artists and sculptors. We were treated to a show of this on several occasions. At one school, young adult dancers moved to the strains of soulful music and told stories of longing and despair. Beautiful and pure. A young female violinist, who was just inches from my chair, made her instrument into a most personal extension of her emotions as she stunned us with her incredible talent. At another site, we were entertained by a show of youngsters from about five years of age to maybe fourteen who pranced about the stage with energy, talent, and good humor that reflected childhood honesty at its best. At the conclusion of the show, the kids filled the aisles and pulled members of the audience from their seats to dance with them. One young girl squeezed through our long row to the middle where I was seated. She grabbed my arm and pulled me along to the aisle where we could dance with the others.

And, in Cienfuegos, we were treated to a recital by a choral group, the Cantores de Cienfuegos, a mix of nine males and nine females who sing world-wide an intoxicating mix of spirituals, baroque and classical music, and even American folk classics. The room we gathered in was sparse with precious little to absorb the sound. When the group marched in and started singing it was like an explosion, a most achingly beautiful explosion. The room literally filled with their amazing voices. It was so overpowering and exquisite, that you could just stare and feel their music literally surging through you. After a few numbers, Honey, the group's leader, asked our group if any of us would like to join them up front and join in their singing. Without giving it a moment's thought, I raised my hand. Let me be clear here: I do not sing. To my recollection, I have not really sung more than a couple of notes since the fourth grade. And yet, in that moment, it seemed instinctively like such a magical thing to do. So, up I sprang, took my position with the guys, was briefly tutored in the lyrics I needed to know, and....started singing. It was magical. I felt connected. A moment I likely will never forget.

I truly did not know what to expect from the Cuban people. Given the American embargo of the past half century, the rabid mistrust between our two governments, and the economic fallout that has been extreme at times, I thought we might be met with anger, hostility, or, at a minimum, skepticism. I could not have been more wrong. Time after time after time, we were greeted with surprise, enthusiasm and curiosity. Whether it was the lady selling me a t-shirt, or a taxi driver, or the guy behind the desk at the rum museum, or total strangers who would just say hello, the interaction was incredibly heartwarming. Take Erwin, for example. Here's a guy who was sitting in the shade near a park, and, as we exchanged glances, he smiled and said hello to Peter and me. When he learned we were from the U.S., he said, “Really? That's amazing! How did you get here? This is wonderful!” Or, the guy at the rum museum who, learning of our origins, simply leaned back, eyes wide open, and softly said, “Oh wow.” Or, the lady who sold me a t-shirt who stood up, came around the counter, and held my arm while telling me about her family in Hialeah.

And then there was Juan. I met Juan while strolling down the Paseo de Prado one morning. Like many Cuban taxi drivers, he called out to me inquiring whether I needed his services. I declined, but we started talking anyway. In the span of a few minutes -- he with his broken English, me with my even more limited Spanish -- we were trading stories about our families, our lives. He showed me pictures of his young children. After a few minutes, he looked at me and asked whether I might help him buy some milk for his family. I told him I would. We embarked on a search strolling through neighborhoods well off the tourist grid. One store, then another, then another. No milk. At last we found a store that had the large bags of dehydrated milk Juan was looking for. He sighed, looked at me, and asked if it would be okay to purchase four bags. I told him yes. We made the purchase and Juan's lips started trembling. Tears came into his eyes. He told me that these bags would provide him and his family with a two month supply of milk. He threw his arms around me and gave me a huge bear hug, and told me he could never have afforded to do this on his own. I felt like a million dollars.

On the last day of our journey, we had lunch at the Hotel Nacional, the place where my folks had stayed more than half a century earlier, just prior to the revolution. As time was winding down on a miraculous trip, I strolled the grounds of the hotel that overlooked the water. At a far corner of the property are tunnels built during the missile crisis fifty-two years ago. As I descended down the steps, I found myself alone with the fellow who monitored this parcel of underground terrain. Eduardo, as I soon learned. We nodded to each other. As he started showing me the charts on the wall that depicted the Soviet missiles Cuba had at the time and how their range would impact the U.S., he drew me closer and locked the doors behind us. He beckoned me to follow him deeper into the tunnels. His English was passable, again better than whatever Spanish I could muster. He pointed out the placements for the artillery that once were there, the uniforms the soldiers wore, and where the ammunition was stored. When we re-surfaced to our starting point, I explained to him the impact that crisis had on me back then and, in particular, the terror I felt as nuclear war seemed far more than just a hypothetical quandary. I explained our “duck and cover” drills, and the non-stop coverage of the crisis on American television. He smiled and his look softened. Eduardo was about my age during that crisis, and he explained to me the terror and near panic he felt in those days for exactly the same reasons. He feared losing everything and everyone. We had a moment of true understanding. A shared memory. I told him how wonderful that here we were a half century later able to discuss this event together after so many years of mutual mistrust and hostility between our countries. When we shook hands and smiled, it was a knowing smile. We both got it.

Not a bad note to end on.

Paris is.......

They call it the City of Light. Whether you subscribe to the theory that it was named so because it was the epicenter of learning during the Age of Enlightenment, or because it filled the night sky with light, is immaterial. Both have meaning; both tell us something about the character of this place. For me, there is another meaning of “light” for this wondrous place: it has a levity to it, a lightness of being, a certain buoyancy to it. I'm sure there is a certain amount of self-induced imagery playing with me here, but it is hard to deny the beauty, the elegance, the energy, and the gaiety of Paris. It is hard to know where to begin.

Paris is Sundays at the Jardin du Luxembourg where the feast for your eyes includes glimpses of a variety of exercise classes like tai chi or kick boxing, people picnicking on the grass, impossibly cute kids using long sticks to push their sailboats around the central man made pond. Or, folks just settling back in the many chairs and benches that dot the scene taking in the sun after a long, chilly winter.

Paris is the hot chocolate at Angelina. To be fair, it is almost an insult to call it that because the label of hot chocolate conjures up images all of which are woefully inadequate to describe what it is that is served there. It is far better to think of it as molten chocolate – a rich, thick, hot, sweet, aromatic concoction that explodes with chocolateness as you let it swirl in your mouth now replete with a dollop of fresh whipped cream. They call it Le Chocolat Chaud d'Africain. I call it heaven.

Paris is Rue Mouffetarde, or, as some smilingly call it, The Mouff. It is a street that dates back to Roman times as the beginnings of the pathway back to Rome from Lutecia, as Paris was called then. It is a narrow street that wends its way down a gentle slope from La Place de la Contrescarpe to the Square Saint Medard at the bottom. In between is a narrow street often blocked off to car traffic that is lined with open markets, cafes and small shops. On weekends, it must appear from a height as we view an ant colony: a narrow path ablaze with chaotic pedestrian traffic that darts from market to market, shopping bags overflowing with baguettes, cheese, produce and wine. It was also the location of the apartment we rented, a small but amazingly charming place in a 400 year old building overlooking the Mouff. A pied a terre in the truest sense of that phrase.

Paris is Saint Sulpice, the city's second largest church where on Sundays one is treated to an organ recital that fills the chambers of that edifice with music so full and so rich it seems to take on its own shape, its own visceral identity. Close your eyes and swim in it.

Paris is fashion. The women in their tight jeans, tall boots, Hollywood-esque sunglasses, and scarves perfectly looped and knotted. And the men? Tight jeans, pointed shoes, Hollywood-esque sunglasses and scarves perfectly looped and knotted. I'm telling you, if you're looking for a wise investment, think scarf industry. Don't say I didn't tell you.

Paris is where Lily's heart lies.

Paris is the Ile de la Cite and Ile St. Louis, the beating heart of this city. It is where it all began here more than 2,000 years ago. One is dominated by Notre Dame, allegedly visited by more than 14 million persons each year. It is grand; it is imposing; and it has a wonderful park behind it where one can pass the time reading, people watching, listening to street musicians, or just leaning back and taking in the periodic chimes from the towers. The other is a far quieter universe marked by narrow streets, beautiful residences, epically good ice cream, and one of our favorite restaurants, La Reine Blanche.

Paris is, of course, the Eiffel Tower. As touristy a spot as it is, it is nevertheless as awe inspiring now up close as it was when first erected a hundred and twenty-five years ago. It stretches up over a thousand feet and, with the vast clearances around it, it stands alone eagerly accepting its role as an icon of the city. As we dined at a nearby bistro, we were entertained by the tower as it came to life with thousands of blinking lights that seemed to fill the night sky with a silent fireworks display. The blinkies, as our friend Wayne calls it.

Paris is baguettes, croissants, cheese, wine, creme brulee, mussels, croque monsieur, salmon terrines, truffles, falafel, escargot, onion soup, steak tartare, cassoulet, crepes, and soufflés.

Paris is Blue Bike Tours, which, as the name implies, takes you around the city on two wheels. Having started riding a bike barely five weeks earlier, I embraced (potentially foolishly) the chance to take on the craziness of this city when my only prior experience was on the deserted streets of the Isle of Palms. It was as if I subliminally thought that when you're on vacation, nothing counts – not the calories, nor the possibility of getting steamrolled by a Citroen at a particularly busy intersection. But, on we went on a four hour journey through the Latin Quarter, Le Marais and delightful points in between. All seen before, but never quite this way. As luck would have it (and I can't emphasize that enough), my ride was mostly error-free, crashing only once. In between, however, it was hard to avoid the conclusion that Parisian motorists and pedestrians alike have a very firm grip on who has the right of way, and it was almost never me.

Paris is the Place des Vosges, as elegant and picturesque a town square as ever was. As you scan the early 15^th century architecture, once home to Victor Hugo and Cardinal Richelieu, it is impossible not to want to stop and just gaze. Maybe sit on the grass nibbling on your falafel letting it all seep in. Slowly.

In Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," the Owen Wilson character, Gil, says it all.....

You know, I sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can’t. Because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights. I mean come on, there’s nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing. For all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.

Well said, Gil. Well said.

Defending Mojo -- A Short Story

Last night, as I always do, I let Mojo out to do his business before we all retire for the night.  It was pitch black dark out there.  As Mojo -- who, as you know, is also pitch black dark -- got to the bottom of the steps he took off like a rocket in pursuit of some moving object.  I suspected a deer.  Although I worry about his dashing out into a dark street and go unseen by passing motorists, I knew he would return  -- at some point.  And, sure enough he did, about ten minutes later.  Seemed innocent enough.  He came in to the house without any indication that anything other than an innocent chase had occurred.  He slept well.

This morning, as we were about to head to the beach, I got to the bottom of the steps from our deck, and there at the bottom was a dead squirrel.  I looked at Mojo who just looked back at me with a clueless, vacant stare.  As if he were suggesting he knew nothing about this incident.  Could he have done this?  Dare I consider the possibility that this loving dog, this tail wagging, lighthearted creature could have committed cold blooded murder?  I tried to banish the thought.  Maybe the squirrel had fallen to the ground from the bird feeder we had attached to our living room window which I knew from first hand observation was a very popular place for the local squirrel population to hang out.  Maybe this one had lost his footing and landed awkwardly killing him instantly.  Maybe, in a fit of piggishness, the squirrel had gorged himself to extreme at the bird feeder buffet and had died from over consumption.  Or, was there another, darker, explanation?

We walked to the beach, Mojo seemingly without a care in the world peeing to his heart's content, pulling me onward knowing where we were going.  But, in my head, I kept going back to the scene we had just left wondering, wondering.  There were no witnesses to this incident.  Evidence was merely circumstantial.  There were other plausible explanations.  No jury could convict him, could it?

I hesitated, but upon our return home, I decided to bag up the squirrel and toss him in the garbage.   But, I agonized.  Was I covering up a crime?  Was I tampering with state's evidence?  Was I now an accessory?!

I decided not to tell Lily.  Some things are left better unsaid.  

But, I am left to wonder.

A Two-Wheeled Dream

Back in the days when I could legitimately say I was young – somewhere this side of the Mesozoic era – my “Leave it to Beaver” neighborhood rejoiced with the sounds of kids. There were many in the streets around me, and the shouts and taunts and laughter emanating from us all provided a steady soundtrack to our lives. Oftentimes, it was street games of various sorts that would raise the ambient decibel levels, but just as frequently it would be the incessant chatter one would hear as groups of kids on bikes would streak through the neighborhood. Kids would be on their way to other kids' houses to play, or perhaps be riding to pick-up baseball or football games, or maybe just a casual sortie down to our local store to pick up a pack of baseball cards or, perhaps, a candy bar. But, my participation in these events was limited. I did not own a bike.

I wanted one, of course. It would have provided me with a level of social acceptance which I dearly would have loved. It would have enabled me to become one of the group and to participate first hand rather than as just a drop-in on those sporadic occasions when I would walk to ball fields or the store and catch up with the others. The reason I did not own a bike was not a mystery to me, but it was no more satisfying knowing the reason. My mother made it known to me that I would never own a bike because of the sadness she still harbored from a point in her life long past. In her youth, her younger brother had been killed in a cycling accident, and, understandably, that loss left an indelible mark on her – one that would give life decades later to an indomitable fear of having a son who would be out on the streets facing, in her mind, constant mortal risks. My mom was upfront about all this. She fully conceded that her fears were irrational and overblown by the power of memory and time. But, the bottom line was no bike for me. End of discussion.

My best friends, Leah and Greg, both had bikes. They knew of my desires and encouraged me to try riding their bikes on the street in front of our houses. But, my efforts were hopeless. Once I was finally able to get rolling, I had no clue how to steer, let alone stop before I faced an inopportune obstacle like a tree, a street curb, or a fire hydrant. I still recall rolling down the gentle slope of Ogden Avenue, gaining speed, and having no idea how my ride might finish. As if in surrender, I would take my feet off the pedals and let the bike go where it wanted. It controlled matters, not me. I felt equal pangs of exhilaration and terror. My screams, I'm sure, could be easily identified with either emotion. Most frequently, my brief rolling adventures would end with me involuntarily grabbing the trunk of a tree I had just unceremoniously crashed into, or would end with me laying prone on a neighbor's front lawn after a curb had insidiously intersected my path and thrown me clear of my ride. My mother knew none of this.

We now flash forward several decades. I have had an absolutely wonderful life but it has been virtually bike-free. I am now Medicare eligible and am ready to take on life's new challenge: to successfully ride a bike. That is to say, to complete a ride without serious injury or worse. Yes, I have had a few misshapen adventures with bikes over the years, none of them ending well. I have a clear memory of the bruises and indignities that have served only to reinforce my logical side that I should consider other pursuits, ones less grounded in the needs for balance and sharp reflexes.

But, I have a specific reason to turn my attention to this decades-old mission of mine. We have a trip planned to Tuscany this summer and our stay will be in Lucca, a fabulously charming old walled city. Atop the walls is a park, complete with greenery, folks strolling with young children, and animated bocce games. Best of all, you can rent bikes and circumnavigate the city from above taking in all the wonderful sights of the park and the city below. But, as I sit here now, I am seriously ill-equipped to even think about doing this aboard a bike lest I have an unscheduled run-in with a bocce participant or, perhaps, a turret.

For this reason, I have acquired a bike. It's a basic beach cruiser – no gears or other paraphernalia that might mistake it for serious hard-charging wheeled pursuits. But, it is a bike and, as is true for all bikes, it must be ridden with balance and without the wobbling and tentative decision-making that is my current signature for this activity. I bought a helmet. Smart. Now that I have learned which end of the helmet faces which part of my skull, I feel oddly protected. Fortunately, our community is relatively deserted this time of year which means I can wobble my way down neighborhood streets without an ever present fear that I might have to dodge oncoming car traffic or innocent civilian pedestrians. With each episode out on the streets, I constantly remind myself of the helpful advice given to me by Lily and others: look up, don't look down at the wheels, and when attempting to turn, lean into the turn with my body, not a turn of the front wheel. Sounds easy, right? In the two days that I have ventured out to ply my new craft, I have only crashed twice. One incident was entirely my fault, but the other was clearly due to a tree that rudely got way too close to me.

On to Tuscany, I say. Just please do me a favor and don't alert my insurance carrier. I'd appreciate it.

A Close Call; Way Too Close.

We hear it all the time: how would you really react in a moment of crisis? Would you react sensibly or would you do things that you would heartily scoff at in a calmer, more deliberative moment? Are you really prepared to act in a rational, constructive manner when all your instincts are flailing around in total chaos? I remember a few years ago watching in abject horror as Mojo dove into the ocean to confront a shark as the saner dogs and people scampered in the opposite direction. As Mojo mounted the shark and rode on the back astride the dorsal fin, I found myself marching into the water armed with my “chuckit,” the device I use to hurl tennis balls far out into the ocean for Mojo to retrieve. In that moment of crisis, I foolheartedly concluded the chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon and went into the surf to do battle. Stupid, ill-conceived, not helpful. Fortunately, the shark was as freaked out as I was and made haste to return to deeper waters leaving Mojo behind wondering where his ride went.

But, Saturday morning presented a different sort of events. For a couple of weeks, Lily and I had been hearing odd, loud puffing noises coming from the kitchen. For some totally inexplicable reason, we both attributed these noises to a new device we had which makes club soda with the assistance of a bottle of compressed gas. These air gun-like sounds were surely emanating from this new fangled kitchen gizmo. On a couple of occasions, we even went so far as to take the device outside thinking that if it were to explode at least it would be outside where the harm would be less traumatizing. Sadly, we were mistaken, and hugely so. The club soda device had been improperly accused and was blameless. At ten past seven, when even Mojo is still asleep, the loud puffing noise re-appeared, but this time in earnest. It awakened me with a start. Why? Because the now more urgent puffing actually blew open our bedroom door! In a stupor, I went to the door thinking that maybe it was our guest, young 6 year old Marley – our niece – visiting for a week from Florida. Maybe Marley had gotten up early and had opened our door just to see if we were awake yet. I went out of the room and, thinking I was looking for Marley, headed to the kitchen. There, everything changed. As I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, the smell of gas was overpowering, and it was not the kind that emanates from a club soda making machine. It was the gas cooktop. How did I know? Even in my stupor I could see that the cabinet doors below the cooktop had been blown open and there, underneath, were large blue flames shooting out left and right from the junction box like some kind of demonized, blue-haired Medusa.

What to do? They say that the mind sharpens in its most trying moments. I'm not so sure. Coming out of my stupor at warp speed, my first instinct was to go for the fire extinguisher which, naturally, was buried somewhere in one of our kitchen closets. Hadn't seen it in years let alone have any notion of how to operate it. As I turned toward the closet, seemingly a thousand micro-thoughts crossed my brain: do I immediately awaken everyone in the house and get them out; do I put in a quick emergency call to the fire department; do I just try to blow out the arching flames; do I try to smother the flames; do I have time to read the fire extinguisher instructions should I find the damn device; how many seconds or minutes did we have until the house exploded; do I scream?

Somewhere in the midst of this frenetic exercise in weighing my options, my mind screamed at me, “turn the gas off, stupid”!! Of course, kill the problem at the source. The source in this case is a propane tank that sits outside our house, seemingly miles away in those frozen seconds that I thought could spell the difference between life and death. Clothed in nothing more than my underwear, I sprinted for the door, threw it open, descended the steps and ran around to the side of the house to the tank. I opened its lid and – not having much experience with this mechanism either – looked quizzically and impatiently at the various knobs on top in urgent search of the main shut off valve. I figured which one it should be, turned it viciously, and then spun around to make my way back into the kitchen. Bursting through the door again, I saw instantly that the flames were still having their way, snaking their way around the kitchen cabinet beneath the cooktop. Why, I thought. Had I turned the wrong valve? Do I run out there again? Do I hunt for the fire extinguisher this time?

Don't ask me why, but I decided the better course was for me to dive my head into the endangered, flame-filled cabinet and attempt to blow the flames out. Maybe the flames were still thriving solely on whatever remnants of gas remained in the lines and could be subdued as one might blow out a match. A very large match. I dropped to my knees, stuck my head into the inferno and started blowing. Only later did I reflect on this strategy and, as I have in the past, said to myself: stupid, ill conceived, not helpful. Certainly, this would have been the case had the system decided to explode in my face in that moment, but, then again, I wouldn't have been around to hear the scorn heaped upon me for making such a misguided judgment. Once again, we never know how we're going to react in those moments of crisis. One tries to be level headed, but being level headed is often a function of dispassionate analysis – a luxury, methinks, at times.

As luck would have it, my efforts at a manual solution worked. I got the flames to stop. I stared at the junction box certain it would ignite again. I waited. And, blessedly, nothing followed. Just the sounds of my gasping for breath, something I believe I had neglected to do in the previous minutes.

At this point, I returned to the bedroom where a still sleepy Lily listened in horror to my little drama. Marley, in the next bedroom was wonderfully oblivious to all that had transpired. Mojo wondered what the hold up was in heading for the beach.

I walked to the beach with Mojo still shaken, still wondering what might have happened. I second guessed almost everything I did.

Upon our return from the beach, I found the fire extinguisher, found a readily accessible place for it, and read its instructions. Now, that's something smart, well conceived, and helpful.

Music To My Ears

Bob Marley once said, “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” The man knew something. Is there anything that soothes without physically touching like the tones, rhythms, and lyrics of music? Is there anything that transports you a zillion miles from wherever you are and yet, at the same time, paradoxically, drives you to live in the moment? I readily acknowledge that arguments can be made for other artistic expressions whether it's poetry, a movie or even a breathtaking work on canvas. All of these have the potential to strike us in a way, at both an emotional and even visceral level, that is disarming, revealing about our inner natures, and a source of wonderment. But, music – at least for me – is a cut above other art forms in its ability to move, to turn on the emotional faucets. It stands alone. Many have said over the centuries that this is man's greatest gift – the ability to move one's soul through a progression of notes that, in the abstract, are just random sounds that, when laced together in a certain order, create the ability to have one experience the deepest joy or sorrow, energy, euphoria, reverie, or love.

And, so it is with me. As with most folks, my yardstick for musical magic is a fluid one. What drove me to run five miles once or to dance with unabashed abandon years ago doesn't necessarily do that for me today. I'm not sure why. Have I tired of the old classics; have I heard them too many times? Greatness is greatness, right? Whatever the reason, it is an unending joy that there is seemingly always something new to transport us, to lift us to new heights, to make us want to get out of our chairs and just move. I say these things knowing that what strikes a responsive chord in me is likely musical gibberish to others. Or worse. Just like tastes in food, clothing, friends, or soul mates, we all march to our own drummers that often bear simply no resemblance to another's tastes in the same things.

Take “Red Hands” by Walk Off The Earth, for example. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bt-FHaFVH8). Here's a tune that no doubt goes unnoticed by many barely raising an audible ripple to the casual listener. Or, just as likely, the song falls on almost deaf ears and disappears as a thousand other forgettable songs do. But, for me, I hear the first few bars and my head is already nodding, my shoulders almost imperceptibly start moving up and down, my fingers unconsciously tapping. If I'm running, “Red Hands” makes me feel like my feet are moving perfectly in time with the music. My feet are transformed into metronomes. I feel I am moving forward effortlessly. Whatever fatigue I might have been experiencing vanishes. For three minutes plus I am transported, flowing with the music forgetting where I am. If I'm cooking, “Red Hands” unconsciously leads me to wave, baton-like, whatever spatula, knife, or tongs I may be wielding in those moments as if I'm leading a phantom musical ensemble or hitting those drums with a fervor that anticipates every beat. And, whether I'm running or cooking, I'm glad I'm standing because I could not be sitting down for this one. No way.

In a much deeper way, I am seriously awestruck by Per Byhring's "Mr. Wednesday."            (https://soundcloud.com/perbyhring/mr-wednesday). Perhaps like no other piece of music in my memory, “Mr. Wednesday” takes over my soul. Completely. I'm not sure where it takes me, but I know it's not where I am. It is evocative; it is uplifting; it allows me to think back in time over my life and ahead to wherever it is I might be going. It starts slowly, softly, hypnotically. But, at the two minute mark, it opens up with brassy pronouncements and, if you close your eyes, it does not take great imagination to see the gates of heaven or to imagine an epic moment in one's life filled with all that is important. Indeed, I often say to myself that when I listen to “Mr. Wednesday” I feel something important is happening. For others to whom I have introduced “Mr. Wednesday,” this piece of music often strikes them as slow, repetitive, even boring. I get that. I'm okay with that. Maybe I would react to their own choices in similar fashion; that's not important. And, I also feel that, although it would be interesting to me, I believe it is irrelevant what Mr. Byhring had in mind when he wrote this piece. I know what I'm getting from it, and that's plenty.

And, for crying out loud, if you listen to these musical moments, turn up the volume!