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

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

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)

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

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

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!

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

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