Memories of Dad V - Requiem

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
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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

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

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

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

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

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

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