Daktari at Large

A Day Abroad in Montreal- June 2010

2010-10-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

Poutine - tres jolie!

Trying on butterflies at the Cirque de Soleil

Place d'Armes

Montreal waterfront at Night

In Amesbury, we are blessed to be situated approximately equidistant from The City and Montreal. This weekend we choose Canada over the Big Apple. (n.b. in New England, ‘The City’ is always New York and never Boston.)

After all, Canada is a foreign country. One needs a passport to even get in! Plus, the people speak a different language, the highway signs are in French, and the inhabitants cover their ‘pommes frites’ with cottage cheese and brown gravy. This local Quebecois delicacy is called ‘poutine’ and can clog small coronary arteries at thirty paces.

(P.S. - what a shock to realize that French fries, French braids and French toast do not exist anywhere in metropolitan France. But that – along with French courage and French letters - is another story.)

We stay overnight in Malone, NY with our friends John and Margaret. John is the friend who got mugged by a monkey in Kenya’s Amboseli Park last year - http://daktari-mark.blogspot.com/2009/08/africa-2009-mugged-by-monkey-part-3.html

Next morning, we embark in John’s Nissan for the Canadian border.
“Hey John, do you think we will have any trouble getting through customs?” I inquire from the navigator’s seat.
“Only if they ask for money,” chirps Marg from the back. “John didn’t bring any!”
“They have ATM’s in Canada,” returns John. “Besides, on this trip we need Canadian money and not US.”

The comely border guard looks at our passports and levels her steely gaze at us. Then, disregarding the fact that the photos bear no resemblance, she casually waves us through.

John has no luck with the ATM at the bank of Canada.
“I always have this trouble,” he complains loudly.
“It’s because your credit card doesn’t speak French,” I explain. “Use mine, s’il vous plait.”
I insert my card. The machine gives a few electronic burps and contentedly coughs up a fistful of multicolored moolah plus a one dollar and a two dollar coin.
“Voila!” I exclaim. “ Mi visa es su visa!”

I examine the coins. Both coins have a likeness of the reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II, on the front. A picture of a loon is on the obverse of the $1 while the back of the $2 displays a bear. Native Canadians call the $1 coin a ‘loonie’. And the $2 coin is ‘Queen Liz with the bare behind’. (Foreigners are forbidden to do this, as the loon is a protected species and Queen Elizabeth is still the Canadian head of state.)

In Montreal, we drive straight to the ‘Vieux Montreal’ arrondissement on the St. Lawrence riverfront. We have tickets for the new Cirque de Soleil show “Totem: the Odyssey of the Human Species”. I love the circus, especially the flying trapeze (see http://daktari-mark.blogspot.com/2009/02/mature-gent-conquers-flying-trapeze.html)
and Cirque de Soleil is the absolootal best circus on the entire planet!

John and I try on butterflies in the Cirque gift shop, while the girls “cherchez les toilettes.”
“Do you think these wings make my ass look bigger?” I inquire.
“Bigger than what?” John deadpans.

I’m a member of the Cirque Club, so we check in at the ticket counter and upgrade to the front section. The closer the better works for me!

C’est magnifique! Totem is the best! It begins as a creation story with the stage in the shape of the carapace of a primordial turtle. It ends with Mayan cosmonauts moving out into the universe and beyond! Everywhere in between there is a sublime mix of legend and science, myth and evolution. Through the use of projectors even the stage environment evolves – from a spring, to a lake, to the ocean, to interstellar space. My favorite acrobats are the Native American Hoop Dancer and the Duet on the Fixed Trapeze.

After the show we go to an enclosed courtyard off the Place d’Armes for dinner and live jazz. We find ourselves distinctly underdressed. The Canadians, especially the women, are well coiffed and elegantly robed. Cheek kisses are of course ‘de rigueur’. The local desmoiselles are not averse to sizing up available males with a gaze both bold and sensual. Ah, the allure of the Gallic female. “Toujours l’amour.”

(The French word for ‘young ladies’ is the same as the word for ‘dragonflies’. Les demoiselles – those aggressive and beautiful fliers whether in the skies or at the cafe.)

After dinner, Marg and Rena lead the way to the riverbank for the evening’s entertainment. The Montreal International Fireworks Competition, the largest pyrotechnics competition of its kind in the world, takes place at 10 PM on certain Saturday nights in the summer. Each night a different country does it’s very best to outshine the competitors.

The shows are launched from Le Ronde- an island in the St. Lawrence and are visible all along the waterfront. Best of all, the show is absolutely free! Tonight is the Italian team’s turn. We are serenaded with arias from Verdi’s Rigoletto as the heavens burst with beautiful chrysanthemums of colored light. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPJqjd2EBuw

Then it’s “au revoir Montreal”.
What a terrific day it was! Alas, one day in Montreal is never enough.

DAKTARI

Lucy's Love Bus

2010-09-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

Kat & Courtney carry baskets of butterflies

Butterflies fly free!

Danaus plexippus

Butterfly traveler taking a break

Daktari has not taken any trips lately, and his blog has been on summer vacation, too.

However, that doesn’t mean nobody from Amesbury has been traveling this summer.

On Sunday September 12th some 1200 Monarch butterflies took off from Amesbury's Woodsom Farm headed south. Their final destination – Mexico. My friend Kat and her daughter Courtney were butterfly wranglers for the event so I got some excellent blog photos of these itinerant lepidopterae and their keepers.

Monarch’s are colorful orange and black butterflies which live on common milkweed and migrate South to Mexico in the winter. No single individual can fly all the way. It takes 3 or 4 generations for them to complete the migration. The grandchildren of the butterflies we released in Amesbury will hopefully arrive at the buttefly trees in Michoacan in December or January.

The butterfly release was a fundraiser for Lucy’s Love Bus (www.LucysLoveBus.org). an organization named for Lucy Grogan. Lucy was an Amesbury elementary school student who died in 2004 from complications of a bone marrow transplant for acute myelogenous leukemia.

Friends of Lucy are now students in Amesbury High School and they are helping Lucy’s mom, Beecher, raise money so that other kids with cancer can have integrative therapies like massage, Reiki, acupuncture, etc for comfort and control of their symptoms and side effects. Most of these services are not covered by insurance and they are not free.

You can help too! As you read this blog, please take out your cell-phone and text 102459 to Pepsi (73774). That will register one vote for Lucy’s Love Bus. Text every day from now until September 30th. If Lucy’s is in the top 10 vote-getters on Oct 1, then Beecher and her teen leaders will receive a $50,000 grant from PepsiCola to help kids with cancer.

You can also vote on-line at http://www.refresheverything.com/lovebus .
In fact, you can do both – vote on-line and then text also. That’s two votes per day for Lucy and her friends! The dream lives on.

DAKTARI

Retired MD Changes Lightbulb in Record Time

2010-07-11T05:59:00.000-07:00

BEATING THE HEAT

CLINGING TO THE WILD SNAPPER

CASTOR CANADENSIS

RELAXING POOLSIDE

ANACONDA!

How many retired doctors does it take to change a light bulb?
Answer: Only one but you have to wait at least a month for an appointment.
This is no joke - it is literally true. But that as they say is another story.

Daktari has been on permanent recess for two months now and loving every minute of it.
After entertaining Grandma Gerry and completing a road-trip with Rena to Maine and Cape Cod, I’ve settled down at home to enjoy my best summer ever.

New England summers vary tremendously but this one is spectacular -- early, hot, and a helluva lot of sun with hardly any rain. The yard is browned up nicely so I haven’t had to clamber aboard The Snapper - my adolescent (17 year old) ride-on (or should I say hang-on) lawn decimator - very often. The swimming pool is percolating cheerfully at 34.3 degrees C this morning. (Normal body temp being a mere 2.7 degrees higher!) I water my veggie garden daily and it surprises me with pods and pods of, can you believe this? Okra! It’s so hot that I’m even starting to talk with a Southern accent - y’all.

This week I have a new visitor in my back yard - a.k.a. Lake Gardener. I’m out early one morning doing Qi Gong exercises wearing only my pirate boxers when a large-headed water mammal comes swimming up to the dock. I stare silently at his/her head and she stares back. She calmly munches a yellow water lily. I slowly and quietly gong some more Qi. She/he seems to enjoy just watching me as I gather up balls of Qi and pass them through my belly button. I’m moving sooo slowly but a sudden creak of the wood under my feet raises the alarm and whap -- a large beaver-ly tail slaps the water at least 3 feet behind the submerging head of my backyard visitor. This causes me to jump back about 3 feet myself - an equal and opposite reaction. The darned thing is big. Beavers are BIG rodents!

I may have to paddle upstream sometime and try to locate Beaver’s lodge. It may take a little longer than changing a light bulb. But so what? I have all the time in the world. My neighbor Bruce is an amateur naturalist, too. Maybe we’ll go together. (You may remember Bruce from our Christmas Coyote hunt and a more recent stargazing experience during a fly-over by alien spacecraft.

Bruce has enlisted me in a new scientific endeavor - sampling Lake Gardner for nitrogen, phosphorus, oxygen content, pathogenic bacteria and pollutants. It’s another mad-scientist adventure funded by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Lots of plastic containers, thermometers, pH meters, weights, calibrated poles, ropes and trekking through the swamps looking for storm drains. I surely do enjoy mucking around in the name of science! It reminds me of my hail-chasing days at NCAR. Plus it gives me something legit to tell those skeptics who believe my post-retirement schedule is composed of: a.) absolutely nothing, b.) whatever I feel like c.) some variation of ‘up to no good’ or d.) all of the above.

Here is yet another weird science encounter of the too close kind:
Lucky for me, it turned out to be a false alarm.

On Tuesday, my friend Kat and I are walking toward Lake Gardner dam for a Mono-fin practice session. Suddenly I spy what looks to be a very large serpent between the forest edge and the footpath to the town beach. There, on the very brink of the town swimming-hole, is what appears to be a 40-foot orange and black striped python. And young Kat is an ophidiophobe of the first water!

“Don’t look now,” I exclaim, whipping off my cheap Walmart sunglasses to get a closer look. “Do you see what I see?”

This time, we both give a Newtonian leap backward of at least three feet!

However, after the initial startle response, it turns out that Amesbury’s answer to Anaconda is merely a cleverly disguised straw barrier to protect the local lagoon from runoff from a recently constructed walkway. But boy, did it give Kat and me a start! If we had beaver tails instead of Mono-fins the other beach-goers would have been treated to two very large Whaps of alarm.

Which all goes to prove that you don’t have to go far to have unusual adventures and/or mad science experiences, at least on this planet. Be it ever so humble there’s no place like Earth.
“What is the good of having a nice home without a decent planet to put it on?” - Henry David Thoreau. I say, Amen to that.

DAKTARI
(P.S. Any readers with a good gumbo recipe using homegrown okra please forward to Daktari!)

Whales as Swim Instructors - May 27, 2010

2010-06-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

WHALE WATCHING

DIVING DEEP

THE MONO-FIN

LOOK MA - NO HANDS!

BOTTOMS UP!

Whaling, whaling over the bounding Maine.

Actually the ocean today is not very bounding – not even very bouncy. And we’re not even in Maine- we’re in P-town on Cape Cod. We have just embarked on the whale watching ship Dolphin IV with about 150 other passengers including sister-in-law Josephine and her friend Peter. The sun is bright and temp in the 80’s. Looks like smooth sailing. But just in case, the Dolphin Fleet operators are offering free Dramamine at the snack bar before departure. Peter and Jo avail themselves but Rena and I are good.

It doesn’t take long to spot the whales. Humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) are feeding all around us as soon as we reach Stellwagen Bank National Marine Sanctuary. I’ve seen whales many times before but they never fail to impress. One female has a calf but she keeps her distance and it’s not easy to get pictures.

We enjoy several displays of cetacean behavior including blowing, breaching, fluking and the famous ‘tails-up’ dive maneuver. The whales seem to enjoy their diet of krill and are very, very frisky.

Seeing all these Humpback shenanigans reminds me of my newest obsession. Swimming with a “Mono-fin”.

About 10,000 years ago or so, people got tired of falling in water, sinking to the bottom, running out of air and dying. Finally, someone got the bright idea of imitating dogs, horses, goats or what have you, and began paddling arms and kicking feet, and managed to get back to dry land without drowning. She called it swimming. This doggie-paddle technique did work, if somewhat awkwardly. However, the paradigm of swimming on all fours has not changed noticeably over the last ten millennia. The basic stroke is still called the Australian crawl. (And even Michael Phelps who can swim rather well, would appear to the unbiased observer to be ungainly while doing it.)

Now, imagine if pre-historic men and women chose to imitate the dolphin, the shark or the whale instead of the dog and the goat. Imagine further that they had the technology to fashion fish-tails out of sticks, skins and bark. Just think how much better and more graceful swimming would be today!

All that is water under the bridge, of course.

Not until the tail end of the 20th century did the folks at the Finis corporation actually design an artificial terminal appendage based on a cetacean blueprint which enables homo sapiens to undulate effortlessly through stretches of water without drowning- The Mono-fin!

The Mono-fin is a plastic swim-fin shaped like a whale's tail with a place to snug both feet together at the base. The fin is held in place with a strap around both heels. Once firmly strapped-in, one has successfully converted from a crawling terrestrial to an aquatic power-swimmer like the dolphin, the whale or Mr. Phelps after he makes an underwater turn!

No need for any other appendages to propulse through the liquid medium - just use your strap-on artificial tail. Also, no need to coordinate breathing and strokes. When you feel like breathing - push hard with your 'tail' until you 'breach' the surface, leaping out of the water, blowing out the old air, sucking in the new and diving under again in one fluid maneuver. Just like a humpback whale!

I went to the local Aqua-spa last Wednesday to get a one-hour lesson in this new way to swim. That and some practice is all it takes! For Father’s Day I’m giving myself a present of a Mono-fin Wave (the blue one). I’m looking forward to using my new toy in the Powow River and in the Atlantic this summer. (UPS tracking assures me that my tail is in the mail!)

By the way, the Mono-fin is great exercise for abdominal, back, thigh and leg muscles. (Hip action in the Samba and Rhumba is also enhanced.)

The only down-side is a possible encounter with real whalers while Mono-finning the Seven Seas. An accidental harpooning would be distinctly unpleasant. I will just have to risk it, I guess!

Now if only someone would invent the artificial blowhole, I would be all set. I suppose I could mono-fin underwater on my back and use my nostrils for a spout – hmmmm. Sounds like another mad-science experiment for Daktari!

DAKTARI

Chez Sven, Wellfleet, Cape Cod- May 26, 2010

2010-06-17T06:07:00.000-07:00

WELLFLEET STREET

FISH PEDICURE

GLOB OF OPHYRIDIUM VERSATILE

BEWARE STAIRS!

Cape Cod is basically where all the soil from the melting glacier that scraped Vinalhaven down to bedrock was deposited in one giant ridge of sand. We drive 5 hours from Rockland, Maine to Wellfleet, Mass where we are staying two nights at Chez Sven bed and breakfast.

Chez Sven is on the Old Kings Highway, which turns out to be a track in the sand going uphill into the forest. The B & B is a restored 18th century sailor’s cottage. We access our room on the top of the house by grabbing onto the rigging and hauling our luggage hand over fist up some very steep stairs.

Rena’s face blanches when she takes a look back down the way we came.
“How will I ever get down?” she asks.

“Same way you came up,” I reply cheerfully. “ Just grab the rope and let yourself down the companionway backwards. It’s what able body seamen do on whaling ships.”

“Don’t tell me we’re going to have to do this when we go whaling tomorrow?” she exasperates.

“Not whaling - whale watching,” I explain. “There’s a big difference - handrails instead of rigging for one thing. And no sharp harpoons.”

It’s about 1 PM. After unpacking we ask our hostess Alexandra Grabbe to recommend the afternoon’s activity.

“It’s hot enough,” she recommends. “So why not go for a swim in the kettle hole.”

“Kettle hole?” we ask simultaneously.

Kettles are blocks of ice calved off the receding glaciers which got buried in the outwash of sediment from the meltwater. When the buried ice blocks melted, circular depressions called kettle holes were left in the sand . They filled with water, becoming sandy swimming holes, usually less than 2 km in diameter.

Alexandra gives us printed directions of how to find Dyer Pond, the nearest of these fluvio-glacial landforms. The path is not marked but we don’t get lost. The hills are covered with white pines and some oak scrub. Delightful sharp smells of pine pitch and hot sand fill the air.

We are the only bathers today at Dyer Pond. Our own private Kettle hole. That must make us Ma and Pa Kettle! The sand bottom is very gentle on the feet and the water incredibly warm for a day in late May. Tiny fish gather round my feet as I wade in the shallows and nibble at my toes. My first fish pedicure! (It’s a Chinese thing.)

I also note some blobs of what looks like lime jell-o sticking to the kettle’s submerged vegetation and underwater logs. I pick up some of this primordial ooze and examine. It’s not frog eggs and it definitely has chlorophyll. Hmmm- unclassified jelly blobs. Later I find out that the blobs are gelatinous colonies of a single-celled Proctista species of ciliate called Ophrydium versatile. The colonies can be from 2 to 30 cm in size and are found in spring in the slightly acidic waters of bogs and ponds.

I swim back and forth across the kettle, trying not to get nibbled by perch or globbed by Ophrydia, and then lay out in the sun while Rena goes wading. Yesterday, abandoned quarries and today, kettle holes filled with toe- eating fish -- it’s a post-glacial water park adventure for Daktari.

After climbing the stairs to the crow’s nest at Chez Sven, we change into long pants and tee shirts and take a stroll on Wellfleet’s main street. There are many beautiful art galleries, a nice marina and lots of flowers everywhere. What a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

At 5 PM we meet our sister-in-law Josephine and her friend Peter for dinner in Provincetown. Whale watching tomorrow! It’s our last day of the vacation.

DAKTARI

Vinalhaven - May 25, 2010

2010-06-11T04:22:00.000-07:00

LOBSTERING ON THE 'SHITPOKE'

OSGOODVILLE

QUARRY SWIM

QUARRY PICNIC

FIREFLIES

Today we’re on another boat - the ferry boat from our home port of Rockland, Me to the island of Vinalhaven. The Maine coast is peppered with islands, of which Vinalhaven is the largest. Vinalhaven is home to lobster fishing. As the ferry pulls into Carver's Harbor, we are overtaken by the ‘Shitpoke’ a typical lobster boat, operated by two burly men in orange pants and tee shirts.

“Why do lobstermen wear orange pants?” I inquire to no particular purpose.

“Perhaps, their red ones are in the wash.” suggests my equally speculative spouse.

Lobsters, it seems, were not always a luxury item.
In the 19th century, lobsters were considered poor peoples’ food. They were what Mainers ate when they were on their uppers and couldn’t afford beef, fowl or even fish. In Portsmouth, NH in 1857 the prisoners at the local jail went on a hunger strike to protest being fed lobster six days a week. (On Sundays they got salt beef.) De gustibus non est disputandum.

Before lobsters became valuable - rocks were the principle product of Vinalhaven

About 10,000 years ago a mile high glacier descended from Canada and scraped the coast of Maine down to bedrock. Bedrock on Vinalhaven happens to be a very fine grained and very hard pink-grey granite which is perfect for county seats, federal courthouses and commercial buildings. So in the 1840's quarrymen from Europe were imported to harvest this granite from Vinalhaven‘s exposed geologic substrate. At one time, over 3000 workers were employed in the quarries.

When lobster became a luxury food, the quarrymen all became lobster fisherman, lobsters being much easier to harvest than bedrock. The quarries themselves have filled with water and make excellent swimming holes.

It’s over 90 degrees today and I am inclined to go for my first and earliest swim of the season. Rena and I rent single-speed bikes at the Tidewater Motel, which is the most happening place in downtown Vinalhaven.

After some hard peddling (there are hills), we pass through Osgoodville (pop.50) and pull off the road at Booth Quarry Town Park. The park is fairly basic. One abandoned quarry, three picnic tables and an orange life preserver with no rope attached. I pick up the life preserver.

“Safety first!” I reassure Rena and as I toss the circular safety apparatus into the quarry.

It actually floats!

Rena acknowledges that the bright orange ring will probably keep my head above water long enough for help to arrive, and I strip down to my shorts and dive in. The water is not exactly balmy but it’s not freezing cold either. I’m able to swim a few strokes before returning to the quarry lip and crawling out on the warm rocks.

I towel off and Rena breaks out the hard-boiled eggs, trail mix, celery and carrot sticks.
We spend some time lazing on sun-baked granite, and then clamber back on the bikes for our return trip.

All in all, it’s a relaxing way to spend a day. The sun is setting as we arrive back in Rockland. We split a dinner at the The Boat House Restaurant. Poached salmon slathered with cream cheese and chives, wrapped in puff pastry and baked-- Yum!

At night I take a hike on the golf course that surrounds our resort. The moon is almost full. I enter a small dale, where dozens of fireflies are winking a welcome. Their green/white fairy lights are a sure sign of summer! New England’s best feature is surely the slow progression of her four seasons --Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter -- each more beautiful than the next. Truly we are blessed.

Tomorrow we leave Maine for Cape Cod.

DAKTARI

Schooner Olad - May 24, 2010

2010-06-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

SCHOONER DOCKS

WATERFALL AT CAMDEN HARBOR

THE OLAD UNDER FULL SAIL

TIDEPOOL GEESE

Today we are going sailing in Penobscot Bay.
Captain Aaron Lincoln, a trim and ruddy 40 year old with a coppery beard, welcomes us aboard his two masted schooner the Olad, built in 1927.
It’s a bright sunny day with air temp about 75 and water temp about 30 degrees less.

This is one of the schooner’s first voyages of the season. Captain Aaron has spent the winter polishing and painting the Olad until her fir spars are alight with fresh varnish, her teak deck is smooth as silk and her canvas sails a startling white. What a beauty!

I’m not a sailor but I love the sea and have always been intrigued by the physics of boats.
Specifically how do sailing ships sail against the wind.? A fore-and-aft rigged two masted schooner is the ideal boat to see just how this works.

Physics, however, is the last thing on the minds of our fellow travelers.
The first challenge for your average landlubber is figuring out where to sit.
This problem is solved for us, as I am in the loo when the call goes out to board the Olad.
After debarking from the local mews, I join Rena at the end of the line.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “A full bladder and a long sea voyage are a bad combo.”

My tardiness turns out to be our lucky break, because all the other passengers lined up ahead of us decide to line the forward railings. By default, we join Captain Aaron and the life preservers in the aft cockpit. We’re the ones with soft cushions and back rests to lean on when the deck gets slanty!

“Well bless my bursting bladder,” I whisper to Rena. “I think we’ve commandeered the POSH seats for this voyage!”

(POSH, by the way, is a 19th century acronym for Port Outbound, Starboard Home. On the long sea voyage to India from England, it was best to have a cabin on the Port (left) side of the ship because the Atlantic waves arriving from the West battered those passengers on the right or Starboard side. Vice versa on the way back.)

The Olad’s crew, one broad-beamed Maine lass named Chrissie, casts off the land lines and we motor past a waterfall, through Camden harbor and onto the open sea.

The triangular sails on the foremast fill first, receiving the wind at an angle and scooping it behind the two larger quadrilateral sails - one on the back of the foremast and the other on the mainmast. This current of fast-moving air flowing in front of the big sails creates a vacuum. The vacuum sucks the large sails forward giving them a pleasing curved shape while propelling the boat forward against the wind. It’s exactly the same as the moving air over the curved top surface of an airplane’s wing lifting the entire plane up into the sky. The powerful forces of moving air overcome the clutching drag of seawater. Soon we are scooting along into the wind at about 7.5 knots or 10 MPH.

It’s all physics and the result is so beautiful it takes my breath away. A sailing schooner close-hauled to the wind is a miracle of grace and a pleasure to behold.

Captain Aaron loves his work. He bought the Olad 6 years ago and is now her indentured servant.

“In nine more years the mortgage will be paid and I’ll begin to make some money,” the Captain proclaims cheerfully.

“What do you do in the winter season?” I ask.

“ I used to sail the Olad down to the Florida Keys or the British Virgins and do the same job there,” but now I’m married with kids and so I stay here and work on the boat.
“My wife’s not a sailor,” he adds a bit wistfully.

All kinds of questions spring to mind. “How exactly does that work?”
But it doesn’t seem the time to discuss why opposites attract and whether Captain Aaron’s spouse is jealous of his lust for the sea. Family dynamics is not my favorite field of physics.

We play tag with a bank of thick fog which alternately conceals and displays the lovely Maine Coast. The deck slants in the brisk wind, sometimes at 25 or even 30 degrees. (For comparison, a black diamond ski slope is rarely more than 22 degrees.)

It’s a jouncy, fun ride. Luckily, neither Rena nor I are prone to seasickness!

“Here’s something interesting,” says Captain Aaron. “Do you see that wide beach over there just beneath the fog bank?”

We both stare at what looks like a generous expanse of sand.

“That’s an optical illusion,” explains our Captain. “The low fog bank acts as a giant lens that bends light and makes far away objects look closer. The beach is really quite narrow and only appears larger because it’s magnified by the fog.”

We enter the fogbank and can see nothing on either side.

“How do you tell which way to go in this fog?” I inquire.

“ Well,” replies the Captain. “ The compass always works. But right now I can see the sun overhead so I just tack until the sun is about 90 degrees from my present line and as long as the wind holds true, I’m moving on approximately a straight line.”

“Then, there’s always GPS,” he adds - glancing at the electronics to his left, as if the 21st century is something of an unwanted companion for sailing captains. (Celestial navigation is yet another lovely pinnacle of applied physics which has fallen out of favor thanks to satellites and the electronic age.)

“Will we see any wildlife along the coast?” we ask.

“Our last trip we saw dolphins and seals. Sometimes we’ll even see a whale!”

We, however, see nothing but the sea and the birds.

“Do you see those birds with white backs?” asks our captain.
“Those are Eider ducks. They were hunted almost to extinction for their soft down but now they are fairly plentiful again.”

The mention of Eider down brings back memories. My first research paper ever was written in 3rd grade and was on the Eider down duck! I remember the World Book Encyclopedia where I did my research. Also, a down mattress in a small hotel in Switzerland. But that as they say is another story!

We arrive back at port all too soon and Captain Aaron shows off by not starting the Olad’s motor. She arrives at the dock under full sail with nary a scrape or a bruise on the schooner’s pristine finish. Just like the old days!

On the way to the car Rena and I agree that sailing is not a sport for us.

“Too boring,” says Rena.

“Yep,” I agree.

“Unless you’re either the Captain or happen to love physics,” I think to myself.

DAKTARI

Rockport, Maine - May 23, 2010

2010-06-09T05:45:00.000-07:00

VIEW FROM OUR ROOM AT THE SAMOSET

ANDRE THE SEAL

OREO COWS

“Today is our first free day on the Coast of Maine. We are staying at a lovely resort ‘The Samoset’ in Rockport. It's in the middle of a golf course - the Pebble Beach of New England.

As the morning fog lifts, we hop into Rena’s metallic orange Suzuki (the one with the beach sandal car magnet on the door) and head ‘Down East’ along the Coast. ‘Down East’ and ‘Up to Boston’ are the two cardinal directions of the Maine seacoast. This can be confusing to the average tourist since Maine is North and Boston is South, so going ‘Down’ to Maine from Boston seems paradoxical. Just remember that we are in sailing country and that the prevailing westerly winds make sailing downwind (‘Down East’ to Maine) a breeze and tacking upwind (‘Up to Boston’) an uphill struggle. Got it? Don’t worry it takes a while.

The next town Down East from Rockland is Rockport. It is one of many small Maine fishing villages in which life goes on relatively unchanged. Rockport’s one claim to fame is Andre the Seal. André was a harbor seal who spent his winters at the New England Aquarium in Boston and his summers in Rockport Harbor. Every spring for over 20 years the Seaquarium would release him and André would swim north to Rockport (150+ miles). It was always a high point for local residents when he reappeared. During his lifetime Andre was made the honorary harbormaster of Rockport.

A book was written about the famous seal in 1986 “A Seal Called Andre” from which in 1994 a mediocre movie ‘Andre ’ was made. In the film Andre was played by a sea lion -of all things. It was a crushing blow to all his fans in Maine and Boston. One of my favorite films was also filmed in Rockport - “In the Bedroom” (2001)

I stop at harborside to take a photo of the Andre statue.

“What a lovely spot!” we both exclaim. I find out later that in 2008, Forbes magazine voted Rockport the number one ‘prettiest town’ in the USA.

I also learn that the early economy of Rockport was the manufacture of lime for building. We inspect the kilns where limestone was heated to disassociate calcium carbonate from carbon dioxide creating quicklime (calcium oxide). In 1817, 300 casks of lime were sent to Washington, DC for re-building the U.S. Capitol which had been damaged by the British during the War of 1812. I picture tall schooners at night in the Gulf of Maine sailing past Rockport and seeing the landmark red glow of the enormous lime kilns from far out to sea.

Rockport also has a unique herd of Galloway dairy cattle. The herd is at Alemere Farm which is owned by the Maine Coast Heritage Trust. A dairy herd owned by the taxpayers! The cattle are known as “Oreo cows” and are a popular attraction. What fun!

DAKTARI

Road trip to Maine - Rockland May 22, 2010

2010-06-01T15:58:00.001-07:00

A GIFT FROM THE GODS?

READ THE FINE PRINT

Rainbow Around the Sun

Rena and I are on a road-trip – our first since South Africa in 2007. See Buchu Bushcamp

We are off early on Friday morning - our destination Rockland, Maine.
On the way into town, just outside of Rockland we pass a good-sized lake and on the
right is a house with a yellow jet-ski for sale.

“Rena,” I inquire sweetly. “Don’t you think it would be nice to own a jet-ski?”

“ARE you out of your MIND?” she shoots back. “What would we do with that?”

“Well, I am retired, and retired men generally need lots of toys to keep them happy. And I don’t have even one.”

“What about the rider mower you just bought?” she asks.

“Mowing the lawn is not play,” I respond definitively.

“You could’a fooled me. You tear around in that Snapper like Emerson Fittipaldi.” she demurs. “What about that long scrape on your baldspot.”

“A mere flesh wound,” I aver steadfastly. “I thought the crabapple was tall enough that I could
scoot right under.”

“Well you didn’t make it,” Rena assures me. “I hate to think what you could do to yourself attacking the ocean waves in a Sea-doo.”

“I guess that means no jet-ski, then,” I surrender. (Have to pick my battles and this one looks like a sure loser.)

Nevertheless, the next morning I get up early, early and go back to the lake where I see the yellow jetski sitting by the side of the road. It’s still there.

I pull into the driveway and there's a sign on it: "For Sale - $125.00"

"Exactly in my price range," I chortle to myself.
I am sooo excited.

I jump out of the car. The Seadoo is kinda chewed up looking.
“Probably due to previous adventures on the rockbound coast of Maine,” I surmise.
But at that price I figure, "What the Heck!"
Joy seems eminent and won’t need to be postponed!
I run over for a closer look.
Now, I can read the fine print on the sign:

"For Sale -- $125.00 -- Hull only -- No motor."

It’s all a big Coyote trick, and I fell for it – hook, line and sinker.

When I get back to the resort, the sun is burning through the early morning fog and guess what?
It’s completely encircled by a thin rainbow.
I've never seen anything quite like that before.
(And I even took a photo of it! )

I think my luck is gonna change. The Sun God intends better things than Coyotes in my future.

DAKTARI

Heap Strong Buffalo Medicine

2010-05-21T06:08:00.001-07:00

MEDICINE BUFFALO WITH CALF

DAKTARI IN HIS HAILCHASING HEYDAY - CIRCA 1968

My friend Deirdre knows the meaning of all kinds of animals.
After sharing my surprise bison sighting with her, Deirdre emails me the following:

" If you are shown Buffalo, you may be asked to use your energy in prayer. You may also be called upon to be an instrument of someone else's answer to a prayer. To honor another's pathway, even if it brings you sadness, is a part of the message that Buffalo brings.”

For the next few days. I keep my eyes open and my ears pealed expecting to run into a person whose prayers I can answer. By Day 2, absolutely nada presents itself. Then, last night, an opportunity knocks.

I’m invited to speak about my work in Africa at a Rotary gathering to honor major donors to the Rotary Foundation. Before the main event, there’s a cocktail party. I’m talking to my friend Brian when a dark haired woman in a green dress approaches the two of us. Her name is Donna Lee. I don't know her well but I do know that she lost her husband last fall.

I can see from Donna’s face that she feels isolated being at a cocktail party without Vince. And since we are herd animals, just like the buffalos, she is seeking refuge by saying 'Hi' to someone she recognizes. Cocktail parties are like that, so I know the feeling.

It’s not long before Brian heads off to get some food and Donna and I are deep in discussion about her situation.

"This is the first Rotary event I've been to since Vince died," she tells me.

"It must be so hard," I say. Tears spring to her eyes.

"I wasn't going to come," she said. "But just as I decided not to, the clouds parted and the sun shone through. I feel like Vince wants me to here tonight."

"Everything happens for a reason," I sympathize.

She starts talking about Vince and I listen. She tells me how they were so close, and how much she misses him. She tells about finding an unopened 2004 birthday card from Vince while cleaning out his office - two days before her birthday this April. She shows me the bracelet she’s wearing and about how it has two hearts linked together with a chain.

"You know you're wearing a lovely green dress tonight." I interrupt gently.

"Yes," she acknowledges. "And you know something, I never wear green."

"Well, you look good in green. And green is the color of healing. I like to wear green myself."

"Do you think this will ever end?" she asks.

"You'll never be cured ," I say softly. Her eyes are filling with tears.
"Nor would you want to. But you will be healed eventually. You've taken the first steps by wearing green and by coming to this affair tonight. It's very brave of you."

"Yes," she replied it is.

"You know you can't bring him back," I say "but Vince will never leave you."

A look of gratitude replaces a few of the tears and a shy smile appears on her face.

I give Donna Lee a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and I’m off to give my speech.

After the presentation, I try to find Donna again but she has fled.
I hope she will begin to get out more and resume her active life in Rotary service.
The bison medicine just might work for her.

Also, prayer answering seems like a worthwhile endeavor to me.
I’m beginning to think that healing is more important that curing in most situations.
But it’s not something that MD’s like me are trained to do!

When I was a young hail chaser out on the prairies of Nebraska and Colorado, we used to repeat an old bachelor aboriginal saying about bison. I think it went something like this:

“When the chips are down, the buffaloes are empty.”

I think that even if they're not completely empty, they often feel empty.

Maybe something could be done about that.

And that is my final musing on bison medicine, for a while at least!

DAKTARI

Where the Buffalo Roam

2010-05-20T06:28:00.001-07:00

The buffalos have Landed

but the gypsies left their cart!
Beware - Buffalo Gore!
Alien Lander Offloading Sheep -but not in Merrimac!

Grandma Gerry tells Sophie about her trip to Rome

May 6 (Recess Day 6) and my Mom is visiting from Boulder, Colorado.

She's 82 and it’s raining so we decide to go to a museum.
I pick the Buttonwoods Museum in Haverhill. I’ve never been before, but it googles up nicely, so we head over.

A delightful lady volunteer gives us a tour of the grounds. My Mom listens patiently. She’s a little hard of hearing but it’s a private tour and Mom is not shy about asking our tour guide to speak up. The guide explains that in 1632 when the first dozen English arrived in what would later be Haverhill, they rowed their boat ashore at the site of a ceremonial tree that was maintained by two middle-aged bachelor Indians. They were the only two inhabitants, as the rest of their village had succumbed to the smallpox and other alien diseases. The natives signed a treaty with the twelve Brit boatmen and the town of Haverhill was founded.

The aboriginal American inhabitants, called the Penacooks, are long gone, as are the first settlers. But guess what, that Indian ceremonial TREE is still alive. It’s awesome standing beside this ancient tree and gazing across the Merrimack River. I feel like I'm transported back in time 370 years to a land and a culture that existed before the Europeans. What a blessing.

On the way back Mom and I decide to follow the road along the river instead of taking the highway. I’m still in tree-revery mode as our aging Pontiac chugs up a hill just before entering Merrimac, Mass. As we crest the rise, on our left about 30 feet away is a herd of bison. Real honest to God buffalo. Seven adults and a bee-yewtiful baby bison. They’re in a small field, gathered around an ancient gypsy cart on wheels - like the one from the beginning of the Wizard of Oz. The gypsies have absconded for the day and the cart itself is filled with chickens.

I pull the car to a halt. "Whoa Nellie," I think. "The buffalo have landed." And I start to laugh.(I just can't help myself - what a weird and marvelous planet we live on! A wolf in Maudslay State Park earlier this week and now a herd of bison in Merrimac.

We get out of the car and walk down a dirt road to get a better view.
A farmhand in a truck passes us slowly and brakes to a halt.
“Don’t get too close to those buffalos,“ admonishes the driver.
“We’ll be careful,” I reply
“Stay at least 10 feet back from the electric fence,” he yells cheerfully as he drives away. “The owner was gored twice last week!”

As he vanishes in a cloud of dust, I think to myself:
“Twice? Once I can understand. But how does one manage to get gored twice? What must Mrs. Buffalo Owner be thinking?”

We stay at least 20 feet from the fence and carefully inspect the herd.

“Well, here’s the home where the buffalo roam!” I observe to my Mom.
“You’re right about Rome,” Grandma Gerry replies.
“What about Rome?” I ask in a louder voice.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she non-sequiturs back.
“Mom, you need a hearing aid!” I expostulate for the 5th time today.

“What would I do with a hearing aid?” she asks indignantly.
“Put in in your ear,” I tell her.
“But how would I ever find it?” she asks plaintively.
“Good point!” I concede.

At night I go out with my neighbor Bruce for some star gazing. We are checking out Cancer and the bee-yewtiful Beehive Cluster. Mars is right next to it. I'm looking at Mars with my binoculars when all of a sudden, this really bright object goes booking across the sky right where I'm looking.

"What's that," I ask Bruce.
"Too fast to be a plane," he replies. "It must be a satellite."

We follow it along for a minute or two until it passes into the Earth's shadow and vanishes. Then we head to the back yard to check out Hercules.

"Don't look now," says Bruce, "but here comes another one."
Sure enough, another satellite is passing through Hercules - headed for Vega . We check out Saturn and I identify Procyon in the Little Dog. And just as we turn to go in for a nightcap, darned if another satellite crosses our path! Three satellites in one evening! It's a shower of satellites.

"I wonder," I ask Bruce. "Are these satellites or visitors from outer space headed for some alien get together?"

"Could be a big night for alien abductions," he replies.
"Call it a night?"
"You bet!"

Buffalos, wolves, space-alien abductors, and 400 year old Indian trees.
Not to mention the Oz cart and all those gypsy chickens!

All in a day's play for daktari!

DAKTARI

Einstein - World's Smallest Horse

2010-05-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

EINSTEIN- TEENY WEENY HORSE, BIG HEAD

BLUE EYES!

"IT'S MY CAMERA, MS. HORSE"

THIS PONY WHISPERS DAKTARI!

Today I find out that the world’s smallest horse lives in the ‘hood. Of all the places on the entire planet he was foaled 10 days ago in Barnstead, NH. His name is Einstein and he weighed only 6 pounds at birth. His parents are miniature horses but Einstein (as you can see by his photo) is a genuine mini-miracle.

“Hey Kat. Wanna go see the world’s smallest and only fairy horse?” “Not possible,” she shoots back. “I’m busy, busy, busy with lots of important stuff to do.”
(My friend Kat is usually good for an adventure, although she sometimes needs poking with a sharp stick to get her started . . . mornings especially.)

“Come on. Just think of it,” I wheedle. “What are the odds that of all the places on all the planets of this solar system the world’s smallest horse would incarnate just one hour drive from Amesbury. It‘s gotta be a sign from the Gods! It’s once in a lifetime.”
“Oh, all right,” concedes Kat. “If you put it that way, I’ll go.”
“Atta girl. It will be fun. You’ll see.”

We hop into my ten-year old adventure-wagon. (The white Pontiac -- Mass 74-A-JOI with the purple “Don’t Postpone Joy” bumper sticker glued securely above the rear plate)
Supplies include the usual water, peanut butter sandwiches, and M&M’s for dessert. We also have duct tape, twine, bailing wire, an electric drill and a garden hoe. (just in case)

Joy, it seems, is eminent!

The White Mountains are just above the horizon to the North as we drive up to Einstein‘s birthplace at ‘Tiz a Miniature Horse Farm‘. A three- inch orange barrier tape extends across the driveway, which is further blockaded by the family Ford.

“Looks like they’re expecting visitors,” I offer.
“And looks like they’re not too happy to see them,” opines Kat. “Also, what about the dogs?” (Kat is deathly afraid of dogs.)

“Think nothing of it,” I reassure my canine-phobic colleague. “You wait here and I’ll go see what’s happening.”

I duck under the ‘Do not Cross’ tape and walk up the drive to be greeted by three barking sheepdogs and an elderly Cro-magnon sharpening a long pointed stick, who I identify from the website as the farm’s owner, Larry Smith.
“Probably fashioning a crude spear to go with the barrier tape,” I surmise.

“Hi, I was wondering if we could see Einstein,” I enquire politely.
“Einstein’s not here,” answers the laconic Mr. Smith. “He’s away in a heated barn until Saturday.”
My disappointment shows. Larry eyes me head to toe. After a short silence, he relents.
“Come on in, you two, and see the others.”
“Bingo,” I chortle to myself.

I return to Kat waiting in the car, surrounded by the troika of suspicious sheep dogs.
“Well the bad news is that Einstein’s not here,” I explain. “But the good news is that we can go in and see the other ponies.”
“What about these dogs?” Kat asks dubiously.
“ We can see them too!” I enthuse. The good news is they’re Sheepdogs not Dobermans. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

Kat is not entirely convinced. But she gamely exits the vehicle as the dogs nudge and sniff.
“You do know how to dog-whisper, don’t you?” I tease.
“ No but I know CBT and it doesn’t seem to be working,” quavers fraidy Kat.

Larry calls off the dogs and we go inside the barn. Everything is just like a regular barn only smaller. Tiny stalls and mini-bridles. It’s a fairy barn! Kat is fascinated by the blue eyes of the mini-stallion in the first stall and takes lots of photos.
The rest of the horses are in a paddock at the back. We stand at the gate to watch.

“Go on in,” exhorts Judy Smith (Larry’s wife). “Just close the gate after.”

No sooner does Kat close the gate and start photographing the mini-horses, than a quartet of pint-sized pintos starts nudging her into a corner between the gate and the barn.

“I don’t like this,” says Kat testily. “I’m being corralled by horses!”
“I’m on it,” I encourage, as I insinuate myself to Kat’s left.
A tiny tan pony is nipping at her camera strap. Other horses are sampling the cuffs of her jeans. Kat is trying her darnedest to stay calm. She mutters “CBT, CBT” softly to her herd of equine admirers.

Looks like I’m going to have to cut out Kat from the rest of the herd.

“Just slide between me and the barn,” I instruct.
Kat sneaks behind me and then tries to go in back of one of the ponies to head directly to the gate..
“Watch it!” I exclaim. “Even small horses can kick. Horses can only see sideways, just keep yourself in their field of vision and you’ll be OK.”

Safely behind the gate, once again, Kat regains her composure.
“Way to go,” I encourage her. “We’ll make a cowgirl out of you yet!”
“Or a casserole for horses,” sez Kat.
“Don’t worry, they’re strict vegetarians.”
“Well, you coulda fooled me!”

DAKTARI

Daktari Retires!

2010-05-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

Free at Last!

Last Friday was a life-changing event for Daktari.

It was my last day of work - ever! I’m officially retired as a practicing doc and now can return to what I do best - playing. I now have all the time in the world. And every day brings a new adventure. Not that I won’t someday take up my stethoscope again. For now, however, school is out and summer vacation has no end in sight.

My last day at the office was bitter-sweet. Patients brought lots of presents! I got gift certificates to favorite restaurants and contributions to Amesbury for Africa. I even received a gift certificate for zip-lining at Deerfield Valley Canopy Tours in the Berkshires from my staff! Yippeee!

My most unusual gift was from Jimmy R., a large and boisterous diabetic patient of mine who has managed to turn a boyhood fondness for blowing up things into a vocation. Jim owns his own demolition company. His work allows him to indulge his inner child to the max. For my retirement, he managed to locate a British Army pith helmet worn by a Scottish soldier in the Zulu wars which he gifted to yours truly. Two things are known about Drummer Buchanan, the helmet’s owner: 1.) He survived the battle of Rorke’s Drift in 1879 and 2.) He had a very small head (size 6).

During the battle, Buchanan and 150 comrades fought off some 4000 Zulu warriors. I don’t know if his helmet made it through the battle unscathed. But its successor now resides on my mantel next to three hand- painted figurines representing Shaka Zulu‘s assegai-wielding impi warriors.

Jim promises to keep in touch and notify me when any big demolition jobs are upcoming. He says I can even press the button if and when! Ka-boom! What are the chances that on the big day I can wear kinsman Buchanan’s pith helmet instead of more traditional protective headgear? Sounds like an excellent jpeg for a future blog adventure!

My first full day of retirement was May 1st. This coincides with the pagan holiday of Beltane and with my friend Ellen’s 60th birthday.

Beltane is a ‘cross-quarter’ day, meaning it’s exactly midway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. About a thousand years ago, Britain’s druids began lighting two need-fires on top of a hill on this sacred day. Following various rites and rituals, the local Celts would drive the village's cattle between the two fires to purify the animals and bring luck to their owners. The subsequent celebration on the hill would last all night, after which each local Celtess would carry back a torch lit by the Beltane flame to re-kindle her family’s hearth.

What better way to celebrate my newfound freedom and Ellen’s sexagenarian upgrade, than to perform an ancient Gaelic cow-cleansing ritual?

At dusk, we assemble at Ellen’s house and build a fire outdoors. (Lacking cattle, we decide it’s OK not to build a second fire.) Before the ceremony, each participant writes down on a piece of paper the aspects of his/her life which she/he wants to purify. Then . . . let the wild rumpus begin!

First we beat drums, shake rattles and blow our various whistles and flutes. Ellen leads us in a Sacred Circle dance and teaches us a paean to the Four Elements. We hold hands, dancing and chanting counterclockwise around the fire. Round and round we go. Gazing at the dancing flames, I feel transported to an earlier millennium – a wild and alien place and time. One of the dancers is a friend of Ellen’s named Deirdre whose willowy figure, copper tresses and lithe silhouette against the coruscating firelight seem a throwback to Celtic pre-history.

During the dance, we each choose a moment to approach the flames and toss our purification paper into the fire. The night is overcast and there’s no wind, so our transformational intentions soar with the smoke straight up to the dark heavens. As a final salute to the fire deity, we light a Chinese Fire Lantern (hot air balloon) that soars high over the Artichoke Reservoir before flaming out.

The evening is too soon over! “Wicked fun” - as we say in New England! I leave the celebration, if not purified, at least in a pleasantly pagan flame of mind and with the feeling that Summer 2010 is off to a promising start. Beltane blessings to all and best of luck.

“Lang may your lum reek.” (Long may your chimney smoke) as they say in Scotland.

(for more on the Daktari/Scots-cowherd connection click on: Meet the Masai part 5 )

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - The Lion King - Part 8

2010-01-05T18:10:00.001-08:00

Mama Black Rhino
Hell Bent for Lions!
Mama Hippo gives Me the Hairy Eyeball
Barefoot in Africa

Don't Tread on ME

The Lion King -or Bait as the Case may Be

Letowe has arranged to gather the four of us at 8:20 AM for our trip to the Ngorongoro crater floor. First we breakfast on scrambled eggs, croissants and fried tomatoes. The coffee in Kenya is just as good as in Tanzania – pure Arabica.

Once ensconced in the van, we pass through dense forest, switching back and forth down the steep crater rim. Some 2000 vertical feet later we arrive at the bottom of the caldera. We are now in a typical East African savannah – dry grass spotted with beautiful acacia trees and lots and lots of animals.

The first thing we see is zebras and wildebeests. The latter are watching closely as a Belgian couple on their honeymoon change a flat on their Rover. If you’re a local with some beadwork to sell, sprinkling a few nails on the game park road is a sure-fire way to get tourists to stop. But this puncture seems legit. The Ngorongoro Masai are nowhere in sight.

We join a group of vehicles clustered around a lion kill. The lions are there but they have feasted and are now resting. At binocular distance, we can view three jackals fighting over the remains of a wildebeest ribcage. Suddenly there is a rush of vehicles across the crater floor. We join the stampede and come up to a Mama Black Rhino who is taking a leisurely walk in the grass.

After the rhino, we detour to the hippo pool, conveniently located next to the only flush toilets on the crater floor. Then it’s off to a picnic area to enjoy box lunches prepared by the chefs at Sopa Lodge.

There is always something new out of Africa – as Pliny the Elder wrote some 2200 years ago.
And today is no exception. The picnic area is on a flat grassy knoll with scattered acacias for shade. We are enjoined by Letowe to eat in the van. “Not safe if you’re on foot around here,” our guide explains.

Letowe drifts off to eat lunch with the other drivers who are all chums. I cautiously exit the Range-rover. “Hey, guys I think it’s safe? Wanna go for a little stroll?”
No one responds. I try a little enticement – taking off my shoes and socks and doing a little barefoot Masai dance. “Perfect for jumping,” I exclaim. “Anyone else want to try a few leaps?” No takers. They are really missing out. In my 13 trips to East Africa I’ve never run barefoot on the savannah before. And guess what? The grass is fantastic- very soft and spongy and the blades are so narrow and fine that it feels like you’re walking on cotton batting rather than on regular grass.

I stroll out under the acacia trees – being careful to watch for lines of siafu – or soldier ants. I have trod on army ants before and it is quite a sight to see an ant-bit muzungu stripping down to his jockey shorts in a mad frenzy to kill every last ant-soldier!

No ants and the going is good. Soon I’m out of sight of the vans and enjoying myself immensely. No lions or elephants accost me but I do feel quite brave and pleasantly buzzed on adrenaline. I see lots of butterflies and a wicked large black and yellow beetle.
After returning from my stroll, I finish my fried chicken and lay out on the grass for a snooze in the sun. If it’s good enough for lions it’s good enough for one well-fed and self-satisfied tourist. In fact I feel exactly like Simba – the Lion King c’est moi!

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - NgoroNgoro Crater - Part 7

2009-11-26T17:43:00.001-08:00

Panorama of Ngorongoro Crater
View from the Caldera Rim

Rena on the way to our Modest 5-star Hut

John and Margaret in front of the Main Dining Hall

Flying High and Fast at the Sopa Lodge Pool

Our new driver is a full-blood Masai named Letowe (pronounced Let –toe-way). Masai’s come in two varieties: 1.) traditional ones who still wear blankets, walk everywhere and are very tall and thin as rails. 2.) modern ones who wear khakis, drive SUV’s everywhere and are tall and fat as American tourists.

Letowe is the latter. He has been to college for two years to get an associate’s degree in wildlife tourism and knows every animal, bird, flower and insect in Tanzania.

We clamber into Bushbuck Travel’s Range Rover after finishing our expensive Arusha lunch and head West for the bush. Kilimanjaro, the little hill on the prairie, is covered with thin high clouds. We pass coffee plantations on the slopes and lots of Tanzanian ladies in their colorful wraps – called kangas. Clothing is much more traditional on this side of the border – no designer jeans or double-knit polyester suits.

Our destination is Ngorongoro Conservation Area a natural phenomenon which is on the UNESCO list of official World Heritage sites. The crater formed when a giant volcano exploded and collapsed on itself some two to three million years ago. It is 2000 feet deep and its floor covers 102 square miles. Estimates of the height of the original volcano range from fifteen to nineteen thousand feet high. (And yes, there were people at that time. We will meet three of them later in this narrative.)

We arrive at the crater in late afternoon at the Park entrance. While Rena looks for good deals in jewelry at the gift shop (there aren’t any), I peruse the natural history display. The crater is 14 miles across and is the largest caldera in the world. It is unique in Tanzania as the only conservation area providing protection status for wildlife whilst allowing human habitation. Land use is controlled to prevent negative effects on the wildlife population. I take it that this means the local Masai can’t graze cattle in the caldera. Watch for circular road-signs with a cow in the middle and a slash across.

A population of approximately 25,000 large animals, mostly wildebeests and zebras inhabits the crater floor. Ngorongoro reputedly has the highest density of mammalian predators in Africa. There were 62 lions at latest count. Leopards too! Black rhinos, hippos, eland and gazelles make up the rest of the mix. Primates are represented by two particular species with well-deserved reputations for nastiness – baboons and homo sapiens.

We can’t wait to visit the park but today we have just enough time to get to the Lodge before dark. We climb the 2000 feet up to the crater rim on a red clay and gravel road with many switchbacks. “Must be treacherous in the rain,” I think to myself.

At the top is a magnificent panoramic view of the caldera. There are two lakes in the bottom and the wild animal herds are just visible. It is so green and lush compared to the surrounding savannah! The altitude is such that there is no dry season and the animals in Ngorongoro are non-migratory. They live in a year round ungulate paradise.

Our destination is Ngorongoro Sopa Lodge, where we are greeted by teams of baggage handlers and maids who escort us to the reception area for a glass of fresh mango juice before escorting us to our respective bungalows. We shower and change clothes, then head back to the main dining hall. I linger at the swimming pool to snap photos of this amazing crater spread out at our feet. I don’t linger long because sunsets are very short in the tropics.

On the way into the dining hall, I contemplate the physics of the current situation. Right now, I am on the Equator and therefore at the furthest point from the earth’s axis of rotation. The earth’s circumference at the equator is roughly 25,000 miles. If I stand here for a full 24 hours I will travel in a circle the entire 25,000. Divide 25000 by 24 and here at Sopa Lodge swimming pool, I am spinning at roughly 1000+ miles per hour – twice as fast as the jet plane that brought me to Africa and faster than I have ever moved relative to earth’s center in my entire life.
And that is why, my friends and fellow travelers, sunsets are over so quickly in the tropics and linger so long over Lappland.

A mite peckish, after essaying this short detour into the world of physics, I join the others at our table. We dine on tilapia and prawns in opulent surroundings. All the other tourists are from Europe and are svelte in their tailored khakis and bush shorts. I think we see only one other group of Americans in bright colored shorts and horizontal striped tops.

After dinner we walk from the dining area to the open-air patio. In the whole 102 square miles of Ngorongoro Crater there is not a single light shining. We are standing at 7500 feet above sea level. It’s the dark of the moon, the sky is pitch black and the stars are spectacular. I am totally blown away as I contemplate the astronomy that surrounds me.

I am facing due West. On my right I can see the great square of Pegasus with the big dipper lower in the Northern sky. On my left is the Southern Cross and the vast expanse of the Milky Way. What wonder and joy to be in Africa gazing out across the galaxy on a balmy night at the dark of the moon glued by gravity to the surface of a giant nickel-iron ball with a thin stony crust spinning at 1000 miles per! I am exquisitely dizzy just thinking about it. I look toward the center of the Milky Way, stretch my arms to the skies, throw back my head, balance on one foot and let out a long howl of satisfaction. King of the Universe and top of the heap!

The staff, after a brief startle, re-arrange themselves and grin at my outgassing of delight. They like American tourists the best. We are big tippers and more fun to watch than the sedate European wazungus.

Tomorrow we descend the caldera!

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Tanzania - Part 6

2009-10-14T06:09:00.000-07:00

UPLOAD TANZANIA

DOWNLOAD KENYA

BRING LOTS OF MONEY!

BORDER BREAKFAST

CRESTED CRANES

BYE BYE KILIMANJARO

BYE BYE ELEPHANTS

It’s a bright sunshiny morning as we upload our luggage into the minivan and say ‘Bye-Bye’ to Amboseli National Park. But first we have to stop for a few more photos. Amboseli is definitely the best place in Kenya to take elephant pictures. And the birds aren’t too shabby either. I love the crested cranes!

Then it’s time to hit the road. Back across dusty Lake Kilimanjaro and onto the single- track dirt-road to the park entrance. At the gate, we wait in the van for Robinson to pay the exit fees. Rena scores three really nice necklaces of hammered copper and tiny glass beads from some Masai Mamas. Margaret and Jon resist the hard sell by rolling up the windows and looking the other way. But I am careful to make eye contact with each vendor and apologetically shrug shoulders while gently saying, “Hapana pesa, pole.” (‘sorry out of money’ in Swahili). I’m trying my best to dispel the impression that all foreigners are harsh. The Masai must marvel at how threatened mzungu’s are by markets and bargaining. I find that a kind look costs nothing and is greatly appreciated, wherever one travels.

From the park entrance it’s a one-hour drive to the border at Mahanga. Outside Mahanga, we stop at a lovely café for breakfast. I spring for some mandazi – the square donuts of East Africa . Everyone else is afraid of food poisoning but I overdose on hot, sugary fried dough. Lucky for me, I’m protected by a cast iron stomach and the doxycycline antibiotic that I take to prevent malaria. (Incidentally, the Swahili word for diarrhea is tchi-tchi-tchi. I believe it’s onomatopoetic for the sound of thick liquid dropping into a pit latrine.)

At the border we have to change everything – our minivan for a 4-WD Range Rover and our drivers and money for their Tanzanian equivalents. We soon find out that everything in Tanzania is more expensive than in Kenya – beginning with the visa to enter the country. In Kenya a visa costs $50 as you enter – in Tanzania it’s double that! But only for Americans! At first I thought we were singled out because we’re supposed to be wealthy. The real explanation is that America charges the most of any country in the world for its entry visas. So Tanzania, Brazil and a few other countries are asking Americans to pay tit-for tat at their borders. Payback is a b**ch!

After emptying our wallets of major moolah, we cross the border. (and find that lunch in Arusha, Tanzania is twice as expensive as in Mahanga, Kenya.). If you go on safari in Tanzania be sure to bring lots of cash.

Tanzania travel tip #1 :) On second thought, the next time I cross into Tanzania maybe I'll take off my underwear, don a plaid blanket and hike across with the Masai. There are benefits to being a member of a traditional tribe that has never been conquered, doesn't believe in school, and has no concept of borders. The Masai just follow their herds and if the animals head south from Kenya into Tanzania - so be it.

Tanzania travel tip #2 :) Many places in East Africa will only change U.S. bills Series 2006 or later. Apparently, counterfeiters have a much easier time making fake bills to match earlier Series. We had to go to three banks in Amesbury to find $1000 in Series 2006 spending money to bring with us! (By the way, paying with plastic is OK in Nairobi but not common anywhere else in East Africa.)

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Meet the Masai - Part 5

2009-09-16T19:02:00.000-07:00

One small Leap for a Man

One Giant Leap for everyone Else

Honored Guests
Tough Competition - Peter is on the left

They're not Kidding!

Before heading to the Tanzania border, I meet a Masai named Peter in the hotel lobby.
Being a wee more than a wee bit Scots (the new-world Beans of North America are a black sheep offshoot of the Clan McBain), I feel a shared bond with this tall warrior wearing a red tartan blanket and no underwear.

I offer the traditional greeting to my new-found kinsman:
“Eyeh, Sopa!” (How are you?) I intone.
“Eyeh, Hepa,”(Fine and you) replies Peter.

This greeting in the Maa language, is followed by the traditional queries:
“How are your children?”
“And how are your cattle?”
(These comprise the two main measures of Masai wealth.)
“My cows and children are well,” says Peter.
I tell him my children are fine too and lie about the cattle.
(Although once upon a time I did own a small herd of Hereford's. But that, as they say, is another story.)

By and bye, Peter invites me and my clan to an exhibition of traditional Masai dancing.
Jon, Margaret, Rena and I march single-file from the pool area to a shaded dance floor where the bare earth is packed hard and smooth. We are greeted by 4 women and 5 men all in traditional Masai plaids.

The women garland us with fine Masai beadwork and we are led to seats as the honored guests. The Masai Moran (warriors) enter with spears and whisks to begin their low, rhythmic, hypnotic chant.

Then the jumping starts. Each Masai warrior takes a turn doing serial leaps as high as he can.
“Wow, these guys can really jump,” whispers Jon.
“Not bad,” I agree. “But watch this.”
I call Peter over. Before long I'm in with the dancers.
At 5 feet 10, I'm the short guy in the back row.
As the chant progresses I work my way to the front. It's show time!

OK! Now for the big jump. One, two, three – Heppa!
That's one small leap for a man, (and no great leap for mankind, either).
I cast a glance at my fellow dancers.
Most of the Moran are smiling. Perhaps it is in appreciation. More likely they are whispering softly to each other in Maa, “It's true what they say - The white guys can't jump.”

I get a more honest response from the front row of the gallery where I have obviously impressed the royalty. Milady Margaret is laughing herself silly and her handmaiden Rena is about to pee in her pants. We buy sodas for all the guys and contribute a thousand shillings to the Moran’s 'Children and Cattle Welfare' fund.

“I love watching the Masai drink Coca Cola. It's just like the commercials on TV!” enthuses Rena as we head to the van.

Robinson puts the pedal to the metal and we're on our way to Tanzania. The road signs are looking more ominous. It's rough, it's dusty, it's an adventure.

DAKTARI

Africa 2009-Amboseli Game Drive- Part 4

2009-09-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

LION WATCHERS
LION LOVERS
WHAT MAMMALS DO BEST BEER FOR BREAKFAST?
HAPPY TRAILS

The game drive at Amboseli starts promptly at 7:30 AM. We have no further brushes with squirrel monkeys or other varmints and after our coffee and cake we assemble in the trusty Toyota van to see what the rest of the park has to offer.

Our driver, Robinson, is a whiz at birds. On our way in to the gamepark, we spot a lilac breasted roller, a black bellied bustard and two spur winged plovers. I can’t tell one avian from another but I love the names!

One of our first sightings of the morning is two lions humping. Never seen that before! I'm reminded once again that on my 13 visits to East Africa, I’ve seen lions doing lots of different things, but I’ve never actually seen a lion kill anything. What’s with that? Where is ‘nature red in tooth and claw’?

In fact, as I reflect further, I’ve never seen any animal murders at all in my 20 years of visiting East Africa. It makes me wonder, why are real-life safaris so different from the usual serial killings that one watches on National Geographic specials or Animal Planet shows?

Rather than predator versus prey, mostly what we see on safari is lions making babies and lots and lots of breast feeding. We see baby elephants, baby wildebeests, baby zebra and their lactating Moms. Maybe Darwin and his followers have it all wrong! Maybe the survival of the species doesn’t depend so much on how great a hunter your Daddy is but on how great a nurser your Mommy is. That’s why Mammals are us. And Tyrannosauri are extinct. In which case, we humans would be wise to spend more of our resources improving the quality of our support for nursing mothers rather than beefing up our military might. Call it the “Boob Theory” of evolution! Just think, if Darwin had been a woman, perhaps ‘survival of the fittest’ would have a whole different meaning. It may be only a theory -- but I like it. Go mammals!

After the game drive, we arrive back at the Serena Lodge for a hearty safari breakfast. Gotta love those fresh mangos! There's no Kenya AA coffee for the young ones however. Seems like they've discovered the pleasure of Tusker for brunch. After breakfast, the expedition splits up – most of our fellow travelers head back to Nairobi where they will catch a plane to Kisumu and eventually meet the truckload of luggage in Esabalu village.

Next stop for John, Margaret, Rena and me is the Tanzania border for more safari adventures. A sign on the track to the border promises a bit of rough travel ahead! As does the sign on our Tanzanian land-rover – “It’s rough, it’s dusty, it’s an adventure.”

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 -Mugged by a Monkey- Part 3

2009-08-28T03:23:00.000-07:00

SCENE OF THE CRIME- PATIO AT AMBOSELI
THE PRIME SUSPECT-LOOKING INNOCENT
SQUIRREL MONKEYS CAN BE SCARY-ESPECIALLY AT NIGHT!

“God, it’s still the middle of the night!”

As usual jet lag has me wide awake, brain humming at 5:00 AM.
Then I remember the young Masai warrior who showed us to our rooms last night.

“There is always fresh coffee on the verandah 24 hours per day and seven days in a week,” he proudly intoned.

“Just what your average Mzungu tourist needs to hear at 5 AM,” I think to myself.

Slipping into my standard issue African flip-flops, I quietly open the hut door and let myself out into the pitch black African night. Far away, a wildebeest coughs. Otherwise complete silence. Brandishing my outsized room key as a weapon, I flick the switch on my trusty pocket torch and stumble down the path to the main lodge.

“Ah, Heaven,” I exclaim. The hearty aroma of Kenya AA wafts from a steaming urn at one end of the patio. I remember what my grandfather used to say about Maxwell House back on the family farm in New Raymer, Colorado. “Hotter than the devil, blacker than hell and good to the last drop.”

I fill two earthen mugs with Kahawa moto (hot coffee), maziwa (cream) and sukari and head back up the path to surprise my hutmate. John passes me on the way back and inhales deeply.

“Fresh coffee on the verandah,” I say quietly, pointing toward the patio.

Back in the hut, Rena is not a happy camper, but she soon revives and starts packing a bag for the morning game drive. Binocs, camera, sunblock, water, hat, etc.
Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream issues from just outside our hut. Margaret and I burst from our respective rooms at the same time.

There’s John, drenched in coffee and shaking his fist at the rain gutter on our hut.
We look up to see a very small, very happy squirrel monkey stuffing pound cake into its mouth with both hands.

“I’ve been mugged by a monkey!” yells John. Choice but ineffectual epithets fly toward the little thief on the roof who shakes one fist and curses right back. Margaret and I are laughing really hard. No sympathy for poor John.

“Good thing lions don’t like pound cake, “ I chortle. “You might have been a goner.”

“I guess there’s no harm done,” admits John. “From now on I’ll eat my cake first, before I head back to the hut.”
DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Amboseli = White Dust - Part II

2009-08-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

KILIMANJARO
RENA RESTING IN OUR THATCHED HUT

OSTRICH FOR DINNER ANYONE?

'SWAMPY' THE ELEPHANT

SUNSET DE JOUR

ROOMKEYS - DOES SIZE COUNT??

White dust. That’s what Amboseli means in the local Maa language. As we go off road across the dried remains of Lake Amboseli, our van kicks up huge plumes of white dust. Lake Amboseli is 15 km long and fills with water in the rainy season. Now in the dry season it’s completely evaporated, leaving miles and miles of thick white dust. We pass Masai women wrapped in their colorful plaid blankets trudging patiently in this harsh environment. High in the background, floats the white cap of Kilimanjaro. It is positively surreal, tiny human figures in a lunar landscape. Where on earth can they possibly be going?

The white dust is deposited by glacial runoff from the snows of Kilimanjaro. Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa. It rises three and a half mile from the dusty Njaro plains. Its snow- covered volcanic peak is the second largest mountain in the solar system, only dwarfed by Olympus Mons on Mars for sheer geologic bulk.

“Wow! That’s some mountain !” enthuses John.

“So you say!” I demure. “It’s not even considered a mountain by the locals.”

“What do you mean- not a mountain?” John swallows the bait.

“Well, the name is a kind of an in-joke in Swahili.” I explain. “It’s a play on words. Lima means hill, the diminutive prefix ki- indicates it’s a small hill, and Njaro is the dust –filled plain we are driving across right now. Put it all together and you have ‘little hill on the prairie’ or Kilimanjaro.”

After the white dust of the lakebed, the Amboseli Serena lodge is an oasis.
Cute little monkeys frolic on the grounds as we are led to our individual bungalows. Each bungalow has a thatched roof, a hot shower and beautiful murals painted on the white-washed walls. How delightful.

We arrive late and take a curtailed game drive to see elephants belly-deep in swampy mud while the sun sets over the acacias. This sure makes up for a lot of white dust! The dining hall has murals too – John sits with his back to a wall decorated with a somewhat disconcerting mural featuring an ostrich’s derriere!

After dinner we sit on the verandah as groups of animals follow a game path from the watering hole to the savannah. The path passes not 40 yards from our table and floodlights from the hotel illuminate the most astonishing parade of antelope and zebra. Thompson’s gazelle, waterbuck, wildebeast, and zebra pass in a continuous, silent tableau – 20 or 30 animals at a time. A true “garden of eden” moment. We relax into primeval revery. East Africa – my 13th trip and always there is something new.

Returning to our rooms, we pick up our undeniably phallic room keys at the front desk.
“It would be hard to walk out of the hotel with this in your pocket,” I quip to John. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the staff.”

“Or the animals,” John laughs.

Our fair lady wives just roll their eyes. But we’re in Africa and we’re having fun.
It’s rough! It’s dusty! It’s an adventure!
DAKTARI

Africa 2009- The Adventure Begins - Part 1

2009-08-07T06:53:00.000-07:00

Margaret in need of a Shoehorn
Harriet & Irene at Kenyatta Airport- Sisters with Stuff!

We all made it to East Africa -hour 23 of our trip

One ton of Luggage in a two ton Truck

I am so psyched. First, of all to be blogging again after a long hiatus (nothing since May 7th). And secondly, to be writing about my favorite continent Africa. In the next series of blogs Rena and I will be touring Tanzania and Kenya searching for wild game, world peace and the Garden of Eden. We’ll be joined by our good friends and travel companions, Jon and Margaret, Lowell. (You may remember them from our expedition to Santorini last fall!) This adventure takes place June 8-22, 2009. Enjoy.
******************

Our trip to Africa begins 12 hours ahead of our scheduled departure with a little time zone confusion (i.e. jet lag). This is to be expected when traveling 1/3 of the way around the globe. But usually it occurs after a long jet flight and not before.

Anyway, our limo driver shows up at 6 AM and politely stands on his horn to alert the neighborhood that something is up. I have already gone to the office to tidy up my desk for a long and potentially dangerous journey to the wooley wilds of East Africa. (I always imagine I’ll feel better coming back to a clean desk. It never happens but one can only hope. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, etc.)

Rena runs downstairs in her jammies to confront the driver.
“We asked for the limo to come at 6 PM,” she expostulates.
“It doesn’t say that here – it says 6 AM,” the disgruntled driver replies waving a piece of paper.
“Well, that piece of paper is wrong,” Rena starts laughing. “Come back in 12 hours please.”
The interview ends with an unhappy limo driver trying to peel rubber while backing out of our driveway in a Dodge Caravan. Hopefully he will be more gruntled next time (if there is a next time). What if he doesn’t come back?? Oh no!

Our trip is off to a very early start! By the time I arrive home, Rena, Jon and Margaret are up and preparing a nice breakfast. The rising sun is shining on the back-deck overlooking the pool and the Powow River. The River provides a suitable lush jungle backdrop for our departure to Africa. A pair of Great Blue Herons adds to the primordial ambiance. I’ve always dreamed of having a remote controlled submarine in the shape of a full-size hippo that I could launch from my dock to patrol the river and surprise hikers and kayakers as they pass by. Now that’s what I call ambiance! Maybe I’ll get working on it after I retire.

The limo driver’s partner shows up at 6 PM sharp and we load the Caravan with 12 bags plus carry-ons and us. The luggage barely fits – poor Margaret is crammed in the back with all that stuff and may need a snorkel just to breathe.

The reason we have so much is that we’re traveling on missionary airline tickets which allow three 50 pound bags for each traveler. We are packing medical supplies, school supplies, gifts and lots of kids shoes donated by the Timberland Kids, Company. That’s 1200 plus pounds of passengers and luggage.
There is no question of peeling out in these circumstances. We barely chug up the hill to the main road!

“What the hey,” I ask rhetorically. “Did either Stanley or Livingston travel light? What’s good enough for Teddy Roosevelt is good enough for us.”

Check-in is a bear! I win the contest for the piece of luggage closest to the limit – 49.5 pounds for my black duffel with the school supplies.

The trip is roughly 8000 miles beginning with an overnight flight to London. In Heathrow’s brand new Terminal 5, we meet up with the rest of our expedition- eight more travelers with another 1350 pounds of luggage. There’s a tense moment as final boarding begins. The last member of our party, Kimberly Edwards, of Boulder, Colorado hasn’t arrived from Denver! Kimberly joins me just as the gate is closing. All aboard!

At last we’re on our way: a daytime flight across the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Sahara and the Rift Valley to Nairobi. For scenery, it’s my favorite flight of all. With luck we’ll see the glaciers shining in moonlight on 17,000 foot Mt. Kenya as we make our final approach. The next stop is Jomo Kenyatta Airport.

DAKTARI

Update on Norman - May 7, 2009

2009-05-07T15:34:00.000-07:00

Thumbs up from Norman

Treading Water

Swimming

Fishing for the Big One

You may recall the story of Norman, who received open heart surgery for a valve replacement thanks to Dad's generosity. (See "Memories of Dad -part III") Here's the latest photos of Norman 8 months post surgery together with a report from Patti at Capstone Ministries.

"On the 23rd of December I put a mark on the wall inside our pantry to measure Norman's height. On the 25th of April I measured and marked again. Norman has grown 1 1/2 inches in 4 months!! Another boy who has been part of our family here since early 2002 is Bennard. "Beno" (a former street boy) is schooling in Mombasa and comes home during the school breaks. He has been home since early April. He and Norman have really bonded.

Beno loves to work in the yard, so he and I had a lot of "remodel" projects in the past few weeks. After class time Norman would help. He was able to carry large rocks, push the wheel barrow full of cow dung, he transplanted flowers and used the hoe. I'm amazed at his strength. He is such a happy boy now.

I hope Norman will participate in working his father's shamba the same way he helped here. I just pray that his father will work WITH him and not just send him out to do the work. Norman loved going out and helping my husband Dan with harvesting the moringa trees....his joy is in the fellowship which makes the work fun.

Norman's father Alex still needs counseling to come out of a dependancy attitude (so common to Kenya). When Alex was here last he told me that I had promised him many things. I had to clarify that when we talk about hopes and dreams, about what is possible,...these are not "promises". Capstone's purpose and vision is to restore the child back to the family and to help the family to function together ...NOT to promise them things.

Alex somehow had the impression that we would put in a well for him. I told him that if he needs a well then it's up to him to proceed, to do what he can and if he finds a roadblock then Capstone will consider how to assist...but that is not a promise. This is one of our greatest challenges and the reason that Dan and I often remain in the background.... when people see the mzungu (white people) they think there is a lot of money so automatically the hand of begging goes out. We are here to empower - first spiritually - and to assist physically if necessary but NOT to create a greater sense of dependancy.

Another cute story.....Norman decided he wanted to try his luck at catching a talapia (fish) from our pond. Beno set him up with a hook, a line and a piece of styrafoam for a bobber. In one day he caught 4 large talapia. Talk about a boy in heaven!! The next morning he went out early and caught another one....but then he realized he didn't ask permission to fish again so he threw it back and came and asked me if he could fish. I really laughed that he was so faithful and tried to undo his mistake. I think he finally caught the same fish again. Now it's time to restock the pond.

So, thats some of the inside info on Norman. Norman will return to the Doctor in early July for another ECHO on his heart. Then we'll see him again for the Capstone Camp in August. I envision Dan and I taking the "grandparent" role and having Norman visit during the school breaks. We won't go to visit him in his home because our presence will create problems among the villagers who see the white people coming. Home visits will be made by the Capstone staff. I've really grown to love this boy. I grow to love all our boys as I get to know them at the Transition Center but with Norman it has become a very special bond. I try to guard my heart and not become too attached but with Norman that was impossible...I'm attached."

Patty

(quoted from Patty Schmelzer's email with permission)

Memories of Dad V - Requiem

2009-05-03T18:48:00.000-07:00

DAD IN HIS FAVORITE CAR -1967 JAGUAR XKE
WEDDING PHOTO 1946

FULL MILITARY HONORS -FEB 17, 2009

ONE GIANT LEAP FOR A MAJOR

Dad passed away on February 5, 2009 and was buried with full military honors at Fort Logan National Cemetary, Denver, Colorado on February 17, 2009
****************************

Obituary for My Dad

Last night at 10:40 PM Manley Lafayette Bean, USAF Retired,
a reluctant warrior and former Arkansas farm-boy,
kicked the traces.

With Pegasus high overhead, the former Air Force major
relinquished his tight hold on the flying trapeze,
leaped to the horse's back,
grabbed a handful of celestial mane
and soared past the astonished moon to parts unknown.

At 1:26AM, his one and only son lights two candles.
"Bye Dad," says Mark with a tear.
“Safe journey and a happy landing."

At 3:30 AM the Angel of Transformation makes her rounds.
"Bye caterpillar," the Angel says softly
A new butterfly flutters
"Bye tadpole," the Angel says softly.
A tiny frog croaks.

At 4:00 AM the cries of newborn babies fill the skies.
The Angel smiles softly.
Feb 5,2009

Full Military Honors

A perfect “V” of geese flies close formation
Whipped by the fierce west wind.
White caps break upon the lake
Under a windswept sky.

The Angel of Surrender and Release
Stands to attention.
Eight mourners, eyes front,
Witness the careful folding of the flag.

My gaze transfixed upon a square of light.
A single withered leaf glowing in the sun.
I glance away. The airman gives the flag to Mom.
I look back. The withered leaf is gone.

I do not see the shovel
Nor hear the earth upon the casket lid.
The bugle sounds farewell.
Rifles ring out piercing my windswept heart.

I surrender, wings furled, dropping like a shot.
The flight of geese does not break rank.
They carry on.
Can I?
March 7, 2009 Daktari

Memories of Dad IV - Last Story

2009-04-29T06:32:00.001-07:00

Dad and Me - February 2006
Me and my Folks

I’d like to share one last story about my Dad. And it really is the last story.

February 3, 2009

This morning, Mom, my sister Susan and I meet with the medical team. Dad has been hooked up to a BIPAP machine for breathing. This is a plastic bubble that fits over his face and is pressurized so that the lungs are blown open and oxygenation is better. Dad is struggling with it and I think he would be better without it. It’s a stressful meeting but eventually everyone agrees. The bubble should come off. If nothing else it will allow Dad to talk and let us know what he really wants us to do.

We re-group in Dad’s room and the nurse unhooks the BIPAP machine and takes off the bubble. She puts Dad on plain oxygen. Dad’s first words are, “What a relief!” Within minutes he is talking with Mom, Susan and me.

“Hey,” I think. “ Pulling the plug isn’t as sad as I thought. No question this is what Dad wants.”

We talk about the good old days. Dad gets reports on all the relatives – especially Sophie and Norman, the Kenyan boy with the new heart valves. We talk about the barbershop we used to go to and Dad remembers the barber’s name – Bill Wilkins.

Dad tells us all about the recent salmonella peanut butter scare, including where the manufacturing plant is located. Apparently, being in a coma is no excuse for missing out on the latest fear-mongering from CNN.

I tell him stupid jokes and we laugh together.
Two termites walk into a pub and one asks: ‘Is the bar tender here?’
How much did they pay Johnny Depp to have his ears pierced for “Pirates of the Caribbean”? A buccaneer.

My favorite image is when Susan and I leave the room to go out to lunch. We look back and see Mom and Dad holding hands and looking at each other. Wow!

By evening, it’s just me and my Dad in the hospital room. I call the nurse to help get him up in a chair.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I ask.
“Ice cream,” Dad whispers and he winks at me conspiratorially.
I score a couple of vanilla Hoodsies from the fridge in the visitors lounge and we sit watching ‘Star Trek’ while he takes small bites of the ice cream. It’s doubly delicious because we have to keep hiding it from the nurses. He’s not supposed to have anything to eat. We feel like playful small boys pulling a fast one on the authorities.

Play and adventure – that’s how we show the God of Monkeys and Apes that we are still alive, even when our hearts are breaking, our wings are drooping and we’re about to lose our grip and fall off life’s trapeze. . .

February 4, 2009

It’s 10:40 PM and I am asleep, caught in the throes of an angry dream. In the dream I have to go somewhere, but my shoes are missing. I know exactly where I left them and they’re not there. Someone has stolen my shoes. I am so mad.

The phone rings and it’s my sister. Dad has taken a turn for the worse. He’s going fast.
I wake Mom but she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so I go in alone.

Before getting in the car, I look up at the mountain sky, always so bright and clear. The great square of Pegasus is directly overhead and a brilliant half-moon is sailing in the sky beneath.

By the time I get to the hospital Dad is gone. It’s peaceful and OK. Hugs and sadness.
Then on the way back from the hospital, I remember the shoe dream.

“Dad and I always wore the same size – 8 ½ D,” I recall.
Suddenly a light-bulb fires off in my brain.
”Holy smokes,” I realize. “That guy who stole my shoes in the dream must have been Dad!”
“And he didn’t take just one. He took both of them.”
I start to laugh and tears fill my eyes, as I realize that wherever he is going, Dad needs two shoes size 8 ½ D. (Dad had his right leg amputated in a bus accident in 2004.)

The next day I tell Susan my shoe dream. She also had a dream the night Dad died.
My sister dreamed that she and Dad were walking down the street and she suddenly realized that he was walking on both legs! She was happy he wasn’t in a wheelchair in her dream.

“Did you happen to get a look at his shoes?” I ask.

“Not really,” Susan replies.

Take that, you God of Monkeys and Apes!
Manley, the one-legged shoe thief, strikes again.

Things I miss - Memories of Dad III

2009-04-20T17:03:00.000-07:00

Norman Boarding Plane to Nairobi
Patty and Norman

Norman with his Dad Alex after Surgery

Things I Miss

I miss Dad’s words of wisdom and gentle advice. Like Mr. Rogers , he knew how to use a few words wisely. “Simpler is better,” as Mr. Rogers used to say.

I miss his kindness and courage , too. He cared about his family, his country, the work he did and the employees who worked for him. He cared a lot about politics and was happy to have lived to see Obama sworn in as President.

Dad even cared about people he never met and didn’t even know. Last August, after he had moved from his condo to the Frasier Meadows Nursing Home, I visited Dad in Boulder to see how things were going. He was busy getting the sink lowered, hooking his computer up to WiFi and organizing a hunger strike among his fellow inmates to get pot roast instead of steak tartare served at Sunday dinner.

We were sitting around in his room when he said, “You know, I would really like to do something in Africa.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Something that would help someone who needs a hand,” Dad replied. “I know your project in Kenya does a lot of good and I would like to help.”

“You could make a donation to one of our programs,” I offered. “Maybe electricity for the health center or books for the reading program.”

“That would be OK, I guess,” said Dad dubiously. “But I would really like to do something more personal. Maybe you can think of an individual who really needs my help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.

A little while after this conversation, I received an email from a friend and fellow Rotarian, Dan Schmelzer in Kisumu, Kenya. Dan and his wife Patty run a program to re-patriate street boys in Kisumu to their families of origin. A homeless street boy will stay at Dan and Patty’s for up to six months while his family is located and contact between parent and child is re-established. The family is enabled to take care of their returning son – financially, emotionally and spiritually. And finally the prodigal son returns home.

Norman was one of these boys. Dan had written because Norman needed a heart operation to replace two badly damaged heart valves. At age 12 Norman had been banished from his home by his father for ‘laziness’. Alex, Norman's father, complained that he would send the boy to school and Norman would never get there. He would tell him to sweep the compound at home and 10 minutes later Norman would be sitting under a tree with the job only half done. “I can’t have a son who is lazy and good for nothing,” said Norman’s Dad.

To Patty, Norman seemed genuinely sorry that he couldn’t do his Dad’s bidding.
“He says you’re lazy,” she told the boy.
“I’m not lazy. I’m just tired,” replied Norman. “I’m so tired that I can’t walk as far as the school. When I work in the compound I become out of breath and have to sit down.”

Patty and Dan took the boy to a doctor who did an X-ray of Norman’s chest. His heart was ‘as big as a soccer ball’ they were told. They took Norman and his father to Nairobi to see the most famous heart surgeon at Nairobi Hospital. They were told that Norman was in congestive heart failure and wouldn’t live a year without surgery to replace two of his four heart valves. The operation would cost $4,000 and that didn’t include the cost of the valves.

So Dan was emailing Rotarians that he knew in the U.S., to ask for money to give Norman a heart operation. So far, Rotarians in Denver had convinced St. Francis Hospital to donate two state-of-the-art bio-prosthetic heart valves for free. But they had only raised $500 of the money needed for the surgery. He was writing because, despite medications, Norman’s condition was worse. Norman needed an operation right away.

I called Dad on the phone and told him the situation.
“I can do that,” he said. “Where do I send the money.”

My sister arranged to wire transfer $3500 to Barclay’s Bank in Kenya. Norman, Alex and Patty flew to Nairobi. The operation was a success. Now Norman has a new heart and is enrolled in school. He can play soccer and enjoys reading. He only reads at a second grade level and he is very small for his age, but he is learning and growing rapidly.

Norman and Dad never met one another. I’m hoping to visit Norman when I travel to Kenya in June. I’m sure Dad will be happy when that moment comes. Thanks to my Dad’s ‘open hearted’ charity, a new life has opened up for Norman and his Dad. Norman has a new heart and Alex has a son who will never be lazy again.

In the Mishna Torah, the great doctor/rabbi, Maimonides describes eight levels of giving charity to others. At the highest level a man gives his own coat to another who he does not know and he who receives it does not know the one who has given him the coat.

When I think of my Dad, I will always remember that even while facing his own approaching illness and death, he was able to reach out and give the gift of life to someone he didn’t even know. Somewhere in Africa a small boy is running and a father is watching. Thanks to my Dad.
DAKTARI

Memories of Dad II - Make a Friend

2009-03-23T04:45:00.000-07:00

My Dad just after WWII -First Lieutenant
Sister Susan and Me - on our way to France

Quonset Hut Schoolhouse

After France, the Bean family moved to Fort Worth, Texas where Dad worked at Carswell Air Force Base. It was 1956 – the start of the Cold War. The biggest bombers of them all , the B52’s carrying hydrogen bombs, took off at all hours of the day and night. The sign at the base entrance said "Strategic Air Command: Peace is our Profession".

Our trip back was pleasant – a first class cabin on the S.S. United States from Cherbourg to New York. There was one frightening episode the first day out. The lifeboat drill alarm sounded when I was by myself. and I thought the ship was sinking. Otherwise it was smooth sailing. My sister, Susan, and I loved the Spanish melon in the dining room. It was Easter in the North Atlantic complete with an on-board Easter Egg hunt for kids.

Driving a new Buick from New York to Texas was an experience. My sister, Susan, worried the whole way about our new school. She was afraid no one would speak French!
She was right, they didn’t.

Our school in France held 35 students in six grades . One teacher for grades 1,2 and 3. And one for 4,5 and 6. The two classrooms were housed in a small Quonset hut on the army base in Sampigny, about 8 miles from St. Mihiel. Each classroom had a coal stove for heat in the winter and there were no flush toilets – just latrines at the back of the playground. A military ambulance picked us up and delivered us to school each day. By the time I left France for ‘home’, I had only had one teacher since first grade.

The day I entered the 4th grade at Castleberry Elementary School in Fort Worth was a complete culture shock. It was a two story building with 600 kids. I knew no one. There were 25 kids in my classroom and one teacher. She seemed OK. At the first opportunity, my classmates were delighted to show me the state regulation classroom paddle on a hook next to the blackboard. That was for the bad kids I was told. I wondered how many bad kids went to school in Texas if every teacher needed a paddle to defend herself. The alarm bells for recess and lunchtime reminded me of the lifeboat drill on the Titanic. I was petrified!

That night when I went home, I cried and cried.

“I don’t want to go to school,” I bawled.

Dad came into my room and knelt down next to the bed.

“I know it’s hard,” Dad said.
“Don’t worry, Listen and I’ll tell you what to do.”
Then he gave me these words of advice.
“Tomorrow, when you go to school you only have to do one thing,” he advised. “Make a friend. That’s all just make a friend.”

The next day, I did what he said - I made a new friend. Dad was right. I definitely felt better and after a while I knew I would be OK in my new school. Since then, whenever I’m in a new situation, I remember Dad’s advice and look for a friend. It worked for him, and it works for me too.

DAKTARI

Memories of Dad I - March 8, 2009

2009-03-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Manley Lafayette Bean - (Feb 20, 1921- Feb 4, 2009)
U.S. Army- Fort Logan, Colorado
April 17, 1943

Our Chateau in St. Mihiel, France -1954-56

Manley L. Bean, 87, of Lafayette, Colorado died peacefully on February 4, 2009 after a long illness. Born February 20, 1921 in Clarksville, Arkansas, he joined the U.S. Army in 1937 and served in WWII and the Korean Conflict. He married his wife Geraldine Bowles of Fort Morgan in 1946. He retired from the Air Force in 1958 and moved to Colorado where he attended C.U. He graduated with an M.B.A. and worked for many years as Comptroller at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder. Manley then joined the private sector to become a Vice President of Neoplan, USA. He helped to plan and build the Neoplan bus manufacturing plant at Lamar.

(This is the first of a series of memories of DAD.)

My first memories of Dad go back to our time in St. Mihiel, France – 1954-1956
Dad was a Captain in the U.S. Air Force and commanded an ammunition depot on the Meuse River in Northern France. Mom, Susan and I arrived about three months into his first command. For the next three years, it was just the four of us living on the second floor of a villa in this small French town.

Our villa had previously been the headquarters of the German commandant during the occupation. The house had bunkers in the basement, blackout paint on the windows and carrier pigeons in the dovecote to remind us that D-Day had happened just a decade before.

We had no TV. I remember listening to the English language Armed Services Radio at night in the living room of our small chateau. Before bed, Dad and I would play a game of dominoes while listening to Lawrence Welk or Captain America. Dad and dominoes taught me how to add numbers in my head. I’ve been blessed with good math skills ever since.

I remember my first trip to the local ‘salon de coiffeur’. I am 7 years old and Dad is taking me for my first ‘store-bought’ haircut. Prior to this outing, Mom always cut my hair at home.

Monsieur le barbier places a board over the leather armrests of the big barber chair. I clamber aboard. A large serviette is tucked around my neck and secured with a straight pin. The shop is not electrified. I sit bolt upright and scared stiff. Dad watches from the row of chairs. I can see my head in the mirror. The barber squeezes his clippers – snick, snack. They open and shut a few inches from my ear. I close my eyes so as not to see any blood.

Fortunately, the barber is a pro, comme il le fait Edouard Scissorhands. No nicks and no red-stuff. The manual clippers pinch, however, if I flinch even the tiniest bit. After an eternity the barber whips off the drape with a loud “Voila, c’est finis!”. I open my eyes. I’m still alive! “Merci beaucoups!” I exclaim in relief. Dad takes me to the confiserie for a bonbon as a reward for bravery under fire.

The second trip to the barber was not nearly as bad. For the rest of my childhood and adolescence, haircuts will be a guy thing – something Dad and I always do together. I always go first, then Dad. I read ‘Boys Life’ and ‘Field and Stream’ while I wait patiently for him to finish. My hairstyle hasn’t changed since I was 7 years old. I still comb it the way Dad taught me. I will always remember him every time I run a comb through my hair.

(By the way, you can still purchase a flask of Vitalis at your local Walgreens. I did last week just to refesh my memory of the barbershops of my youth. The odor hasn’t changed a bit. It’s a time-travel-in-a-bottle experience for just six bucks and change.)

At eight, Dad and I collect stamps together. He likes American and Greek stamps. I like Mozambique and Tanganyika. We both like the smell of carbon tetrachloride. We pour the ‘carbon-tet’ into a small black tray and this allows us to see the ‘secret’ watermarks that show through the special paper from which stamps are made. It’s a protection against unscrupulous stamp forgers (if there ever was such a thing). The black letters and symbols are like a magic secret code revealed only to us numismatists in our private laboratory.

Later, I lick the glassine stamp hinge and place it carefully on the upper 1/3 of the back of my new stamp with special stamp tweezers. Then I lick the long end of the hinge and apply it carefully to the stamp album, attaching the stamp in its proper place among the stamps of its own country. “Any job worth doing, is worth doing well,” says Dad. “Good job.”

These colored stamps bring the world to me and my Dad. At night, I dream of traveling to faraway places. I’ve never stopped. I’ve been to Greece and will be going to Tanzania this summer. I’ve not yet made it to Mozambique, but it’s on my list.

DAKTARI

Mature Gent Conquers Flying Trapeze & Vice Versa - January 25, 2009

2009-02-01T13:41:00.000-08:00

DON'T LOOK DOWN DAKTARI
LYDIA WITH TRAINER JACK

JACK UNBOLTS EMMA FROM THE SAFETY ROPES

DAKTARI FLIES AGAIN!

Some years ago (I think it was the late Pleistocene but I’m not really sure) the primates who inhabit our current planet descended to the savannah from their ancestral trees and stopped swinging through them. Except, that is, for a very few fearless latter day apes who have refused to totally abandon the ancient art of brachiation.

I am referring, of course, to the New York Trapeze School with ‘branches’ in the Big Apple, the City of the Angels and Beantown. (And for some unknown reason the city of Baltimore – go figure.). Here, for just $25 American, humans can re-engage their inner Tarzan and experience the thrilling flights of our ancestral hominids.

I did exactly that last Sunday at NY Trapeze School Beantown. The trapeze school is in an over-the-top furniture store called Jordan’s at exit 39 in suburban Reading right on route 128. Jordan’s also features an IMAX theater, an indoor ice cream parlor, a jelly bean store, an extravaganza popcorn machine and a laser lighted musical fountain that fires off every 30 minutes. And that’s just in the lobby! They keep the furniture cleverly hidden in the back where it won’t distract the customers!!!

For this adventure, I am joined by 11 year old Lydia Peacock, her Dad and Lydia’s 11 year old friend Emma. Lydia, Emma and I suit up while Daddy Peacock signs waivers to the effect that in case his charges should break their tween-age necks the establishment will be held blameless. Unlike the instigator who will be blamed endlessly. (That would be me.)
“Damn your lawyers and full speed ahead,” cry I.

Mr. Peacock takes up position in the ice-cream parlor with the camera. The three remaining specimens of Homo sapiens sapiens are belted into safety harnesses whose eye-bolts are attached to ropes held by Trainer Jack on the ground. That way our trainer can slow our rate of descent to way below the speed of gravity should we, as they say, ‘auger in’.

We climb up three flights of industrial stairs – the see-through metal grid kind - while adrenaline begins to flood the higher centers. Being a gentleman, I allow all the younger flyers to go first. If they can do it, so can I. The youngest flyer is about 5 years old and short for his age. Unfortunately Evan is not able to reach the trapeze bar even when standing on tiptoes. Evan ignominiously departs from the platform with one of the staff. Nice try kiddo!

Next it’s Lydia and Emma’s turn. They perform flawlessly. Eleven is definitely the right age for this adventure.

Now it’s my turn. The thrill of my first swing can’t really be described. It’s just too much all at once. Here are the stages of the experience as best I remember:
1. First Stage: “Just put your toes at the very edge,” says the attendant. “I think my toes are at the edge,” I reply. Silly me. By the time Dan has positioned me to his satisfaction my metatarsals are dangling in the breeze.
2. Second Stage: “Don’t look down,” Dan says. I immediately look down and just as immediately recoil. Geezus that’s a long way down. The net looks about as wide as the backside of a beachgoer’s bikini on a hot day in Rio.
3. Third Stage: “Lean out and grasp the trapeze bar with both hands,” instructs Dan. The tips of my toes curl backwards trying to crawl to the platform through the front of my ankles. Somehow I manage to get my right hand on the trapeze and then my left.
4. Fourth Stage: “Don’t bend from the waist. Just lean straight forward,” Dan instructs. “You’ve got to be kidding!” I think. “ I know physics. That will put my center of gravity directly over – well to put it bluntly, absolutely nothing.” I note fierce growls of protest from the pit of my stomach as I assume the position of a 2x4 suspended over the void.
5. Fourth Stage: “When I say ‘hep’ take a small hop and you’ll be airborne,” exhorts Dan the Man. (‘Hep’ is trapeze lingo for “jump, you fool, jump!”). Dan sez, “Hep”. My brain says, “Hop.” My feet go on strike. They maintain their precarious perch on terra firma without any discernible upward motion. “Hmmm- that’s interesting,” I think. “Never before have my feet told my brain what to do!” Dan heps a few more times. I close my eyes and hop about an inch.
6. Fifth Stage: Woweeeee! I’m in the air swinging back and forth. Amazing. After a few swings, the trainer on the ground yells for me to let go. I kick hard, grab my knees and land on my back like an upside down cockroach. Not bad for a first attempt.
7. The Dismount – This is a counter-intuitive maneuver. I put my bellybutton on the edge of the net, grab the underside of the net by two loops which are about shoulder width apart, and do a front- somersault until my feet touch the ground.
8. The Adrenaline Rush is stupendous. My knees shake and almost buckle as they touch terra firma once again. I stagger off and my head fills with lightness and wonder! I take my pulse – 164 beats per minute.
9. The END – Say it isn’t so! NO WAY – this can’t possibly be the end. Immediately, the strange desire to leap once more seizes my brain by the hippocampus despite the protests of my frontal cortex. THIS IS WICKED FUN!!!! Lucky me – the $25 NY Trapeze school fee is good for two more tries. By the third try I almost nail a backflip and the trainer with the rope lets me accelerate all the way – the full 32 feet per second per second until I smack down in kneeling position. What a rush!

So, the final word to all my primate friends: “Practice your Tarzan yells and rush on down to Jordan’s Furniture ASAP for the thrill of a lifetime. Tell ‘em Daktari sent ya.”
Daktari
P.S. Don’t be surprised if your armpits ache the next day. No pain no gain with this one!
Here are two excellent links:
Trapeze School Videos

Trapeze (God-consciousness of the Great Apes)

Venice or Bust IX - Shopping in Europe

2009-01-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

SANTORINI SHOP
I CAN'T BELIEVE I SHOPPED A WHOLE GREEK ISLAND!

VENICE - SHOP WINDOW BY NIGHT

SOPHIE'S SHOPPING CART

MY NANA SAYS, "YOU'RE NEVER TOO YOUNG TO SHOP."

SHOPPING IN EUROPE

Hey all you shoppers! I’m not one myself, but being married to one qualifies me as something of a connoisseur. Here’s a few tips from our recent European splurge.
Rule #1 – Forget the price. You’re going to spend more than you ever thought. Don’t worry be happy.

Dubrovnik, Croatia
On a nice, sunny day Dubrovnik is paradise for shoppers’ husbands. Perhaps because outdoor cafes, ocean views, and other diversions entice away all but the most determined shoppers. Whatever!
Dubrovnik manages to strike the right balance for both buyers and sellers. The merchants are friendly and definitely not ‘hard sell’. Bargaining is allowed but not mandatory. Saying a few words in Croatian creates a genuine bridge of good feeling.
Best buys – lavendar and Italian leather goods. The former grows wild on the Dalmatian Coast while the latter is about 1/3 less than you would pay in Venice. Embroidered linens are reasonable also.

Kusadasi, Turkey
The sons of Artemis are indeed hard bargainers. Rena digs her heels in when faced with the hard sell, so I really didn’t have much to fear. Nevertheless you must play the game. For those who hate to negotiate a lower price – Turkey is not for you!

The Turks really enjoy it. They have a great sense of fun and appreciate a good joke as much as a successful negotiation. Even if no deal is struck – there are no hard feelings. Bargaining is a mental gymnastic like arm-wrestling. It’s definitely my kind of shopping:
“How about a nice leather jacket for the mister?” Romeo asks Rena.
(He is trying to enlarge the deal while he and Rena haggle over a pocketbook.)
“No thanks, I’m a vegetarian,” I chip in.
Big laugh all around.
If you’re not a vegetarian and enjoy bargaining, do buy a leather jacket. You’ll get a good deal. I think carpets are for experts only. Have fun trying on weird outfits. Enjoy baklava and coffee. Laugh a lot.

Santorini, Greece
Shopper’s paradise. Bring lots of euros and spend all of them. We happened to hit the island at the beginning of October when tourists are waning and prices are dropping. We found some good bargains.
Unique items include jewelry made from the lava that buried Atlantis. Gold jewelry in Byzantine style is also great.
Santorini is where shopper Rena finally met her limit. She shopped till she couldn’t walk another step. (see photo). We were waiting for the bus back from Oia to Fira. Even a donkey ride would have looked good by then!

Corfu, Greece
Do something else. It’s hard to get enthusiastic about kumquat liqueur.

Venice, Italy
To experience the sheer beauty and poetry of shopping (if there really is such a thing) shop Venice by night. I may be wrong, but I think the brilliantly lighted shop windows of the Rialto may be among the wonders of the modern world.

Imagine yourself in Venice 9:30 PM.-- Piazzas by moonlight, the footfalls and laughter of passersby, the smell of canals and the sea, the sound of classical violins from strolling troubadours. No streetlights, no motors, no horns. Moonlit waters lap the pier where your gondola awaits.

Suddenly a lighted window ahead! A shop displays its bounty of baroque party masks.
Imagination transports you to the 18th century. You’re in a world made for lovers, footpads and thieves. Lighted palazzos, costume balls and Casanova. One would have to be without a romantic bone in one’s body not to be affected by shopping in Venice at night.

Rena and I give it 10 stars as one of the best shopping experiences ever. And we spent absolutely nothing. How marvelous!

Daktari

Venice or Bust VIII - Viva Venezia!

2008-12-23T04:42:00.000-08:00

MARCO THE GONDOLIER
CANAL WITH WOODEN STRUCTURES

SEARCHING FOR BARGAINS IN THE RIALTO

BRIDE AND GROOM IN PIAZZA SAN MARCO

THE SNAKE MADE ME DO IT!

PARKING LOT AT THE ILE POMENI

VIVA VENEZIA

I just love the sound of Italian in the morning!
“Buon giorno,” says our waitperson.
“Due café,” I reply. “Espresso con pane e uno cappuccino con biscotti.”
I’m not sure if I get the hand gestures right but the accent is understandable.
Our waitperson bustles off.

We are sitting in the sunshine on the Grand Canal facing the Rialto Bridge with our first coffees and the whole day ahead. “Che buona fortuna!”

The guys in the nautical black hats and striped sailor shirts are ‘gondolieri’. For 70 euros the four of us clamber aboard for a thirty minute gondola trip to the Grand Canal, the Rialto fish market and back . Our gondolier is named Marco. He and I are both namesakes of the patron Saint of Venezia – San Marco. Marco points out some of the original wooden structures that are 500+ years old and date to the time when the proto-Venetians moved to this inaccessible swamp to avoid Attila and the gang. (see 'Hungarian-One Easy Lesson' in my August 4, 2008 blog)
These pre-date the glorious stone and brick ‘palazzos’ built during Venice’s ascendancy as the major naval power in the Levant from 1200-1500 C.E. We see a famous tenor walking to the opera house on his way to work. Hailed by Marco, he smiles and waves.

Shops take up most of the area between the Rialto and St. Mark’s square. By the time we reach the Piazza San Marco, everyone is tired, thirsty and out of euros. We take a break for pizza and gelato and, of course, more café –‘stile Italiano’.

It’s Saturday and I snap a nice photo of a bride and groom on their wedding day in front of the western façade of St. Mark’s. No one else wants to see the paintings by Tiepolo and Tintoretto that decorate the Doge’s palace. They go off shopping while I sit in the sun, watching tour groups and flocks of pigeons perambulate the Piazza. The tour groups crowd around their guide’s banner. Meanwhile, the pigeons congregate in not dissimilar fashion around individuals holding paper cones high in their outstretched arms. I flash on a scene from my childhood: I’m standing in Piazza San Marco. I’m holding a cone of cracked corn. Pigeons sit on my head and arms while Dad takes my picture. I remember the feeling of scratchy pink pigeon feet on my seven year old scalp. Funny thing memories! I wonder what our bride and groom will remember of their wedding day 50 years from now?

I photograph the mosaics and the statues on the outside of the palace. My favorite is the statue of Adam and Eve on the Southeast corner. The snake is in the middle. The tree of life has everybody adequately covered. It looks to me like Eve is pointing accusatorily at the serpent. “The snake made me do it.”

No time to gaze at art. We hike further east to Ile Pomeni – a small island in a residential neighborhood. It’s evening and families promenade with their dogs and children in the afternoon sunshine. There are no cars in all of Venice so people are free to inhabit the streets. And they do! How wonderful to live where walking is the norm. In this respect, Venice is a lot like Amesbury’s sister village of Esabalu in Kenya. If you haven’t lived in a community of pedestrians before, you really haven’t lived the way human beings should.

After sunset, Venice is magic! We cross the Rialto Bridge an dine at an outdoor restaurant in Campo San Polo. San Polo is the second largest public square in Venice, after Piazza San Marco. Bullfights used to be held at Campo San Polo and Lorenzo di Medici was assassinated here.

The spaghetti at the local trattoria is so expensive that we have to send John out to find an ATM in order to get tip money. Of course, John gets a little disoriented by the winding streets and we send out a search party (me). I leave Marg and Rena wondering if they’ll have to do dishes in an Italian ristorante. After a long meander I find John wrestling with the ATM. We figure out why his card isn’t working (in Italian) and return to the ladies patiently wondering where in the heck we are. ‘Missione compiuta.’

Never mind. The food is delicious. The lights, the lively Saturday night crowd, the strolling classical street musicians on a clear autumn evening weave a spell. Ciao Venezia! I’d stay longer if I could.

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VII - Corfu Second Class Island

2008-12-16T04:40:00.000-08:00

Empress Sisi as a Nymphette

Sisi's Study

Hail, Hail Freedonia!

Escape from Corfu - PLEASE!

Corfu – Second class Island

After Santorini, the Greek island of Corfu is a disappointment.

I'm afraid that I have to say it’s the Revere Beach of Greek islands.

As we debark from the Splendour, I vote to take a ferry to the even smaller island of Pakos and spend the day in an “unspoiled Greek fishing village” as described in the tourbook. I’m outvoted 3 to 1, so we do the same thing on Corfu that we did in Santorini. Only it’s inferior in every way.

First the taxi tour. Our driver, Christos, is quite personable and his English is better than any of the others (he lived in Toronto for 20 years). Unfortunately, the material he has to work with is not top drawer.

The scenery is so-so and it’s a cloudy day (the only cloudy day on the cruise). There are no dramatic cliffs, active volcanoes or buried cities. The chief attraction is a tiny palace built by the last Hapsburg Empress – Elizabeth of Austria a.k.a. ‘Sisi’. (faithful blog readers will remember her as the same Empress for whom the ‘Sisi’ bridge in Budapest was named -see "Peeing in the Public Baths - Budapest, Hungary August 25, 2001" ) She built this palace on Corfu because it was the part of the Empire farthest away from her detested husband, the Emperor Franz Joseph. It was constructed in 1892 at the height of Austrian kitsch. Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist bomb in 1898, so she didn’t get to spend much time in the palace.
And we don’t either.

After the island tour, we spend the rest of the day in the Old City shopping. The Old City is not that old. I would say it’s about as old as the Marx brothers. It even reminds me of the capital of Freedonia,“Land of the Spree, and the Home of the Knave”, as depicted in the movie ‘Duck Soup’. Only where’s Rufus T. Firefly when we need him most? I am un-amused.

The shopping itself is also inferior. What can you expect from an island whose principle products are olive oil and kumquats? Kumquat liqueur anyone? I buy a tee-shirt and take a few photos.
One of them is actually quite interesting. It seems to show a bunch of toys escaping from a Corfu shop window and invading Freedonia. Now that would be interesting! Unfortunately it’s just a trick reflection on the glass.

That pretty much sums up Corfu – a trick reflection of a Greek Island from which toys and tourists cannot escape. As old Groucho might say - “Corfooey”.
Don’t worry readers – better days are ahead. Next stop – Venezia!!

DAKTARI

HAPPY THANKSGIVING - 2008

2008-11-26T12:14:00.000-08:00

My friend Tom and I are sending our best wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving day.

(Hope she thaws out before morning, Tom!)

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VI - Spectacular Santorini - Oct 1, 2008

2008-11-20T05:51:00.000-08:00

Cliffs of the Caldera
Fira -Cable Car versus Mule trail?

Waiting for the Taxi

Make way for Burros

BEAUTIFUL OIA

Spectacular Santorini

Santorini (Saint Irene in Greek) is one of the most beautiful places in the world. We drop anchor in Santorini harbor, surrounded on all sides by 1000 foot volcanic cliffs layered in red, beige and black. The white-washed village of Fira clings to the top of the cliff , its sunlit cottages overlooking our shadowed mooring.

The harbor was created when a huge eruption breached the western wall of the volcano of Santorini allowing the turquoise waters of the Aegean to fill the caldera. Another eruption 3600 years ago unleashed a catastrophic tidal wave that destroyed the Minoan civilization on Crete 90 miles to the South. (Remember the legendary Minotaur and his labyrinth? That civilization.)

We take a tender from the ship to the dock at the foot of the cliff.
"Looks like we have to take the cable car," says Rena as we approach the dock. "And look at that line!"
A long, long line of tourists from cruise ships snakes along the dock. The cable car’s single gondola holds only six passengers at a time.

"Not necessary," I respond. "The guidebook says you can take a mule or donkey to the top via a mountain path. It costs a little more but it will probably take less time and be more scenic. How about an adventure?"

The response from Margaret, John and Rena, a combination of eye-rolling and sideways glances, implies a healthy skepticism for my 'donkey adventure' proposal. All hopes are soon dashed when the ship's steward announces over the lighter's intercom that taking the donkey option will make us "smell like mule for three days". Despite my protests that we can buy a can of Fabreze and spray our clothes at the top, the final vote is: Cablecar Wimps 3 vs. Mule-piss Volunteers 1. Rats!

I am mollified somewhat by the cable car ride which is steeper and scarier than any I have taken before. I am sitting across from a woman from New Jersey who turns white and covers her eyes, moaning gently all the way up. Despite the silver anti-nausea patch behind her left ear, I am relieved when we exit the car without an emetic eruption. Wouldn’t it be ironic to escape smelling like a mule only to wind up smelling like a barf bag. (Travel tip: always pack Fabreze in your luggage along with the bugspray and suntan oil.)

A wrong turn at the top of the lift leads us away from the main tourist route. After several blocks Rena queries, "Do you know where we're going."

"Not exactly," I admit.

At just that moment a local fellow exits a house on the side-street and heads for his car.
"Excuse me," I ask. " Where can we find a taxi?"
Luckily I don't know enough Greek to ask for directions in the language of Pericles. I never (well to be truthful, hardly ever) ask directions in a language I don't understand. The answer always leaves me worse off than when I started.

Lucky for us, it’s 'Be Nice to Dumb Tourist Day'. Seeing our distress, his wife comes out of the house to help. After a brief discussion, our saviors summon a cab with their cellphone. We spend a pleasant 1/2 hour sitting in the autumn sun waiting for the taxi. The wife and small son wave bye-bye from the window as we depart. I realize, "Hey Santorini, you’re a small town just like Amesbury." I relax and feel at home.

At the cabby's recommendation we traverse the spine of the caldera to the small village of Oia. It's the only town I can think of whose name consists of three vowels – just pronounce it ee-ah. The road ends and from there, its either Shank’s mare or donkey. (N.B. Shank’s mare - an old Scottish saying meaning “to travel by foot”)
A local muleteer charges uphill on his burro scattering tourists to either side of the narrow path. Another donkey sure-footedly delivers six full suitcases to a cliff-side pensión.

At the top we stop at a taverna for Greek coffee and cheese pie. The pie is made with a local goat cheese called 'chloro' wrapped in filo dough and deep fried in olive oil. Served piping hot with Santorini's dark honey, it's 'to die for'. The photographs from the café don't really do justice to the great views. We take a card from a local bed-and-breakfast in case we ever return. (I should be so lucky!)

If ever I do come back there are still many things to do including beaches, winery tours, archeologic excavations, and a visit to the active volcano in the middle of the harbor. Shopping, by the way, is not too shabby either. This island is definitely a gem worth re-visiting.

P.S. One of the local treats are fresh almonds right off the trees. They are moist and chewy and taste like mild coconuts or Brazil nuts rather than almond flavor. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever had them! If you ever get the chance, be sure and sample a few.

DAKTARI

YES WE CAN

2008-11-05T05:41:00.001-08:00

S. Rose Bolick -'Bama Baby

(Charter Member of 'Baby Needs a Change.org')

Venice or bust V -Say NO to Rugs - Oct 1, 2008

2008-11-04T05:21:00.000-08:00

MARG AT HER LOOM

ROMEO MEETS JULIETTE

THE LOCAL MOSQUE

RENA TAKES THE VEIL!

SAY NO TO RUGS

Ahmed drives us to a rug shop, probably owned by a relative. The establishment is run by a large Turkish family. Today marks the end of Ramadan, a big Muslim holiday. For kids it means no school and lots of candy and chocolates. The men of the family greet each other with kisses on both cheeks. Everyone is dressed in their Holiday best and a big family feast is in preparation in the back.

“Looks like we have to stay for the timeshare sales pitch,” I murmur to Rena.

“It doesn’t cost anything to look,” Rena whispers back.

“Famous last words,” I think to myself.

Actually it turns out to be much more fascinating than your average timeshare hard-sell.
The family business is selling Turkish carpets to tourists. In the entryway, a woman sits weaving a woolen carpet. Margaret asks if she can help and the scarf-covered young lady graciously makes room at the loom. She shows Margaret how to tie a rug knot. If Margaret ties one knot every 7 seconds, 8 hours a day for 7 days a week, in just 8 weeks she will have a respectable 3’ by 5’ carpet to sell!

Each tribe has its own colors of wool and traditional patterns for making rugs. Out back in the showroom, we are treated to hot apple tea as carpet after beautiful carpet is unfurled on the floor in front of the four of us. It’s a private showing of marvelous textile artwork in silk as well as wool.

In the front room is a big basket of what looks like oval white Styrofoam balls. Ahmed’s cousin gives one to each of us.

“Shake it next to your ear,” he says.

We dutifully shake the ovoids and hear a soft rattling noise.

“That’s the larva of the silk moth,” says our host. “ This cocoon is made of one single strand of silk over a mile in length. It was spun in just one day by the silk worm that you hear rattling around inside.”

He proceeds to open the lid of a vat of water with silkworm cocoons floating on the surface.

“Here we boil the cocoons, which loosens the fiber and allows us to unravel the cocoons.”

He uses a small whisk to gather up three dozen loose ends of silk, each with a silkworm cocoon attached. These strands are twisted together and fixed to a small spinning wheel, like the one that Ghandi used to spin the homespun cloth he made famous during his campaign to free India from the British.

“Once this single thread is spun,” says our guide, “we gather 30 threads together and spin them again to make a yarn suitable for rug making.”

I do the math. “That’s 1000 silkworms to make just one skein of rug yarn,” I think to myself. The final step is to get the lady of the house to tie 600 tiny knots in a very intricate pattern and “voila!”– one square inch of fine silk carpet.

For a thousand years, the knowledge of how to make silk thread was a trade secret of the Emperor of China. The silk road ran 4000 miles from Cathay to Venice – just to provide silk fiber and fabric to the royalty of Europe. The end product is exquisite and virtually indestructible.

After the tour and the private display of fine carpets comes the inevitable hard sell. Somehow we manage to say NO to rugs. I’m ready to buy but Rena holds firm while I give the merchant a knowing eye and my trademark apologetic shrug. We wish the merchant a Happy Eid ul-Fitr (End of the Fast.) and depart the premises.

From our private glimpse behind the silk curtain, we descend by backroad to the bazaar at Kusadasi. John and Margaret begin endless negotiations to buy a pair of leather jackets while I wander off to find stamps and a letterbox to mail some postcards. When I return, Rena has been picked up by a nice young Turkish boy named ‘Romeo’. I’m not sure if Romeo wants his new ‘Juiliette’ to buy a pocketbook or to take him to America in her steamer trunk!

After taking a photo of Rena and her Romeo, we walk to the mosque and hear the muezzin’s call to prayer. We stop for baklava, crepes and coffee at a sidewalk cafe. Well- dressed men continue to kiss their brethren while kids collect candy from all the shopowners. Rena tries on an “I dream of Jeannie” veil – suitable for the serraglio. She’s quite fetching. “Eat your heart out, Romeo,” I whisper smugly to myself.

What a great day in Turkey! We limp back to the boat with our collection of tired feet, achy backs and lame legs to the Splendour of the Seas. I’m cheered by the prospect of a Motown floorshow in the ship’s theater followed by Latin dance night in the Top Hat lounge. It’s formal night again and I get to wear my tuxedo! I hope I find a fellow dancer to partner with me. That would be heaven indeed.
Happy Eid ul-Fitr, y’all.

DAKTARI

HAPPY HALLOWEEN - Oct 31, 2008

2008-11-01T16:12:00.000-07:00

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM MONKEY SOPHIE

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM NURSE LINDA AND DAKTARI

Venice Or Bust IV- Ephesus, Turkey -September 30, 2008

2008-10-29T16:39:00.001-07:00

MANY-BREASTED ARTEMIS
RUINS AT EPHESUS

LIBRARY AND HADRIAN'S TEMPLE

WORSHIP IN THE RUINS

VENICE OR BUST IV
We’ve arrived in Turkey!
You gotta love a country whose money is called the yittle!
YTL stands for Yeni Turkeii Lira (New Turkish Lira) but we call it the yittle for short. It's worth just about $1 U.S. which is very convenient. A yittle here – a yittle there and soon your spending some serious loot.
We change our euros to yittles and head to town.

The town is Kusidasi (first syllable rhymes with tushy, second syllable rhymes with posse). Kusidasi is a pretty port city built in the last thirty years for the express purpose of separating tourists from their yittles. Unlike Dubrovnik, there is no old city.

To find a really old city we hire a cab to drive us to Ephesus – the capital of the ancient Roman province of Asia. Our new cabbie, Ahmet, is efficient but not as much fun as Nikola from Dubrovnik. First stop is a large stone statue of Mother Mary. Turkey is a Muslim country so Ahmet must figure all American tourists are dying to see a giant statue of Jesus' Mom. I guess he can tell from Rena's body language that we are not fans.

Our next stop is at the temple of the Goddess Artemis. In the Mother Goddess competition, Artemis wins hands down over the Virgin M. She pre-dates Mary by 3000 years for one thing. Artemis was originally the Persian Goddess Cybele. Then she became Artemis. Later, after the Roman conquest, Artemis was idenitified with the Roman Goddess Diana, the huntress.

Artemis' statue is my idea of what a real mother goddess oughta look like. She has curves in the all the right places plus at least 50 breasts. Now this is something even doctors don't see everyday!

A roadside vendor is selling replica statues of Artemis and I just have to buy one. I bargain for a while and we eventually settle on the Goddess Artemis Action figure upgrade – a bigger statue for the same price as the statue ordinaire. Total price is 4 yittles – that's less than 10 yittle cents per boobie! What a steal! After negotiations are concluded, I pause to offer a silent prayer to the Goddess and ask her many-breasted blessings for all pagans everywhere. Om Shanti, y'all.

Next, Ahmet takes us to visit Artemis' hometown of Ephesus. It's remarkably well preserved – buried by an earthquake in 614 C.E. Ephesus was the biggest city in Asia at the time – over 200,000 people. They've been excavating the ruins for 110 years and have uncovered less than 10% of the city. The stadium alone held 25,000 people!

I befriend a grizzled old black-and-white tomcat in the ancient forum. He's got nicked ears and a scarred nose but I can tell by his big purr and nuzzling neck that he's more a lover than a fighter.

A few ruins go a long way. I like the physician's house. A large boa constrictor marks the doc's office entrance and a statue shows this ancient healer was a woman. She was honored with a statue because she saved Ephesus from the plague.

We pay a yittle more money and go into the peristyle house. This is an ancient condo development on the slope above the city forum. Seven very wealthy families lived here. The site has been unearthed right down to the brightly colored fresco paintings on the walls, the marble columns of the central courtyards, and the mosaics on the floors. Even the clay jars that held food in the kitchen have been preserved.

Rena and I knock off early and clamber over a broken wall to sit in the sun and rest. A tiny hummingbird sips nectar from a flowering shrub. The landscape smells of warm sage and oregano baking in the afternoon sun. I close my eyes and inhale -- warm earth, blue sky and herbal scented air. This peaceful moment at the edge of the ruins will be my treasured memory of ancient Ephesus. "Thank you again Goddess Artemis," I pray silently. "I love your hometown."
DAKTARI

Venice or Bust III - On Board Ship - Sept 29, 2008

2008-10-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

Bob, Terry, Rena, Marg and Me

Major Atrium!!!

Elevator Near Miss

Babar of the Stateroom

OOOH - NICE ELEPHANT

Today we are sailing from Dubrovnik to Kusadasi, Turkey.
I thought I’d just write a word or two about shipboard life.

We're on the Royal Caribbean Line’s Splendour of the Seas – a 12 year old ship with about 1600 passengers and 800 crew. Our day at sea is spent sunning and snacking while the rocky coast of the Peleponese passes by.This works up a good appetite for dinner. To stave off hunger, we order chocolate and fruit crepes served to us on the fantail. Who needs lunch!

Speaking of hanging, we have a ringside seat on the fantail for the shipboard climbing wall. I am sorely tempted to try my luck but Rena sagely notes that everyone else trying his or her luck is about 12 years old. I have to act my age, again – sigh!
At night I have a fine dinner – wild mushroom fettucine alfredo with escargots for an appetizer and cherries jubilee for dessert. Our companions at dinner are Bob and Terry from Indiana. Terry works as a hospital administrator and Bob is a retiree from insurance giant AIG. They are delightful dinner company and we enjoy discussing our respective adventures during the previous day in Dubrovnik. (See Venice or Bust II.)It's always fun meeting new people on a cruise.It's formal night so I get to do two of my favorite things – 1) play dress-up in my 1947 tuxedo and 2) dance West Coast Swing to a live band in the lounge. After that we head to the floor show – a medley of musical numbers from the movies. After the show, I get Rena laughing so hard she almost pees in the glass elevator that travels up and down the ship's seven story atrium. It’s a test of the trickle down theory only this turns out to be a dry run. Better luck tomorrow night? (Answer: Depends.)

Enough of these urinary diversions!
We return to our room. Every night our room steward makes up the bed with a different animal mascot. Tonight it’s an elephant. She’s wearing MY sunglasses!! And they look better on Ms. Babar than they do on me. The nerve!!

Tomorrow will be my first time in Asia.
Well, Asia Minor really, but it still counts.
Another day, another continent – I love it.
Maybe I'll call the next blog installment ‘Turkey before Breakfast’. Catchy, no?

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust II - Dubrovnik, September 28, 2008

2008-10-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

Dubrovnik -Stradun (town square)

Sunny Hole-in-the-Wall

TWO DALMATIANS

Picnic in Dubrovnik - New City

VENICE OR BUST II - DUBROVNIK

Dubrovnik is on the Dalmatian Coast of the new nation of Croatia which won its independence from Serbia in 1994. It took a pounding by Serbian tanks and planes during the war. However, the old walled city has been mostly restored to its former glory. Numbers of cruise ships dock in the harbor disgorging a daily flood of sight-seers with euros to spend. This allows the local inhabitants to abandon less profitable occupations such as felting, fishing and lavender gathering.

We have met up with John and Margaret Lowell from Malone, NY. John and I were in the same medical residency program in Pittsburgh in the 70’s. Rena and Margaret both birthed baby girls there in 1977. We’ve been friends ever since.

The four of us head down the gangplank.
“Dobor dan!” I cheerfully greet our cabbie Nikola, displaying a full 50% of my Croatian linguistic abilities.
Nikola invites us on a tour of the area – 50 euros for one hour.
“Hvalya, dobar” I counter. Great! I’ve still got a word or two of Croatian left for later.

Off we go to visit the local war memorial. We cross a beautiful new tourist bridge and trek up the only road that overlooks the old town. We turn left at the second goat path, through a pasture into a small village.

“Only 16 families live here. Welcome to Bosanka.” says our driver.
The pasture is fenced. Donkeys and their droppings on one side and me on the other.
“Seventeen donkeys are in there,” says Nikola.
I do the math. “That’s one donkey per family and one to grow on.”

Arriving at the top of Mount Srd, the only mountain in the world whose name has no vowels, we are confronted with the bombed out ruins of a cable car station. Four hundred Croats with rifles faced 3000 Serbs with tanks. Guess who won? The Croat defenders did buy enough time for the city to evacuate, however.

Carefully, we skirt the minefields and enter the war museum. A continuous video shows Serbian tanks and planes shelling the partially evacuated Old City. In 1936, the bombing of civilians in Guernica horrified the world. Now bombing of civilians in Europe or anywhere else is just routine. The 20th century will probably be remembered more for its barbarism than for anything else. Nikola’s family were displaced by the war but no one was killed. He still can’t stand the Serbs.

We are dropped off in the Old City. Hordes of camera-toting tourists throng the main street and the city square. Many of them are standing in line to pay 10 euros for the privilege of walking on top of the city walls.

“Hey, everyone,” I exclaim. “I’ve got a better idea. If we walk at the bottom of the walls it’s free.”
The rest of the entourage looks dubious.
“No, no, really,” I protest. “Let’s try it. We can do the top of the wall later if we want –after the cruise ships get ready to leave and the lines go down.”

I have used this gambit many times before and sometimes it works. I take the lead and we start climbing the stepped and cobbled alleyways. An open market sells lavender and lace tablecloths. It makes the entire old city smell like bath powder! We reach the base of the city’s walls.

We’re above rooftop height and going past ancient buildings with the 600 year old limestone battlements on our left. Suddenly, there’s a hole in the wall with a hand-lettered sign pointing left – “COLD DRINKS” it says in English. I duck my head and lead us through a short tunnel. We come out onto a limestone balcony 150 feet above the Adriatic. Tables are set up in the shade of palms and umbrellas. We sip cold sodas and make the acquaintance of two Dalmatians – a little girl and her dog. Dalmatian dogs here are light brown and shaggy. They look like mutts. I’m disappointed not to see black and white spotted puppies like the movies.

Refreshed, we’re off again through the 'hood - backyards, solar clothes dryers and pocket playgrounds. We find an ethnic museum. The girl-guides speak English and show us the way Dubrovnik used to be, before cruise ships were invented. These Balkan peasants were hard workers! Now, thanks to the tourists, even their donkeys can relax and enjoy the good life!

Down, down, down – we descend the cobbled streets. One street is made up entirely of outdoor restaurants. We stop for café-au-lait and apfelstrudel. Rena and I go off on our own for a bit and score an Italian leather pocketbook for $90. We also find the second oldest synagogue in Europe. After the expulsion from Spain in 1492, Ladino-speaking Sephardic Jews started a one-room synagogue which is still in operation today.

It’s been a wonderful day of exploring nooks and crannies of Dubrovnik’s Old City. We scoot back over the moat and ramble the residential neighborhood of the New City. Off a side street , we come across the locals enjoying a Sunday picnic on a sunny dock. I take the shot and bag my favorite photo of the day. It’s the last one on this blog.

“Dobor dan, hvalya.” Bye, bye Dubrovnik – you were great.

DAKTARI

AIR TRAVEL IN THE AGE OF CHOLERA

2008-10-13T13:59:00.000-07:00

SS Splendour leaves the Pier

Piazza San Marco from the Ship's Railing

Male Mannikin with Bust

(What could be worse than cholera? You need travel no further then your local airport to find out?)

Rena and I start our newest adventure in reverse - flying on Iberia Air from Boston to Chicago to get to Venice, Italy. Ah – the Internet – promoting cheap tickets at the expense of common sense. We wing in over lake Michigan, catching a glimpse of the Sears Tower, and alight at O’Hare International.

Every stop at O’Hare is an adventure and this is no exception. We board on-time but sit on the tarmac for over an hour. Likely we’ll miss our connection in Madrid.

FLIGHT FROM ORD TO MAD
Positive:
· I pre-order Asiatic vegetarian meals on Iberia’s website. All others eat trash!
· I take Ambien and listen to a guided meditation to the center of the earth (provided on a CD by my friend Kat.) In the old days, this was called ‘tripping out’ and was frowned upon – now it’s medically approved travel prophylaxis. I sleep the whole way!

Negative:
· Sitting across the aisle from two parents with a 3-year-old and an infant.
· Rena is immune to Ambien. She gets one hour of shut-eye. (While I, being blissfully ensconced at the center of the earth, miss the whole thing.)

DESTINATION H
This is it! We’re getting into Madrid airport 45 minutes after our scheduled arrival.
We have just 40 minutes to get to the gate for our flight to Venice. As we bolt from the plane, a small sign points the way to H concourse. Bad news – it says it takes 36 minutes to get there! We tear off in the direction of destination H as fast as we can scramble.

Oh no! Passport control! There are only ½ dozen ahead of us but it takes forever. We charge ahead, running up the escalators and down the moving walkways. We make it to the gate at 9:03 AM - close but no cigar. Boarding is closed for the 9:10 take off. We watch our transportation taxi off into the rising sun. Que lastima!

VENICE OR BUST
The senorita at Iberia Air Assistance re-books us on a flight at 12:45 that gets us to Venice at 3 PM. Our cruise ship, Splendour of the Seas, leaves port promptly at 5. “Should be do-able,” sez I. “Not in this century,” sez the spouse. “Let’s go shopping.”

We stock up on Milcha bars and stoke the furnaces with café con leche and brioche con chocolat. Shopping at the chic airport boutiques is very interesting. All the male manikins in the European shops have mini-boobs. Is this the new fashion? Later, I confirm the same trend on the Rialto in Venice and even in Croatia. In the near future, will men be wearing small padded bras to nightclubs and offices? In the 80’s, I remember women wore dresses with padded shoulders to make a not dissimilar fashion statement. Hey guys – if sometime in the 21st century you find yourself wearing a training bra, remember you heard it first from Daktari.

Our flight from Madrid takes off 45 minutes late. Nervously I scan the boarding documents for our ship. Oh no! The booklet says all passengers must be on board one hour prior to sailing. Our wheels touch down at 3:20 PM. Only 40 minutes to scarper the plane, collect luggage and get to the pier. The adrenaline is flowing now.

“Why don’t you take a cab and go ahead to the ship?” I suggest to Rena. “I’ll follow with the luggage.”

“What do I do if you don’t show up?” she queries back.

“You’ll think of something. Just get us checked in.”

“ Then what,” Rena says skeptically.

“Don’t worry. ” I reply. “ Maybe, throw yourself overboard – that should get us an extra ½ hour.” Eventually, the cooler head prevails - we decide not to split up.

Mirabile dictu! The luggage has landed. That’s one small step for a man and one giant step toward getting to the boat. We jump into the waiting cab and I tell our astonished driver Giuseppe to step on it in French – “Vite, Vite.” He must think we're crazy.

It’s 3:50 PM. Ten minutes to go. Giuseppe shrugs and shakes his head “Venti minuti minimo.” I flash a wad of Euros. He steps on it. Soon we are doing 90 Kph down a residential street and headed for deep water. We screech to a halt at the pier at 4:03 PM. Emerson Fittipaldi couldn’t have done it better! I give Giuseppi a 12 Euro tip and a kiss on both cheeks. “Molto buono.”

The crew of goodship Splendour rolls the gangplank back out the hatch . Three cheers as it clunks on the dock! We’re the last ones on the ship and the last ones to lifeboat drill. Time for dinner. Cholera or not here we come. Buon appetito!

Daktari

Buchu Bushcamp - South Africa - August 15, 2007

2008-09-25T19:28:00.001-07:00

Danger- Wrong Side Driver

Rafe at the Whale Spotting Beach

Pink Knees for the Ladies

Buchu Hobbit Hut Cottages-Stick and Fibre Construction

Interior of the Hobbit Cottage - Where's Frodo?

This is the second part of last years adventure tour of S. Africa. In the last episode I was cage diving with great white sharks (See Shark Bait - August 13th, 2007). Now for the real scary part - my first time driving on the left side of the highway.

AUGUST 14TH – Off to the Bush

At 9 AM the rental agent delivers our vehicle to the hotel. It’s a Toyota Corolla with automatic transmission! Rena, Rafe, Colleen and I are off to the bush. That is if I can quickly adapt to driving on the wrong side of the road.

I carefully edge into the left land and proceed straight ahead. The car performs erratically at first. Or perhaps it’s the driver. One left, another left, then a right. This is too easy! Oops – almost hit the curb. Gotta go easy on the right side hubcaps. Wrong way rotaries are especially hard to get used to. Luckily, South African drivers are among the most polite, helpful and tolerant in the world. I only heard a horn sound once in three days of driving and I think she was a tourist from New Jersey. When a South African driver sees you overtaking, he pulls off onto the shoulder to let you pass. Sweet!

As we drive East on the N2, Capetown gives way to suburbs and farms. We leave the highway at West Somerset and hug the coastal route past vistas of sheer cliffs and small fishing villages. Back on the N2 then off again at Caledon, we motor through fields of green wheat and yellow rape. Fruit trees are starting to bloom.

We make frequent stops for photos and to allow Colleen to talk to the animals. She speaks to sheep, cows and ostriches. Male ostriches are black and females are dull gray. The male’s kneecaps and calves are bright pink. Later we are told that this only happens during mating season.

Carrying on through Napier we reach Bredasdorp – site of the shipwreck museum and the world’s southernmost Marathon. We turn onto a dirt road and 40 km later we arrive at the DeHoop Nature Reserve ( pronounced do-wop with the accent on the wop). DeHoop is famous for flowers and whales. The Buchu Bushcamp is a bed-and-breakfast just before the Park entrance. We arrive at sunset.

AUGUST 15TH – BUCHU BUSHCAMP

Buchu is definitely a low crime area. There are only 7 guests at the B&B. The four of us, a British birdwatcher and a Spanish couple who took a wrong turn and wound up at the reserve by mistake. Lucky them! This is a wonderful find. It looks like the hobbit village in Lord of the Rings. Our cottage is one big room with a loft for Rafe. The roof is thatch and we sit on tree stumps outside to watch the sun go down.

We dine in the big house on ostrich steaks and butterfish fillets with a central fire-pit for warmth and lanterns for light. The only power after dark is just what’s stored in batteries from the solar panels. There is no moon tonight and the Milky Way is spectacular. In the Southern hemisphere, you look directly toward the galactic core. What a view.

We fall asleep to the sound of peepers- just like spring at home. Also to the sound of energetic young Spanish tourists mating in the nearby cottage. “Are his knees bright pink?” I wonder drowsily. “Will this mating season never end?”

In the morning, sunbeams and showers alternate. The bush here is called ‘fynbos’ which means ‘fine bush’. When the sun is out there are multitudes of brightly colored flowers as if the rainbows are painting the landscape. ‘Fine bush’ indeed!

Our guide for the day is Jonti, the wildlife manager for the reserve. The staff at Buchu packs us a picnic basket and we follow Jonti into the park. Jonti has a bad stutter but his eyes are keen enough. As we drive to the park he points out two bontebok antelope and many elands. There are rare Cape zebras in the park, but since it’s the mating season we don’t see them. “They like to m-m-m-mate in private,” says Jonti. I think to myself, “They must be the only ones!”

Inside the park, Jonti warns us to lock the car doors. “Crime,” we whisper knowingly. “Not crime,” says Jonti. “B-b-b-baboons. They know how to open car doors.”

We take a 5 km nature walk with Jonti who is happy to point out birds, flowers and even the various varieties of ‘scat’. Scat are animal poops – baboon, antelope, ostrich and even porcupine poops.

Back in the car, we meet up with the baboons. Despite their bad rep, these primates are on their best behavior. Mama baboons are nursing. The baby baboons are playing. Even Dad is peacefully picking his fleabites.

We drive to a parking lot and hike over the dunes to a small cottage on the beach where we open our picnic baskets and have lunch. From here you can see whales – lots of whales. They are female Southern Right Whales and their pups – the latter are about 20 feet long. The pups are playing – jumping straight up, waving their tales and flipping their flippers. Rena and I walk the beach but don’t find any shells. A brief shower drives us back to the car, laughing.

Later, Rafe takes over the bar at base-camp and makes caipirinha for the waitstaff. Caipirinha, a concoction of cane liquor, lemons, sugar and ice, is the national cocktail of Brazil. This we enjoy with babooti the national dish of South Africa (ground beef with spices). After dinner Rafe does magic tricks for the staff.

We have a quiet night until Rafe discovers a bat in his bedroom. The sound of Portuguese cursing drifts faintly over the fynbos.

Daktari

Daktari at Home - September 2008

2008-09-14T03:11:00.000-07:00

Big Jump for a Small Rider

Yum, Yum at the Beach Plum

Sawyer Island - So Near yet So Far

Pontoon Party on the Essex River

Sunset on the Essex Estuary

Last week’s blog featured the Outdoor Gravity Orb, which just happens to be located in my hometown of Amesbury. There are plenty of other local adventures to be had in this Northeast corner of Massachusetts So, in the interests of having fun while minimizing carbon footprints, here’s a selection of my recent local safaris. (Each selection has at least one highlighted link to click for more info.)

“Have a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” –Fred Rogers

Fidelity Jumper Classic -

“Hey Rena, wanna go watch horses jump over a fence?”
Rena glances up from the sun-chair where she is reading the Daily snews.
“Not really, why do you ask?”
Daktari knows a thing or two about persuasion

“It’s an international competition, it’s five miles away and it’s free,” I plead. “Plus there may be shopping.”

We drive about 15 minutes to the Silver Oaks Equestrian Center near Exeter. The horses and riders come from as far away as Puerto Rico, Europe and Brazil. They compete for a prize of $75,000 and they are wonderful to watch – for an hour or two. There was a bit of shopping, too. But only if you’re into bits, bridles and English leather.

Time to blow Dodge City.
We saddle-up the Suzuki and mosey down the road to our next stop.

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” – Dorothy Parker

North Hampton State Beach

This is a cute little pocket beach similar to the neighborhood beaches in Rio.
It’s just at the end of North Hampton on route 1A (right before Rye). Don’t blink as you approach this little gem. It’s only 2 acres with about 20 parking spots. You’ll miss it if you’re not careful. Parking tokens are available for $5 in the bathhouse and are good for 4 hours.

The sand is soft, the view is lovely but the waves today are treacherous. It’s high tide and they break right next to the shore. I hop in just once and find myself tumbled arse over teakettle. The butcher’s bill is only one elbow slightly abraded. Lesson learned!

We’re both feeling a bit peckish. It’s time for lunch. Directly across the road is the Beach Plum. It’s a classic little beach take-out with several picnic tables for seating. A lobster roll and root beer float with vanilla ice cream is worth the safari. The combo creates a gustatory time-warp direct to the 1950’s. Outstanding!

“A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.” -Lord Byron.

“ Yes, on the lobster salad, but I prefer women who drink root beer floats.” – Daktari

Hampton Beach Seafood Festival

We take our bikes off the rack on Rena’s car and pedal down route 1A to Hampton Beach (5 miles) to take in the Seafood Festival. It’s impossible to drive to Hampton Beach during Festival weekend. Plus parking is $25!

The Seafood Fest website says it’s rated by the IRA Motor Group as one of the “Top 100 Events in North America”.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I warn Rena as we pay our $5 to get in. “ If you see gangs of young men wearing cable knit sweaters with strong Irish accents let me know.”

“Right,” says my partner in crime. “I make it a rule not to mess with the IRA –even the pedestrian ones.”

The Seafood Fest is not in my top 100 events list, but there is music, the beach is open, and the lobster macaroni and cheese is to die for. I find a shell bracelet in the sand. Rena buys Sophie an outfit. That kid needs a bigger closet! We bike back, hop in our car and whisk home as the sun sets.

“He who enjoys doing and enjoys what he has done is happy.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Nelson Island and Sawyer’s Island
Another bright sunny Wednesday in North Essex County, Massachusetts. Our morning is spent at the Registry of Motor Vehicles in Haverhill getting new drivers’ licenses. What’s with these cameras at the registry anyway? The photos make us look ten years older. How depressing is that! We need outdoor recreation therapy.

Rena and I drive to a small parking lot in Rowley to take a hike to Sawyers Island in Great Marsh. The North Shore's Great Marsh is the largest continuous stretch of Salt Marsh in New England, extending from Cape Ann to New Hampshire. Its 25,000 acres of salt marsh grasslands, tidal creeks, and estuaries make up one of the richest habitats on earth. (A downloadable map of the Great Marsh is available on the Great Marsh website.)

The original colonial settlers hayed these acres and used the hay to raise beef cattle for the markets in Boston, Portsmouth and other nearby ports. Most of the ‘salt beef’ that fed the crews of whaling ships and trading clippers was itself fed on salt marsh hay from the Great Marsh.

For adventurers there’s lots to explore in this great tidal ecosystem. We walk along a nice road applying bug-spray liberally as we go. Even ‘Ultrathon’, a miracle spray for malaria that I use in Africa, barely dissuades the voracious killer mosquitoes in this swampy lowland.

Oh no! Our adventure ends abruptly about 500 feet from the island. The tide is in and the road is under about a foot of water. I suggest to Rena that we take off our shoes, roll up our pants and wade. No dice! There are some things a lady just won’t do. Subjecting a fine pedicure to swamp water in a salt marsh is one of them.

Note to Daktari: next time check the tides before visiting the Marsh.

Essex River Cruise

We salve our disappointment with a cruise on the Essex River – traversing the Great Marsh by pontoon boat. Our friend Jan is celebrating her birthday and we’re taking the Sunset Cocktail Cruise. The price of admission is a donation to Partners for Development – a favorite charity of Jan’s. She hopes to raise enough to build a house for a family in Guatemala. Pictures of the family and a short talk by P.I.D. founder Gail and the house in Guatemala is well on its way.

The cruise is delightful – great views of the Great Marsh and the barrier island beaches (Crane’s Beach). The birthday cake is cut, the Champagne flows and the sun sets on the Essex River estuary. The absence of root beer floats goes un-remarked except by Lord Byron and Daktari. Who wouldn’t want to live in New England in September?

“Nothing written for pay is worth writing,” – Ezra Pound.

Until my next adventure-
Daktari

Go GO OGO- August 24, 2008

2008-09-08T17:22:00.001-07:00

OGO on TRACK

INTO THE HOME STRETCH

INSIDE THE OVOCYTE

BUNGEE RAYS AND RAINBOWS

NO POINTS FOR THE DISMOUNT

A PERFECT TEN

GROWN-UPS ARE SO SILLY!!!

The physics of this latest adventure are straightforward. Imagine a transparent soft-plastic sphere. Inside the sphere place ten gallons of water and two or three thrill-seeking adventurers. Surround the inner sphere with a bigger transparent outer sphere. Now, suspend the inner sphere inside the outer with dozens of opposing bungee cords.

What do you have? It’s an OGO – acronym for Outdoor Gravity Orb.

Now take your OGO to a good size hill and roll it down an 800 foot track. This will generate about 20 OGO revolutions and a top speed of 28 miles per hour in about 41 seconds. The resultant sport is called ‘zorbing’ – very popular in New Zealand.

Want to get in on the action? Believe it or not, there are exactly three OGO’s ready to roll and waiting for you right here at the Amesbury Sports Park in my hometown. Check out the video at: http://www.amesburysportspark.net/

I check it out myself on Thursday and negotiate a special rate for an end-of-summer fundraising event. One day only, Sunday August 24th, $15 for summer tubing and an OGO ride for anyone who donates to my favorite charity -Amesbury for Africa.

Rena is definitely not up for this adventure. My description alone gives her the weebie-jeebies. So I give my young friend Kat a call:

“Hey Kat are you up for an adventure tomorrow.”
I go through the physics for her. I can imagine her eyes glazing over as she listens to the phone.

“To make a long story, short,” she summarizes, “you want me to get into a puddle of water, inside a giant sponge ball and roll down an 800 foot hill?”

“Well, sort of,” I respond. “But it’s for a good cause.”

“Count me in.” she says. “What’ll I wear?”

“A bikini would be nice,” I tease.

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

Next day, we’re at the top of hill. No going back now.
The attendant puts a hose into the inner OGO and starts running water.
“Is it cold water?” Kat asks.
“You betcha,” says our guide. “Take off your shoes and hop in.”

To my trained medical eye, the OGO looks like a giant human ovocyte.
The attendant directs me to dive headfirst through a narrow round tunnel connecting the inner and outer spheres (or is it connecting the cell membrane and the nucleus?) I feel like one of the human sperm paratroopers in the Woody Allen movie ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about sex (But were afraid to ask.)’

“Good thing nobody took a picture of that!” shouts Kat as she tumbles into the freezing cold water.

The gate at the top of the track flies open and the OGO starts to roll.
The screaming starts immediately.

As the OGO rolls forward gathering speed, Kat and I rotate up the back wall of the inner sphere until the wet surface slides us back to the bottom. Soon we’re sliding on our backs down a continuous curving sheet of water while this giant translucent sphere revolves faster and faster around us. As the OGO goes into overdrive, we are transported to the center of a scintillating prismatic spherical universe. Rainbows refract from the OGO’s glistening surface while the bungee cords become flashing radial arrows all pointed directly at us. It’s a wonderful behind-the-waterfall world. We’re still screaming when we hit the pillars of the air corral at the bottom of the run.

I feel like I’ve just been down a roller-coaster in a front-loading washing machine. The attendant unzips the entrance tunnel and slopes it toward the ground. I’m expelled from the OGO’s inner sanctum in breech position with a gush of watery fluid. My feet hit the ground first and then the butt. It’s a near-birth experience! All that’s lacking is to be hoisted up by both feet and smacked on my bum by a large invisible hand. A few minutes later, out squirts Kat for a perfect 10 on the dismount. We're both soaked through - like drowned rats.

The second run Kat goes down with her friend Donna. Originally, Donna was just along to provide moral support. Then she sees that every person coming out of the OGO ball, without exception, looks like she’s having the time of her life. So Donna decides what the heck, it’s only water – and jumps into the ball wearing her street clothes!

That’s the kind of enthusiasm that a ride in the OGO generates! Until my next blog, be sure and have a ball. An OGO ball, of course.
And may all your adventures be fun ones.

DAKTARI

Old Cape Cod - September 7-8, 2007

2008-08-31T09:17:00.000-07:00

B & B with private Porch

Breakfast is served!.................................................The Murphy Bed

Desperado from Colorado

(Although I wrote this one year ago, Cape Cod is still the same and so aren't we. Daktari)

Cape Cod is beautiful this time of year. Rena and I are heading for a romantic getaway to a bed and breakfast in Wellfleet. It’s bright and sunny in the late afternoon and the dashboard thermometer reads 93 degrees F. Time to head for the beach!

We stop at a nice restaurant outside Plymouth to have a pizza and a salad in a small café while the Friday evening traffic clears. The waitress is incredibly perky and the Red Sox are winning. So far so good! I tell Rena how thankful I am for this opportunity to be alone for a weekend. “We’re always doing something but never by ourselves. It’ll be like old times.”
“What do you mean we’re never alone!” protests my wife of 36 years.
“When was the last time we did something just the two of us,” I counter.
She thinks for a minute then cracks a wide smile. “Hey, we just spent 38 hours alone together flying from Cape Town to Boston.” We both break out laughing. That trip was not exactly quality time – 4 flights, three stops, endless lines, bad food and expensive airport coffee. Like steerage on the Mayflower – to use a phrase from Cape Cod’s pilgrim past.

We pull into our bed and breakfast about 10 PM. It looks beautiful – a small Victorian house right in the main part of the village. There’s a Koi pond in front filled with fat orange fish coruscating beneath underwater lights. There’s a private entrance to our room which is spacious and has a fireplace. The bed is a Murphy bed – one that folds down from the wall – What fun! We have our own porch so we slip a note under our hosts’ door to serve breakfast outside at 9 AM. And so to sleep – perchance to dream.

Sleep must have been dreamless. I don’t remember anything. The next thing I do remember is scrabbling noises coming from the bathroom along with muttered curses. “Whazzup in there?” I inquire. “I left my deodorant at home,” wails Rena. “Use mine,” I suggest. “But then I’ll smell like a guy,” she complains. “Consider the alternative,” I admonish.

It’s 9 AM and we are sitting on our porch, both smelling vaguely like guys – ahh togetherness and sharing – isn’t that what this weekend is all about? Our porch overlooks the front yard of the Flying Fish Café where the locals are reading their papers and sipping their first java of the day. Our hosts, Dan and Brad, bring the breakfast. They are a very nice couple. (and they smell like guys too!) After introductions, breakfast is served.

Breakfast is fresh coffee, granola, fruit and a basket of muffins – yum! We ask Brad and Dan a little about Wellfleet and try to remember the last time we stayed here. I think it was at least 30 years ago. “I remember our favorite restaurant, Aesop’s Tables and the seafood crepes with a white grape garnish,” I say. Dan and Brad exchange looks. “ Then I think one of us must have served dinner to you guys,” says Dan. “We were the waiters at Aesop’s Tables for years and years.”

Dan gives us some tips on places to eat and then suggests we head to Great Island on the Bay side of the Cape. It’s a nature reserve where footpaths lead to several isolated sandy beaches. Isolated beaches sound good to Rena. In addition to forgetting to bring deodorant she has neglected to bring the bottom of her bathing suit. “I can’t help you there,” I say. So she decides to make do with her bathing suit top and a pair of yellow and pink underpants. She tries on her ensemble and we both laugh. “Hey, this is the Lower Cape. It’s not the first time that folks wearing men’s deodorant take off for the beach in underpants and a bra,” I exclaim. We are laughing again.

The sky is azure and it’s mid-80 degrees. Perfect! Rena’s little orange car with the pink-and-purple mermaid on the driver-side door takes us along the bay to the reserve’s parking lot. Making sure the coast is clear, we hike off along a piney forest path toward Great Island. We remember characters we met on our old days on the Cape: Mary who used to swim down from the nude beach in Truro, heaving her 250+ pounds out of the ocean covered with goose bumps to trudge happily back the way she came. Michael with his boundless enthusiasm. And beautiful busty Rhonda with the seagull feathers in her hair.

We find a beach where there are no other people and arrange our little enclave – folding chairs, newspapers, towel, plastic bag of peaches. The sun is warm but a sea breeze keeps us from feeling it. We both get a little burnt! I go for a swim but can’t entice Rena to join me – underpants at the beach is one thing but wet underpants is definitely over the line.

A woman and her two boys – one aged about 8 and the other about 4 – approach along the waters’ edge. The little one goes on strike just before they reach our spot. He sits down in the sand and won’t go further. Mom and older brother continue on. For some reason this little tableau strikes me. It’s a contest of wills. Will the angry little boy get his way? Will Mom and big brother come back for him? Will he give up and run to join them as they get farther and farther away? Finally Mom gets too far ahead for her own comfort. She turns and heads back, picks up her younger son and the three recede the way they came. It’s mostly wordless – no pleading, cajoling, or angry words. A decision is made without thought. This family could be gazelles on the savannah or ancestral anthropoids traversing the great lake-bed at Olduvai. In the dazzle of the shore, they stand out so clearly illuminated. Parenting seems an ageless dance, complicated but familiar – coming together and then going apart and coming together again. Sometimes I think that beyond words lies a whole “nother world”– like ours but more authentic. The world of dancing birds.

Rena and I hike back the way we came. After changing into tourist outfits back at the B & B, we walk into town and explore. The Wellfleet General store combines food, books and bumper stickers with multi-colored kites and assorted tapes and glues. I buy a bumper sticker which has 01-20-2009 at the top and the caption says “Bush’s Last Day”. I plan to send it to my Mom. Rena spots a poster for a coffeehouse in Eastham. “Tonight 8 PM – Paul Rishell and Annie Raines - Blues Concert”. Sounds good to us.

We set out to find dinner and the coffee house. I give Rena a couple of gifts to mark our little adventure. A CD of tunes that I’ve compiled from the internet and a black and white photo, enlarged to 5 x 7 and framed. It’s me at age 21 when I was working as a hail-chaser in New Raymer, Colorado. I’m in jeans and a work-shirt with binoculars slung over one shoulder and a large sombrero. All of us hail-chasers were wearing sombreros that summer in imitation of the bad guys in the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. I’m sporting a scruffy beard. My first facial hair - I remember I was quite proud of it at the time. In the background is a washing machine piled high with the detritus of my bachelor prairie existence. It’s 1969, the same year that Rena and I met.

We drive off listening to the new CD and searching for food. Just before passing out from starvation I find a bar and grille in Falmouth where we score a table for two by the window. We share a great lobster salad followed by lobster alfredo. The Red Sox are still winning!

The coffee house is hard to find but we make it just before all the seats are sold out. Great blues - only my damn shoulder has been starting to ache and by intermission it is killing me. It’s been three weeks since I wrenched it while cage diving for great white sharks and it still hurts at the end of the day. We skip the second set and return to our nest to curl up with a DVD. After Rena falls asleep, I turn off the TV.

As I watch her sleeping, I’m thinking of the backyard wedding that we passed earlier on our stroll through Wellfleet. Will the young groom be staring at his spouse’s back in 36 years and fondly remembering the old days? I hope so. Silently in the middle of the night, I wish the two of them the best of luck and many happy years together. Us too.

Daktari

Peeing in the Public Baths - Budapest, Hungary August 25, 2001

2008-08-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

Szechenyi Baths Outdoors.......................................................................................Indoors

Vajdahunyard Castle

TECHNOMUSIK RULES (NOT)

THE DANUBE BY NIGHT

PEEING IN THE PUBLIC BATHS
The next day Bernadette, Rena and I take the subway to the Szechenyi Baths. We’re not feeling particularly grimy but everyone says the public baths in Budapest are not to be missed. They are fed by some of the hottest springs in Europe.

At the subway station, Rena notices that nobody pays the fare except us. “Buying a subway ticket must be a tourist thing.” she observes. We stop paying for public transportation after that. When in Budapest do as the Budites and the Pestians. Incidentally, the fare is not the only thing that is free on the Budapest subway. Free entertainment is provided by handsome young Hungarian couples who kiss and nuzzle constantly while riding to and fro.

The Szechenyi baths are a combination of indoor and outdoor pools. The warm pools are relaxing and refreshing on a summer’s day. They are also an acknowledged source of merriment for the locals. Watching tourists from all over the world struggle with the etiquette of bathing in public is a popular spectator sport.

The two ladies and I pay our entrance fee in one line and then move to a second line – this being the one to enter the changing area. After a few minutes, I tumble to the fact that I am the only guy in a long line of women, who are all looking at me and whispering. This happens to be a recurring theme in certain dreams of mine. Quickly, I check my fly to make sure it’s zipped. Whew – all OK there! I smile and say my only Hungarian word (kozonom or thank-you) as I stumble forward to find the men’s line. Guess what? There is no men’s line. Curiouser and curiouser.

Next thing I know, my elbow is seized by a short male bath attendant who is holding back an entire file of whispering women with his other hand. Talking slowly and loudly in Hungarian, he guides me through the turnstile and into the baths. I try to relax – it’s no use. On the far side of the turnstile the whispers are becoming more animated.

Now I’m in big trouble. I’m on one side of the floor-to-ceiling turnstile and Rena is on the other side. She’s way in the back of the women’s line. And she has my swimsuit in her bag! Yikes! I try going back through the gate but the turnstile doesn’t budge. It’s one-way only!

By this time, my cool has deserted me entirely. I’m reduced to calling “YooHOO!” through the slots in the turnstile to try to get Rena’s attention. This must be a very funny word in Hungarian. The whole line of heavy East European women stop whispering and begin to titter and giggle. Meanwhile the male attendant is getting more alarmed. He has probably received training at bath attendant school on how to spot Western perverts. Now he’s becoming suspicious that he has a live one. Calling “YooHOO” in a pseudo-falsetto at a large group of women could be the final event before full frontal exposure. The attendant’s hand grabs for my elbow again.

I try to de-escalate the situation by pantomiming pulling on my speedo - afterwards holding my hands palm up, shrugging and shaking my head. The Magyar ladies are roaring out loud now. Scattered applause is about to break out when the crowd hands Rena to the front of the line.

“You’ve got my suit,” I yell desperately. “Your what?” Rena inquires. “My swimsuit. Give me my swimming suit!”

Rena gives a big “Ohhhh” and collapses on the floor, laughing so hard she wets herself. This brings the house down. Hungarian women are guffawing with tears in their eyes and slapping each other on the back.

Finally my wife stops convulsing long enough to extract my horrid black and green jams from her backpack and shove them through the hole in the turnstile. I grab the suit, shuck the amazed bath attendant, and flee to the men’s room. For the rest of my time in the baths, I wear sunglasses, hoping that no one will recognize me. Wearing sunglasses in an indoor bathhouse does attract a few searching looks from the uniformed pervert patrol but I am able to maintain a modicum of anonymity.

HOUSE OF SEVEN BRIDES
From the baths we sidle over to the Vajdahunyard Castle. This is on an island in City Park. We walk through a “Disney-like” archway into a small courtyard, which is jam-packed with brides. The castle apparently is where every Hungarian Princess comes to marry her Prince Charming. It’s astonishing - at least 7 brides in white and scads of bridesmaids, groomsmen, photographers, antique limos, etc.

“Is that thunder?” asks Bernadette, paranoid about another summer downpour. “No, “ I answer confidently, “It’s just the yard where they turn the trains around.”

We are both wrong. It’s Budapest’s annual ear-shattering techo-musik Love Parade. Flatbed trucks with major amplifiers drive through the streets while hordes of Magyar teenagers climb aboard dancing to the loudest thumping and screeching you have ever heard. Extremely high-energy but the voltage is too much for us. Back to our hotel for aspirins and a cold glass of wine followed by a tour of the opera.

THE HUNGARIAN STATE OPERA
The Opera House is hot, smells of varnish, and is not air-conditioned. But it is free of techno-musik, and the guide explains the lives and loves of the last of the Austro-Hungarian emperors with enthusiasm. While Rena rests her bare back against marble pillars to cool off, our girl guide tells us about Franz Joseph, who disliked Hungarians and hated the opera. So, naturally, he built his Hungarian subjects an opera house - probably as a form of revenge. The Empress, Elisabeth, nicknamed Sisi, spoke Hungarian, loved Hungarians, loved opera and even had an affair with the Prime Minister of Hungary. Hungarians loved her too and built a very nice bridge over the Danube called the Sisi Bridge, so that she could keep assignations with the P.M.

After the opera tour, we learn two more Hungarian words = Karolyi Turos. This is Hungarian for jello and whipped cream mixed together and served on stale piecrust. Don’t get it!

KLEZMER’S GREATEST HIT
We have our showers and naps and then go out for the evening. It’s Saturday night and a crowd is assembling in front of a Jewish community center next to our hotel. We go inside and pay a small fee to see local young people play Klezmer music. They are great! All the old Yiddish and Hebrew favorites. We clap along and keep them playing for over an hour.

The music gives us our second wind and we walk to the waterfront to take a boat ride on the Danube. All the sights are alight and there’s a small fireworks show off the starboard bow. We glide by palace after parliament after church after bridge while drinking free champagne and taking lots of photos. The commentary on the headphones is in Arabic but so what. It’s actually relatively understandable compared to Hungarian!

Midnight finds the three musketeers noshing on blintzes with sour cherries in almond sauce in the public square, while an old man blows up balloons and sends them flying through the moonlit sky. Bye, bye Budapest! We love you!

Daktari

Eurasian Aliens Invade Lake Gardner - July 26, 2008

2008-08-10T07:04:00.000-07:00

...................

...Research team Assembles........................................Kat's Weed Gear

KAT WATCHING CAT DO YOGA

Lake Gardner Reflections

.............White Water Lily..........................................Eurasian Milfoil

It’s six o’clock AM on Saturday and quiet as a mouse. I brew a pot of tea while I watch the sun pull clear of Powow Hill on the eastern horizon. I’m up early to advance the cause of environmental science. Science is my favorite subject, so why not? But I’m a little worried that today’s expedition won’t get off the ground. Gabriel, my 16-year-old science helper, had a fight with his Mom last night and is grounded. Bummer!

I immediately offered Rena the chance to go muck around the lake at the crack of dawn. That didn’t fly. Rena is definitely not a morning person. Finally, in desperation I called Kat. I know she’s not a morning person either, but I think I talked her into it. Still I’m not sure if she’s actually going to show or not. How many amazing scientific discoveries have been lost due to failure to show up? Woody Allen says 95% of life is showing up and I tend to agree.

At 6:32 AM Kat’s Jetta pulls into the driveway. Amazing – she’s early!! I hand her a mug of my special Kenya tea – a mix of super-strong Kericho Black cut with Borden’s sweetened condensed milk and flavored with a special spice blended by Rasik Sangrajka’s wife and sent to me from Kisumu on Lake Victoria. It’s heaven in the morning and packs quite a caffeine jolt!

The tea combined with perfect butterfly weather (no wind, warm sun and blue skies) dispels any lingering cobwebs. We sit on the deck sipping tea and rubbing the sleep from our eyes as we gaze at the perfect mirror surface of Lake Gardner.

“What exactly are we doing again?” asks Kat.
“Saving the planet from invading aliens,” I respond.
“No way!” exclaims Kat, She throws me a skeptical squint through a cloud of chai vapors
“You’re right, “ I admit, “but pretty close. Bruce thinks that Lake Gardner is besieged by exotic alien plant species which have invaded our backyard ecosystem and are strangling the waterway. Today we’re mounting an expedition to find out.” (My neighbor Bruce is a member of the town Lakes and Waterways Commission.)
“Wow,” says Kat. “Why so early in the morning?”
“Tradition,” I explain. “Vampires and alien invaders are best tackled by teams of scientists and always at the crack of dawn.”
“Vampires?” Kat expostulates. “Who said anything about vampires?”
“Don’t worry, I’m packing garlic just in case.”

I load up Kat with a ton of scientific gear – weed rake, life jacket, paddle, fresh croissants, zip lock baggies, yellow plastic rope, hot-pink measuring tape and a clove or two of garlic – and we head down to the dock. We dump the water out of the old Alligash canoe and clamber aboard. Kat is an experienced kayaker so we have no trouble paddling a mile or so to the Amesbury town beach. We are the first team there. Bruce’s wife Bernadette has baked a fresh blueberry coffee cake to nourish the troops.

At 7:20 we have eight teams of two, each with a canoe. Bruce hands out the maps. Kat and I have sector 1 and sector 2. We re-embark in the canoe and backtrack another 1 ½ miles to the opposite end of the lake. The warmth of the sun on our backs and the calm reflection of the dark green forest ahead, mirrored on the still surface of the water, is delightful. Dragonflies are everywhere and the white water lilies are in bloom. My favorites.

When we reach the first sector line we set up gondola-style, facing each other. I get the boat in position and measure the depth to the bottom. Then Kat dredges the bottom with the weed rake. The resultant smelly collection of bottom weeds is decanted into a ziplock bag. Then I re-position the boat 10 feet further out on the sector line and we repeat the process. When the water is about 8 feet deep, the amount of sunlight reaching the bottom is too little to sustain plant growth. We tie our specimen zip-locs in a trash bag and paddle off to sector 2. What a team!

At sector 2, Kat receives morning greetings from a black cat doing the ‘downward facing dog’ pose on an upturned rowboat. It is a beautiful shot and I snap a pic with the digital before we set to work sampling the bottom feeders at our new locale.

Kat and I are feeling it in the biceps, as we paddle to Bruce’s backyard to examine our finds. All the other teams join in and we discover that only one species is truly threatening our beautiful Lake. It’s the Eurasian milfoil, Myriophyllum matogrosense, and it’s ubiquitous to a depth of about 6 feet. The milfoil is a popular home aquarium plant which has escaped into the wild and now threatens lakes in every state except Wyoming and Montana. Now we know what we’re up against! Bruce says milfoil is a pain to control. One idea is to lower the level of the lake in the winter, exposing the milfoil, so it will freeze to death!

Kat spies a piece of goo sticking to the underside of a lily pad. Oh-mi-god! It’s a Plasmodial slime mold. I get so excited over this little critter. A Plasmodial slime mold involves numerous amoeba-like cells attached to each other. There are no divisions between the amoeboid cells. Instead, a common cell membrane encompasses the whole colony. This "supercell" is essentially a single bag of cytoplasm containing thousands of individual nuclei. Most slime molds are smaller than a few centimeters, but the very largest reach areas of up to thirty square meters, making them the largest single cell organisms on the planet! Our little guy is only about a square centimeter in size, but even so, it’s a rare treat to see a one-cell organism with the naked eye.

By 10 AM the party’s over and we paddle back to my backyard, where Rena is sipping coffee and reading a book on the back deck. “You missed a good one,” I enthuse to Rena. Rena casts a glance at our slimy and smelly exteriors and shakes her head.
“Too early and too dirty, if you ask me!” she says.

Still, Kat and I feel satisfied with our morning’s accomplishments. Kat has a two-year-old’s birthday party at noon, so I wave goodby as she puts the top down on the Jetta and speeds away.

“Vampires, slime molds, crack of dawn, ubiquitous Eurasian invaders – all in a day’s work for Daktari,” I muse as I head for the showers.
“De gustibus non disputandum.”

Daktari

The Miracle of St. Gellert - Budapest August 24, 2001

2008-08-04T04:48:00.000-07:00

Dohany Synagogue
St. Gellert with an admiring pupil

Elisabeth ('Sisi') Bridge links Buda to Pest

We are staying at the K + K Opera Hotel right next to the Budapest Opera House. Breakfast is a meal so substantial that we don’t eat again until 10 PM. We exit the K + K and walk a few blocks to the old Jewish quarter. Security is tight for the Wallenberg Memorial and the Dohany Synagogue. The Dohany is the largest synagogue in Europe and second largest in the world. In the synagogue is a traveling exhibit of Chagall paintings. It’s too nice a day; it costs extra; we don’t go.
Instead, we stroll to the Danube waterfront to buy tickets for a Sunday cruise on the river. Sorry - sold out! I step into an antique shop where a small ivory netsuke is calling my name. Only $250!!
We decide to hike to the hilly Buda side of the city - across the “Sisi” bridge, up the Gellert Hill to the Citadel and then down the back of the hill to the Taban or hot-springs district. Here the ancient Celtic inhabitants would sit in the hot water snacking on wild grapes and mastodon jerky while waiting for spring. Much later, Scandinavian diplomats would build embassies and art-deco hotels with saunas and swimming pools heated from the very same springs.
HUNGARIAN- ONE EASY LESSON
Language is a big problem in Budapest. Hardly anyone speaks English. The Hungarian language was brought to Hungary by mistake when Attila, the original Hun, made a wrong turn in 896 CE. He was looking to sack Rome, that being the Holy Grail of Hundom, but stopped in Budapest for a hot bath and voila - a whole country speaking Hungarian.
Incidentally this was also where we got the famous quote, “I think you’re making a wrong turn, Hun.” Spoken by Mrs. Attila of course but in Hungarian, so no one in Europe understood a word. Mrs. Hun had her heart set on spending the winter in Italy with the Pope but, true to his macho origins, Mr. Attila ignored her totally. No one else in the horde much cared one way or another. If grapes and hot baths were good enough for the Celts, they were good enough for barbarians too.
Which brings us to the one word of Hungarian that we manage to learn. It means “Thank You” (we hope). The first time we hear it, we think it’s pronounced “Goosin ‘em”. It’s very hard to express our thanks without breaking up. Especially after we forget the last part and can only remember the “goosin” part. Imagine the consternation of the polite Hungarian waiter who brings an extra plate to the table only to have a group of seemingly sedate American customers yell out “goosa -me” and fall off their chairs laughing. “Goosa -you” is also hilarious.
Bye and bye we find out that the actual expression of Hungarian gratitude is spelled Koszonom and is pronounced “cursin em”. This is a major improvement over our previous efforts. We’ve been cursin’ em in Hungarian ever since.
THE MIRACLE OF ST. GELLERT
At the Citadel, Rena and I try on some surplus Russian military headgear while Bernie manages to lose her guidebook in the ladies toilette. The three of us ponder the fate of St. Gellert, patron saint of Hungarian primary school teachers. Gellert led a saintly life and taught the children of the Hun invaders how to read and write Latin. Some years later, a group of his former pupils recognized their saintly, white-haired teacher. They promptly lassoed him, dragged him behind their horses, stoned him and lanced him through the heart. (Latin, apparently, was not their favorite subject.) Death by former students qualified him for martyrdom – (as if teaching a classroom full of obstreperous Huns was not punishment enough). Beatification followed martyrdom sometime in the 11th century.

While we are looking at St. Gellert’s femur and other bits of bone, Rena goes to the same toilette as Bernie and donates her sweater. An hour later Bernie and Rena realize they are missing one sweater and a guidebook. They go back to the toilette and retrieve their goods from the efficient Magyar toilette attendant. It’s another miracle for the blessed St. G! Is there a patron saint of things left in public toilets? I nominate Gellert.
THE ETERNAL SEARCH FOR FOOD
Hiking down from the Citadel, our stomachs begin to growl. It is quite hot and we are thirsty. We skip the Semmelweis Medical Museum and cross over the “Sisi” bridge into Pest. After Rena buys two embroidered table cloths, we cash some dollars at the local beauty parlor and, flush with forints, saunter into the Central Cafe for a light snack - coffee laced with vanilla ice cream and accompanied by Dobos torte - seven layers of butter creme separated by thin slices of chocolate cake. Topped with caramel! Yum.
This pretty much settles our appetites. Back to the K+K for naps and showers. At night, our maniacal cabbie, Karolyi, takes us to the Hungarian State Folklore Orchestra. The orchestra plays beautifully and the dancers are enthusiastic, but I get distracted by the cello player on the end who is a dead-ringer for Gene Wilder. I kept expecting him to fall off his chair or shoot his bow out into the audience.
After the concert we stop at an outdoor cafe to eat. After two hours with nothing served but a salad and a bowl of goulash, we plunk down some forints and leave. Now we know why Hungarian girls are so thin!
Our stroll home is very pleasant with no tropical downpours. The lighted chain bridge and parliament buildings and the bulk of St. Stephen’s Cathedral guide us back to the opera house and home. Five squares of Toblerone and another hit of Ambien and it’s lights out.

DAKTARI

Look Ma I'm Flying - Sky Venture, NH - July 21, 2008

2008-07-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

CRASH TEST MARY AND FRIEND

FLYING KAT AS 'WENDY ' ********************FLYING SOPHIE ********************DAKTARI AS 'ROCKY'

The e-mail from my friend Greg is intriguing:
“Fly without wings – no experience necessary. Meet at my house at 6:30. If we get 12 people it’s only 35 bucks each.”
“Count me in,” I type back.
“Good! – That makes five. Get more volunteers.” Greg responds.

‘Fly without wings.’ Mmmm. I’m thinking maybe balloons or blimps. I click on the link in Greg’s email. Sky Venture, New Hampshire – no balloons, blimps or dirigibles -just straightforward extreme physics. Unlike butterflies, people aren’t actually designed to fly. But given arms, legs, torsos and a 160 MPH vertical wind it can be done. Aha! This is great – it’s ‘second to the right and straight on till morning’. Neverland, here I come!

Who else would be crazy enough to take up the challenge of wingless flight? Certainly not my wife who prefers to keep both feet firmly planted on terra firma. Hmmm.

My young friend Kat is always up for an adventure.
“Hey, Kat. Wanna fly like Peter Pan?” Kat’s definitely in.

After work, I swing by Newburyport to pick up Kat on the way to Greg’s mansion on the banks of the Merrimack River. We’re joined by Kathleen, Stephanie and her 13 year old son Christopher. The six of us pile into Kathleen’s Acura. It’s a tight squeeze but just 40 minutes later we decant ourselves out of the vehicle and into Sky Venture. We’re met at HQ by our instructor Matt and his fashionably outfitted crash-test dummy, Mary.

The last class of junior birdmen is just finishing their second flight in the Sky Venture and we scramble upstairs to watch. Matt explains, “There are four fans in the ceiling of this vertical wind tunnel that generate winds up to 200 miles an hour going straight up.” We gaze into a Plexiglas octagonal space about 12 feet in diameter where perfectly average people are body surfing with their instructor in a man-made Class 5 hurricane! Kowabunga, dude –surf’s definitely UP!

Adrenaline floods our nervous systems as Matt gives out the flight suits. First, we have to remove anything that can fly off our bodies and ding the Sky Venture or its occupants. We put our rings, bracelets, necklaces, wallets, keys and loose change in the lockers. Then we don helmets, goggles, ripstop nylon flightsuits, and special tie-on sneakers. (Velcro doesn’t stick very well in a hurricane.) Now we all look like crash-test dummies.

Matt takes us to ‘ground school’ where we learn to arch our backs, lift our chins, extend our legs and flex our knees in the classic sky diver position. We also learn how to maneuver – up, down, forward and back. Did you know that Superman flies faster when his legs are out straight? If his knees were bent, he would fly in reverse!

The moment of truth approaches. We stuff wads of foam into our ear canals. (Hurricanes make a lot of noise – even the controlled ones.) We line up on benches in a circle around the outside of Sky Venture, putting 13 year old Christopher in first position next to the entry. He arches his back, crosses his arms, clicks both heels together and falls through the open doorway into the chamber. Matt guides Chris to the center, adjusts his position and Voila! He’s flying – suspended by the winds in the middle of the maelstrom. At the end of one minute Matt gently shoves Christopher to the exit door where he grabs the sides and jumps through for a landing.

Kat’s turn comes. She’s a natural, as she flies through the air with the greatest of ease. Very gracefully – definitely more of a Wendy than a Peter Pan.

I’m next. I fall through the doors, the wind takes me and I’m airborne. How cool is that?!
What’s it like? Indescribable – but here’s my best shot:

I remember when I was 12 years old or so, and my grandfather Bowles would drive Uncle Richard and me into Fort Morgan, Colorado on Saturday afternoons to take Mom shopping in town. Rick and I would be in the back seat and the windows of the big ol’ Buick Century would be wide open, inviting us to stick our arms out. While the Buick sped along at 50 or even 60 MPH trailing an enormous plume of prairie dust, I would put my hand out the open window, curving and straightening my cupped fingers. My arm glided and pirouetted -- rising and falling like a leaf in the stream of moving air. Now, just imagine your whole body feeling exactly like that floaty arm out the window of a speeding car. That’s the feeling of Sky Venture!
Matt, like all of the Sky Venture instructors, is an accomplished sky-diver and assures us that we are experiencing exactly what a diver feels after she reaches terminal velocity and before her chute opens. We do miss the beautiful view, of course, but on the plus side we don’t lose our lunches as the fall out of the airplane sends the pits of our stomachs freefalling from zero to 160 in only a few seconds.

After another one minute flight we go downstairs to view and purchase $15 photos of our experience. I’m kinda hoping I look like an aging, slightly debonair Peter Pan but, alas, it is not to be. The green flight suit definitely works but the goggles don’t go with the Pan image. Plus the wide grin on my face allows the wind to puff out my cheeks with air.
‘Look up in the air. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No – It’s ROCKY THE FLYING SQUIRREL!’

A.K.A,
Daktari

Butterflies are Free - All Others Pay $9.50

2008-07-20T07:43:00.000-07:00

Kat's Butterfly Tattoo
MADAM BUTTERFLY- RENA

NOT IN KANSAS ANY LONGER!

BUTTERFLY RESTING

MY FAVORITE!

My massage therapist, Kat, tipped me off to “The Butterfly Place” in Westford, Massachusetts.

I was lamenting the lack of butterflies in my garden this year.
“You won’t see them when it’s cloudy,” says Kat. “They only fly around in bright sunshine.”
“How do you know about butterflies?” I ask.
“I have one tattooed on my shoulder,” replies Kat.
(Sure enough she does. But that as they say is another story.)

That’s a good enough recommendation for me. Taking Kat at her word, I also take a quick snap of her tattoo for blog purposes. Then, I bicycle back to my house, fire up the family Suzuki, load Rena in the front and a couple of beach chairs in the way-back and we’re off – heading West to Westford.

“Nice day,” I exclaim. “Good butterfly weather.”
My wife, who is used to strange utterances about weather conditions as well as spur-of-the-moment travel adventures, doesn’t even ask where we’re going. We plug in Marvin, our GPS. Marvin is a bit temperamental and often refuses to talk if he’s not in the mood. But today is such a bright, sunny wonder of a day that even Marvin cooperates by giving directions. It’s a good thing, because ‘The Butterfly Place’ is not easy to find.

“Here we are,” I exclaim as we pull up to an un-prepossessing suburban ranch house with what looks like a largish detached sunroom on the side. I stop at the stick-your-head-in-the-hole plywood outside the entrance. ”Guess what – it’s a butterfly farm!”
“So the sign says,” agrees Rena, as she sticks her head in the hole and I take a quick blog snap.

We enter and Rena checks out the butterfly gift shop while I buy two adult tickets for $9.50 each. I’m tempted to ask for senior tickets but the old battle-axe behind the counter looks like she could be wise to that canard. I can just see me down at the local constabulary:
“What was his offense officer?” asks the magistrate.
“Impersonating a senior citizen,” replies Officer Krupke. “This cheapskate wanted to ding ‘The Butterfly Place’ $5 off the regular admission by using a fake senior ID.”
“How do you plead, Mr. Cheapskate?”
“Guilty as hell,” I reply.
I pay the $19 and we head for the entrance to the sunroom.

To enter you have to pass through a ‘butterfly trap’. Basically it’s a dark hall with tight doors at both ends to prevent the little guys from escaping – like an airlock into inner space. Emerging from the dark, you reach the inner sanctum. Suddenly it’s a Technicolor world – just like Dorothy after her house fell on the wicked witch. Sunshine and butterflies. Fountains and flowers. Several sculptures and a bench or two. There are feeding stations where butterflies eat mashed bananas and other delicacies.
At first we are like kids in a candy store, fluttering from place to place and exclaiming “Look at that one!” and “Ohmigod look over here”.

Then Butterfly Bob, the sunroom’s naturalist, explains that butterflies spend 90% of their time sitting still and only 10% of their time flitting about. I try sitting still on the bench. Sure enough as my breathing slows and my gaze sharpens, I see nine times as many butterflies in the bushes, up the trees and on the ground. How cool is that? Gradually, I relax into a butterfly trance beside the stream of consciousness. Butter-fly questions flutter-by:

“Don’t we all spend too much time flitting about and not enough time resting?”
“Are all butterflies born free and if so are they born again?”
“If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, then isn’t anything possible?”
“If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, can a doctor become a trapeze artist?”
“What the heck is a moth, anyway?”

Rena breaks into my reverie, “Come on. Time to go. We’re done.”
I rouse myself enough to hear Butterfly Bob explain that a moth has feathery antennae and a butterfly has straight ones. Also butterflies transform via chrysalis while moths prefer cocoons.

“Ready, willing and able,” I exclaim.
“Roger, over and out we go,” asserts my spouse.

We brush off any butterfly hitchhikers and push through the airlock. Surely we can’t be back in Kansas already! It’s a tough transition. I shake my head to clear the lepidoptera from my pre-frontal cortex. I’ve still got butterflies on the brain!

I ask the gift-shop clerk where I might find a beach. We follow her directions but no beach is in sight. Marvin isn’t much help. He seems dazed by the butterfly experience. We stop at a donut shop for more directions. Eventually we stumble on a small deserted strand of sand behind the water treatment plant in Westford. We haul out the beach chairs but only stay for a short time. It seems that swimming in the water supply is frowned upon by town ordinance. Or so a large, red sign says. Officer Krupke might well throw the book at me, if the same wannabee senior scofflaw attracts his attention for the second time in one day! We load our beach chairs back in the car and head for home.

As we tool down the highway, I still have my butterfly buzz.
“Maybe I have been a caterpillar too long. Maybe I should seek personal transformation. Me and all the other baby boom caterpillars.” I feel like Winnie-the-Pooh daydreaming about honey.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman in a white Toyota making a rude gesture.
My head swivels and I realize that she is not flipping me the bird – which is something your average Boston driver is wont to do more frequently then your average Kansas driver. Instead she is pointing and gesticulating toward the rear of my car.
“Your trunk is open!” she yells.

“Holy Hatchback,” she’s right!

“Ohmigod,” yells Rena. “My purse is in the back.”

I pull off the highway at the next exit. Sure enough, on closer inspection the hatch is wide open and the beach chairs are dangling precariously in the breeze. But the pocketbook is heavy enough that it's still inside and the contents are intact. Nothing seems to be missing.

“Now why in the heck ….”, Rena starts to admonish. There’s a slight menacing tone in her voice and I suspect that the blame will fall on me if I don’t think of something quickly.

“The butterflies made me do it!” I spontaneously blurt out.

Now, that’s a conversation stopper. Rena raises one eyebrow quizzically and gives me the stink eye. I quickly batten all hatches and clear for take-off.

“Butterflies made me do it.”
What kind of a psychotic lame excuse is that? Pretty soon I won’t need a fake senior ID. They’ll know I’m old enough for reduced admission by just checking out the way I drive and the weird excuses coming out of my mouth. As the Dunlops direct me into my driveway, the car radio is playing Paul Simon’s ‘Still Crazy after all Those Years.’
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46bkXgxb66E on YouTube)

"I'm ready, I guess," I muse to myself. "Just send for the men in white coats. Only be sure they’re the traditional ones carrying the big butterfly nets on long poles.”

Daktari

Friedensreich Regentag Dunkelbunt Hundertwasser (December 15, 1928 – February 19, 2000)

2008-07-06T14:31:00.001-07:00

Kunst Haus, Vienna

Hundertwasser Haus -low income housing

Trash to Electric Power Incinerator

Vienna Trash Incinerator - other side!

Autobahn Rest Stop by Hundertwasser

Friedensreich Regentag Dunkelbunt Hundertwasser. What a moniker!

Herr Hundertwasser is to staid Viennese architecture what Attila the Hun was to the hot springs at Budapest. He really shook up the old neighborhood bigtime! His beautiful, quirky buildings dot the bland Viennese urban landscape like exotic gems. A trash-burning power plant looks like a Russian fairy village. An art museum (the Kunst Haus) looks like Legoland on drugs. My favorite is the Hundertwasser Haus, a block of low income housing flats with no square angles and no two apartments alike. Nine hundred tons of dirt and 250 trees and vines are an integral part of the latter’s design.

Seeing these buildings brings up a very reasonable question, "Why should ordinary architecture be so extraordinarily boring." Also: "Why should't form be fun as well as functional?" Hundertwasser's work reminds me of Antoni Gaudi in Barcelona, but without the heavy religious symbolism. I'll take a fanciful Austrian autobahn reststop over an inspired Spanish cathedral any day. Pass the hot espresso and hold the holy water, Danke schoen.

Rena and I quaff our hot espresso in the courtyard of the Kunst Haus (art museum) and marvel at Hundertwasser’s undulating floors, riotous plantlife, and tiled walls. After the Kunst Haus we walk across the Danube canal and into the Prater - Vienna’s Coney Island. We take the famous Prater Wheel - a Ferris wheel from the 1890’s. The sun's going down over Vienna and the view is Wunderbar. The day ends in a perfect golden glow and we still have the night ahead of us! Time to 'wein und schwein' before we 'rise and shine'.

We finally meet our sponsor at the International Conference of Nutrition: Ms. Alice Wimpfheimer (and her roommate Erly from Campinas, Brazil). They are waiting at the Austrian Conference Center where Bernie has spent the day attending nutricious lectures and presentations. Alice is 77 years old with the energy of a 17 year old. She probably weighs 77 pounds soaking wet! This little dynamo lives on Central Park West but remains Swiss to the core.

After greetings and exclamations, we board a bus to Grinzing for a traditional Austrian pork fest - or as they call it, a Heurigen night. There is pork cutlet, pork roast, pork sausage and, to avoid any clogs in the plumbing, fresh sauerkraut. Being as how we're Jewish by religion and vegetarian by inclination, Rena and I eat very little. But the Apfelstrudel for dessert is great! We drink Austrian red and white wine and sing some Trinkenlieder which I remember from my childhood on the Alsatian border. Alice is impressed!

About 10:30 Rena and I start to fade and decide to take public transport back to the hotel instead of waiting for the tour bus. I ask a local Burger “Wo ist die Grindzinger Statione?”. And I understand enough of the reply to arrive at the busstop just as the trolley car doors open. In 20 minutes we are out of the dorf and back at the K+K for a night of rest. All except Bernie who awakens at 4 AM to worry about the poster. Tomorrow is POSTER DAY.

Daktari

Dorf to Dorf in the Wienerwald - Aug 29, 2001

2008-06-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

The Viennese Dragon

Silly Sophie says, "I ain't scared of no dragon!"

St. George Church

Vineyards above Kahlenbergerdorf

No trips for Daktari this month. Instead I'll take you through time and space to Vienna in 2001. My wife Rena and I are traveling with out neighbor Bernadette Lucas, who is presenting our paper on African Salt at the International Congress of Nutrition.

While Bernie goes postering, at the I.N.C. convention hall, Rena and I take the “D” Tram from the K + K Hotel to Nussdorf. We trek through the 'dorf" (or village) until we come to the lower slopes of Mount Kahlenberg, all covered with vineyards. The grapes are ripe and I surreptitiously sample a few on the way. After leaving the dorf, we are in the Wienerwald, which contrary to American popular belief is not hot-dog country. It is a nice forested park which completely encircles the city of Vienna. There are two largish hills in the Wienerwald which overlook the Danube (the Kahlenberg and the Leopoldberg). These are the last two peaks of the European Alps. At 480 and 510 meters, they are also the world’s smallest Alps. Unlike most Alps, they have Kaffeehaus’s and Bierstube’s at the top of each. Hike then drink coffee; hike again and drink beer. We can see all Vienna through binoculars from the top. There is even shopping at the top of the Kahlenberg - we buy tee shirts and a book of photos of Vienna.

HAPSBURGS 1, TURKS 0
The top of the Leopoldberg is where the Austrians under King Leopold, the Hapsburg Emperor, turned back the last invading Turkish army from the gates of Vienna in 1683. This set the borders of Europe at the Bosporus. To celebrate, a young Viennese named Joachim Schwenig looted some odd looking beans from the Turkish camp, boiled them up and that is how coffee came to Vienna. Unfortunately, three more centuries were to pass before Franz Sacher, a 19 year old pastry chef apprentice concocted his first Sacher Torte, thus completing the Viennese “hat trick” of Coffee, Schlagobers, and Sacher Torte. This won young Sacher the 1903 Nobel Prize for pastry. Schlagobers is German for whipped cream - the special floaty kind that sits up on top of your cup and sticks to your mustache. It is said that another famous Viennese - Dr. Sigmund Freud - used to dip the end of his cigar in his Schlagobers and lick it off. Analyze that!

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DORF
From the top of the Kahlenberg, the way down is steep through a forest of very interesting, tall, smooth deciduous trees of 30-40 meters height. At the bottom, tucked between the “berg” and the Danube is a cute little dorf called (what else?) Kahlenbergerdorf. The small church in Khalenbergerdorf dates from the 10th century but of the original structure, only the doorstop remains. The church was burned twice by the Turks and once by a monk smoking in bed after lights out. Shame on him. It’s last resurrection was accomplished in 1723 and the church is aptly named after St. George - an early opponent of smoking, particularly by dragons. The altar is backed by a gory painting of the patron saint slaying said dragon. The caption reads (I think) - “Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires” but my rudimentary German may have failed me here. The doorstop may also be a mis-translation, come to think of it.

The artist spent a lot more time on rendering the Dragon than he did on St. George. The result is quite terrifying. It must have served to put the fear of God into generations of illiterate Kahlenberger Kinder. The Churchyard is small, well-tended and features a variety of especially sweet-smelling roses. Delicious!

At the Danube we buy a glass of Mineralwasser mit Gas and lunch on bread, cheese, Greek sugar cookies and Toblerone. This finishes off the last of the emergency supplies as well as all that we had stolen from the K+K breakfast buffet. Tomorrow we visit Hundertswasser Haus.

Some useful phrases in German for hiking in the Wienerwald:

Your mountains take my breath away! Ihre Berge sind atemberaubend.

Or perhaps it is the lack of oxygen. Oder vielleicht ist es der Mangel an Sauerstoff.

I sighted several trees. Ehrspahte ich mehrere Baume.

We are lost. Haben wir uns verlaufen!

Oh Calcutta VII - Raghuviira's Guru: The Final Incarnation

2008-06-15T05:10:00.000-07:00

Will the Real Guru Please Stand Up?

The trip home from Calcutta to Amesbury was long but uneventful. I remember an interesting conversation with my seatmate – a woman obstetrician who grew up in India but now practices in Wales, U.K. We debated the virtues of arranged marriage versus marrying for love. Her opinion was that love is blind whereas parents know their child so well they are more likely to identify a good match. Hmmmm.

I arrive home jet lagged by 10 hours and in need of a shower. The next day at breakfast (about 2 PM local time) I finally am alert enough to talk coherently.

“So how was the meeting with your Guru?” asks Rena.

“Indescribable,” I reply. “but I’ll try.”

As I go through the recital of my contact with Shri Anandamurti (a.k.a. P.R. Sarkar), I become increasingly enthusiastic. I re-experience that mixture of awe and weirdness that comes from meeting another human being who has achieved his Calcutta ‘all-in-one’ moment with the entire known universe. As I tell about the pinnacle of personal contact, my face lights up.

“. . . and then the Guru gave me a new spiritual name.”
“A new name – what is it?” asks my wife.
“Rhaguviira,” I enthuse.
“Hmm – you mean Ragu, like the spaghetti sauce?” she inquires skeptically.
“At the time, I was actually thinking of Carmine, the Big Ragu, from Laverne and Shirley,” I remember. “But I didn’t say anything to him.”

Patiently, I explain to my doubting spouse about King Rhaghu, the warrior king who was the grandfather of Rama, etc. (see Oh Calcutta VI for details)

“Well, I understand,” says Rena. “But practically speaking, if you tell anyone around here your new name, they’re going to think spaghetti sauce. So then what happened?”

I feel a spritzel of figurative cold water dampening the unalloyed enthusiasm I take in my new spiritual name. However, I soldier on:

“So then,” I continue, “the guru gave me a special blessing – personal spiritual advice which I am to remember for the rest of my life.”
“Wow,” says my adoring, if somewhat down-to-earth wife. “What did he tell you.”
“Actually he whispered it to me. Do you want me to whisper it to you?”
“No, just spit it out.”
”Ok, here’s the short version: Baba says that I should ‘always try to be myself and nobody else.’”

“Somebody else says that, too,” Rena says musingly. “If I’m not mistaken, I think it’s Mr. Rogers on T.V.”

I am rocked back on my spiritual heels. By golly she’s right. Mr. Rogers does say that!
All this time and expense to go to Calcutta and I could have received the same advice from my childrens’ favorite TV show. Rena and I look at each other and start to giggle – then we bust out laughing.

“You win,” I say. “My spiritual life is changed forever. From now on I’m going to eat spaghetti and red-sauce while watching Fred Rogers on Channel 2 with Ali and Dan. I’ll be the one in the lotus pose.”

“Onward and upward,” chortles Rena.

“Imagine that,” I think to myself. “I have met the Guru and he is Fred!

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t trade my pilgrimage adventures in India for anything. As with many spiritual adventures, the enlightenment you seek in unlikely and exotic places is often in plain sight, waiting for you in your own backyard.
As my new Guru says, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” We should all be more appreciative of that simple fact!

Oh Calcutta VI - The Guru Speaks!

2008-06-06T04:38:00.001-07:00

Guru Anandamurti

Pratik

This is it! Personal contact with my guru.
I awake early and bathe in a basin of water, but take no food.
Fasting keeps the mind sharp. I repeat my mantra over and over- I am ready.

About 3 PM, I am led to a small, quiet room. It is cool (relatively speaking), dim, and smells of sandalwood incense. In a few minutes an orange-robed sanyasin (monk) conducts me from the antechamber into the inner sanctum. I nervously rub my ‘pratik’ for good luck. The pratik is a brass disk engraved with the Star of David. Inside the star is a rising sun and inside that is a swastika. I wear it around my neck.

The ‘pratik’ works on many levels. Combining three powerful religious symbols sops up tons of bad karma. Rubbing it calms my chakras. Wearing it protects against the stink-eye. Other lesser effects of pratik-wearing are: 1.) the brass turns my chest green and 2.) the swastika drives my Jewish mother-in-law crazy.

The Guru is in! Shri Shri Anandamurti, all in white, sits cross-legged on an orange cushion. He is garlanded with matching orange marigolds. Incense burns in a rough clay bowl and Baba’s thick eyeglasses rimmed in heavy black plastic reflect the light of candles. For a moment, I flash on superman’s alter ego- Clark Kent. Different clothes – same glasses. I wonder, “Are the glasses for my protection more than for the guru’s vision?”

“Namascar,” I bring my hands together in prayer and touch the thumbs to my forehead.
Then I kneel and bow my head to the floor with hands outstretched toward the master in the asana called “The Child’s Pose”. I actually feel like a child.

“Arise, boy.” The Guru has a very mild voice and speaks perfect unaccented English.
We gaze into each other’s eyes. I am grinning like a monkey. I feel very young and foolish.

“I’m glad to see you,” says Baba.
The feeling is mutual. We do the eye thing some more.
“Do you know who King Raghu was?” he asks.
I feel tempted to mention Carmine, the Big Ragu, on 'Laverne and Shirley' but I’m not quite that foolish (yet).
“No Baba, I don’t.”

“You should know more because henceforth you will carry his name,” says Anandamurtiji.
“From now on your Sanskrit name will be Raghuviira which means follower of Raghu. Raghu was the King of all India and he had to prevail as a warrior against many enemies. He was also the great-grandfather of Rama.”

I feel my chest swell! I now have my Sanskrit name.

“Raghuviira is a very powerful name for a small boy, don’t you think?” asks the Guru.

“Yes, Baba,” I say.
I am pretty tongue-tied by this point and regressing rapidly. I have to curb a tendency to switch to baby-talk.

“Well it is a powerful name,” he pauses and his eyes close and then slowly open again. “Like Raghu you will struggle against many enemies but each time you will prevail, even to that point where you will achieve spiritual victory.”

“The word Raghu is made up of ‘Ra’ or light plus ‘ghu’ or moving,” he continues. ”So you are ‘moving light’ or ‘light moving’. They say King Raghu was a very fast chariot driver.” Baba eyes me again. “ Maybe you are a very quick student.”

“I try,” I say.

“Well, when you try you must promise me one thing,” Baba demands.
“What is that babaji,” I ask.
“You will remember what I say now, eh boy?” he queries from behind his thick, thick spectacles.
“Oh, yes Baba.”

“OK remember this,” Baba pauses and leans forward. “When you try, you must always try as yourself – and you must not try to imitate any others.” He leans back again.
“Do you understand,” he looks at me and smiles.

“Yes, Baba,” I respond. “ I will only try as myself and not anyone else.”

With that I bow and touch the feet of the Master. He gives me Namaste – and nods to me. “Go now, Rhaghuviira, but remember – try only to be yourself, no one else.”
Still facing the Guru, I back out of the room.

Personal contact is ended. I now bear the name of the great King Raghu, but on the mundane level I still must try to be myself. This is going to take some thought!

The Duncan

2008-05-23T03:54:00.000-07:00

f/Silly Sophie/f

THE DUNCAN

AL the BELLMAN

Mario Lanza

FLASH! Stop the presses! Enlightenment can wait.

I have to tell you about our latest trip to New Haven and our new lodging fave – The Hotel Duncan on Chapel Street.

Silly Sophie is two months and one week old. We had a fine visit with her and her parents on Saturday. Sophie’s Great Aunt Josephine (Auntie Jo) joins us for the day. About 9 PM Rena, Jo and I drive to the Hotel Duncan where we have a reservation for the night. Christopher has warned us in advance, “It’s not your average hotel, but I think you guys will like it.”

Following a contest for a parking spot with a lithe but buxom six-foot-tall African-American woman in a blond wig, skimpy tank-top and white short-shorts (Rena’s Suzuki eventually loses to the lady’s Camaro), we enter the lobby of the Duncan and register at the desk. The lobby is dark wood with a black and white harlequin floor –1940’s vintage.

“The bellboy will be here shortly to escort you to your room.”
The desk clerk dings his bell.
“Ah,” he says, “and here’s the bellboy now.”
An 85 year old gent wearing a black tie and white shirt ambles up to the desk.
“That’s bellMAN NOT bellBOY!” Al, the bellperson, admonishes the clerk.

I grab the bags as Al escorts us to the elevator.
“Don’t want the old boy to pop a hernia,” I whisper to Rena.
“This is the oldest operating passenger elevator in Connecticut,” says Al proudly.
“And this must be the oldest living elevator operator in Connecticut,” I think to myself.

Al slides back the folding metal door and hops down into the driver’s seat.
“Wait while I adjust it,” says Al.
He deftly raises the elevator about 9 inches so we don’t have to jump down after him.

“This elevator has been in the hotel for 85 years,” says Al brightly.
“And how long have you been working here?” I ask.
“Thirty two years,” answers Al.
“How’s it going so far?” I inquire.
“Not bad. Some nights are better than others.”
“I hear the elevator business has its ups and downs,” I chortle.
Al gives me the stink-eye and mutters to himself.

As we ascend slowly, I try to calculate whether thirty two years in the elevator at the Duncan Hotel is the same vertical distance as a trip to the moon and back. I conclude, it’s a definite maybe.

We exit after two floors and walk down the hall to our room. Al fiddles with the key for a while but the door is stubborn. I try. Still no luck. Then I look at the key.
“This is the wrong room,” I exclaim. Al takes a look. “We’re not even on the right floor,” he groans.

Al leads the way, as our troupe of adventurers nudges and giggles its way back to the elevator cage. We get in and ascend two more floors. As we walk down the 5th floor hallway, Al observes perspicaciously- “So there’s three. You, the Mrs. and her.” He nods toward Josephine.
“Good thing I brought an extra girl for you, Al.” I observe.
Al shakes his head – “No thanks,” he deadpans. “I love my wife more than anything.” He pauses and cogitates for a second. “Except, Mario Lanza. My wife thinks I love Mario Lanza more than I love her.”

I do a double take. How did Mario Lanza get into this?
“You mean Mario Lanza – as in The Student Prince?”
This bellman explodes. “He was robbed! They didn’t let him act. He did the soundtrack but they gave the part to another actor.” Al fumes in righteous indignation.
“Sorry I touched a sore spot.” I apologize.
“Never mind,” says Al dourly. “I’ll get over it . . . . someday.”
He opens the door to room 510.

“Name another Mario Lanza movie,” blurts Al as we enter our room.
“Um, ‘Bells of St. Mary’s’, ” I venture.
“Come on -- that was Bing Crosby,” Al sneers. “Try again.”
“I give up,” I say turning to face our bellman.
“Hah,” he harrumphs. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve watched ‘The Great Caruso’ I’d be a wealthy man.”
Al pulls out his wallet. “Look at this.”
He opens the wallet to a well-thumbed black & white photo of Mario Lanza singing in front of a group of white-robed choirboys.
“Do you know what movie THIS is?” he demands.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Neither can I,” says Al regretfully. “It’s been bugging the hell out of me for years. I’ll go and get you more towels.”
Al exits the room.

Room 510 is almost as quirky as the elevator. (Not as quirky as the bellman though!)
I’ve seen hotel rooms with two double beds and I’ve seen rooms in pensions in Europe with two single beds, but never before have I seen a room with a double bed and a single bed. Above each individual bed is a print of an English hunting scene. Only it’s the exact same print over both beds. “I bet there’s another room in the Duncan that has duplicate prints over its beds,” I surmise.

“Hey, look you guys,” I exclaim. “The television is a Philco. Can you believe it?”

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Al with the towels.
“I brought you towels and soap,” he explains. Al comes to a halt and looks puzzled. “And something else but I can’t remember what. But if you need anything just push the buzzer.”
That’s the last we see of Al.
I head for the bathroom while the girls switch on the Philco.
Surprisingly the picture and sound aren’t bad!

Despite its age, the Duncan bathroom is exquisitely clean. There are lots of towels and soap. Oh yeah, and plenty of plastic water glasses too.
“Good old Al,” I think to myself. “He remembered.”

As I brush my teeth for bed, I muse on a change in retirement plans. Maybe I won’t be a Walmart greeter after all. Maybe I can get Al’s job as bellMAN at the Duncan instead! Why not? He’s probably about to drop in his tracks any day now. We’ll be near to Silly Sophie, I can make extra money on tips and I’ll have a captive audience all the way to the 5th floor. I can tell tons of awful jokes to your tired, your poor, and your tempest tossed yearning to be free (of my 90-year-old elevator cage with its gracefully aging elevator operator). Yes indeedy, just think of it!

Daktari

P.S. To see the great American tenor Mario Lanza singing Ave Maria in front of choir boys go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CULVjKTl6cE