Street Scene In Paris

[Paris is a city of light and charm.]

It was our first day in the City of Light. Getting there involved subjecting ourselves to a subtle form of modern torture.  We were taking a “red-eye” from JFK to Paris.  We flew American Airlines because we’re addicted to air miles.  I won’t tell you how many miles I’ve accrued, but I will say that I earned every one of them.  My intent is not to dis American Airlines in this blog, but I can’t help but convey how long and endless and really awful the flight was. The food was fine, considering it was airline fare. But, for a trans-Atlantic flight, most everything was woefully below par.  The screens for the in-flight movie were not viewable unless one wanted to combine eye-strain with minor neck injuries.

At the end of the nearly seven hour flight, I thought I needed a massage on 22nd Street. My legs hurt, my back hurt and there was not enough leg room to raise a knee to tie a shoe lace or stretch a muscle in the lumbar region.

But, I digress.

After a two-hour taxi ride to our hotel near St. Sulpice, I was ready for one thing. A two-hour nap. After a three-hour nap, we pulled ourselves together and headed to see some places we loved in the Latin Quarter. I wanted to climb to the bell towers of Notre Dame, but the line (in a blazing sun) put me off.

I can’t take the heat and the direct sun.  I’m Irish.

So, we headed over to Shakespeare & Company Bookstore, which is a must stop for me.  I love the place.  But, I didn’t need another book to carry on our journey, so I opted for a beer instead.

And this is where the story begins.

It was a street full of foot traffic.

[It all took place on a busy street, just like this.]

We chose to sit facing the street just off the Rue St Michel. It’s busy and touristy.  As we sat in the shade, I noticed there was a homeless man sleeping on a foam pad surrounded by a few pieces of luggage.  I can’t say he was truly homeless, but I noticed all the signs.  We sat for forty minutes, reluctant to go back to the hotel and too tired to explore much more of the Latin Quarter.

I watched the man who slept.  He was in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

Another line of thought came to me.  I had heard of the deranged people who drove trucks into crowds and even went on stabbing rampaged.  I wondered about the SWAT patrols and where they were hiding out.  Then I spotted three well protected (but not heavily armed) police wander by.

A few minutes later, three more SWAT members (two female and one male) approached the sleeping guy on the sidewalk in front of me.

I was prepared for violence that would later be seen on YouTube.  They prodded the guy to determine if he was alive, dead, drunk, stoned or flying on some other drug.  I was prepared to not like what I was about to see.

Instead, the three officers, finally roused the man and got him to his feet.  I was sure they were going to cart him away…

But, they helped him walk to a spot by a street lamp.  Out of the way of the amount of foot traffic.  They dragged his belongings to his side.  He lay back and fell asleep.

The officers walked away.  No hassles.  No arrests.  No clubbing.

I wondered about the man’s life and what brought him to this busy sidewalk.  Then I felt grateful that he was in Paris, where no one used clubs or made him vanish into the bright light of the afternoon.

And all this happened within sight of this:

c

[Notre Dame Cathedral]

 

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So What Does A Man Do?

Okay, you read my last post. You know how males hormones can get out of control. Am I right?

So, what did I do after we got to the hotel, and after we met my son and his girlfriend?  I did what every red-blooded American male lover does.

I went to a topless bar down somewhere on 21st. Street and 10th Avenue.  A very desirable location, so I’ve heard, for more reasons than one.

The place glared with red neon…that’s a good thing in that part of town.  It was called “GA-GA’S”…or something like that.  Does it matter?

[Photo source: Google]

I sat at the bar next to the next dancer.  She said her name was Maxie.  I paid $9.00 for my beer and $375.00 for her glass of “champagne”.  For a moment I was in love.  Then I caught a look at her college ID.  Her name was Dierdre and she was a candidate for a Masters in Developmental Psychology at NYU.

This is NOT to say that strippers can’t be candidates for any degree.  But, there was something…..

She looked at me as if she were interested in me…in being her next subject in her Thesis.

She asked my name.  I said: “Patrick and I’m a writer blogger kind of guy.”

Maxie looked at me and said:  “I’ve seen your type way too often. You’ve been caught in traffic too long, my friend.  See ya later.”

I left and tried to catch a cab for my hotel.

The traffic was hell.

 

 

A Rare Journey

WinGreenWalk

[Windermere, England. Photo credit is mine]

On May 22, my wife and I will board an American Airlines flight to Paris.  This is not something new.  Every few years, we travel to Europe (mostly Paris) and end up with friends in Dorset, England.

Nothing so very earthshaking about this.  But, there is something different about this trip abroad.  On May 1, Mariam and I celebrated our 25th anniversary.  How she stayed with me for a quarter of a century is a mystery to me, but apparently not to her.  So, when we began planning our 2018 trip, we decided to do something different.  First of all, I’m taking her to Bruges, Belgium.  I spent a weekend there in the mid-1980’s and as I walked beside the canals, I was nearly in tears.  Why, I asked myself, couldn’t everyplace in the world be this beautiful?

The other new stop on our trip is Edinburgh.  I was there in the 1970’s, but I have few memories of the place.  I recall it being dark, somewhat dreary and quite chilly.

The rest of the trip will take us through Yorkshire (and hopefully some hiking, although my right foot and back are problematic).  We will end up in my favorite county, Dorset.  Visit friends, perhaps climb the Tor in Glastonbury, see a few English cathedrals, and find a few new paths to walk.

HikingBooks

[Helpful guidebooks.  Photo is mine.]

But, being our 25th, we decided to cough up a few extra quid and take the long way home.  On July 1, hopefully with my son waiting at the Hudson Pier, we will have completed a Trans-Atlantic crossing on the Queen Mary 2.

Don’t get me wrong here.  It’s a lot less expensive that you can quite imagine.  And, besides, how many times will we do this again?  We have never been on a cruise of any kind.  We deserve it, I think.  I’ll let you know when the bills start coming in.

Meanwhile, follow our trip on FB, my website, email or WordPress.

QueenMary2

[Photo credit: Google search and probably Cunard.]

 

 

 

A Hint Of Green: Southbound On Train #238

[Everything is ON TIME]

Aboard the 12:10 train for Penn Station

I check my watch as the train jolts into motion.  It’s 12:09.

There was a time when Mariam and I would make the trip from Manhattan to Rainbow Lake in one day.  It was 305 miles from our apartment door on W. 93rd Street to our driveway at 58 Garondah Road, deep in the heart of the North Country.  Oddly, it was exactly the same distance from the driveway of my childhood home (420 Front Street) in Owego, New York.  But that’s beside the point.

We left our city apartment in November of 2011 and moved to the Adirondacks.  My childhood dream was realized…I was living in my favorite playground.  Now, I could hike, kayak and bike to my heart’s content.

Reality set in quickly.  I had serious lower back issues and my right foot was problematic.  Hiking became less enjoyable…it actually became unbearibly painful.

“Age appropriate,” said my orthopedic surgeon.

“Thanks,” I said as I thought about where I would store my snowshoes and x-country skis.

Fast forward to the present moment.  We no longer make the trip to the city in one day.  Our favorite hotel is on Wolf Road in Albany.  Mariam has since retired from her job of fifty-one years in health care.  It wasn’t a total break, however.  She is now the President of the Hemophilia Association of New York.  That means quarterly trips to the city.  We’re on such a trip as I write this.  We’re old hands at this, although we still use SIRI to get from our hotel to the Albany-Rensselaer Amtrak Station.

I’d like to say that the gentle rocking of the coach is nap-inducing, but in reality, its nausea-inducing.  We make sure our seats are close to the restroom.  The train is really not rocking at all, it’s jerking me from side to side like a Yuma cowboy at the County Rodeo.  I’m having trouble hitting the right keys as I write this.  I’m using my MacBook Air without a mouse.  The heels of my hands are firmly planted on the deck of the laptop, but still I hit the wrong keys.  Three sentences ago, I meant to type “The train is really not rocking at all…”, but what appeared on the screen was: “Yug brain is ggreally not frocking ab vall”.

I’d like to say that in a half-hour, I intend to stroll back to dining car to sip a cognac and play a few hands of Whist, but in reality, there’s is no dining car on this particular train.  What made me think I was on the American version of the Orient Express?  But, hey, given the present state of rail travel in a country that sold its soul to Detroit and spends zillions of dollars on the Interstate System, I should be happy to settle for what we do have.

And, this trip is a little different for another reason.  I’m running away from a very long and depressing winter in the North Country.  It’s still January at Rainbow Lake.  I had to shovel a path to the garage just yesterday.  I’ve been filling the bird feeders two or three times a day.  Our respite in the city, where flowers are blooming I’m told, is only for a week.  Then its back to the snow, which I promise, will still be present in our front yard until early June.

As I look out at the Hudson River to my right, I do not see any snow…only on the tops of the distant Catskill Mountains.  Alongside the tracks, in the trees that line the river, I see wisps, mere hints, faint washes of pale green.  Spring is arriving in this middle land between the Adirondacks and urban New York. Across the river, on the western shore, I think I see forsythia shrubs in bloom.  The yellow is intense.  Some of the trees are starting to bud with a reddish hue.

[One of the many lighthouses of the Hudson River.]

It’s great to see color after six months of a monochromatic grayness.

Now, if I can only hold myself steady against the jerking of the train, and not slam the right side of my head against the plexiglass window sustaining a slight concussion, I can end this post.  But, I must find my email first.

We’re passing a nuclear power plant.  I think I’m starting to glow.

Do I see the George Washington Bridge coming up on my right?  Soon, we’ll be in tunnel on the west side of Manhattan and I will lose the wireless.  This is my second posting from a moving train.  I’ve done it!

[All photos are mine.]

 

NASA Director Sends Wife To The Moon

[A rare photo of the then Mr. Kramden, with wife, Alice and neighbor, Edward Norton. (ca. late 1950’s). Source: Google search]

Washington, D.C.

The Chief of NASA, Dr. Ralph Kramden, has big plans to celebrate his wife’s birthday.  He intends to send her, literally  to the earth’s only satellite, the moon.

A short time ago, Dr. Kramden finally succeeded in making a large sum of money on a project, that together with his friend and neighbor, Mr. Edward Norton, had been working on for many years.  With his new-found wealth, Mr. Kramden enrolled in the Aerospace Department of the University of Brooklyn.  He eventually earned his doctorate by emerging himself in cutting edge research regarding the legendary and elusive propellent factor utilizing the positive spin of the negative Higgs-Boson particle coupled with the entropic variations of the magnetic properties of the Fermion and Charm quarks when related to the Absolute Zero behaviors of the graviton particle in zero gravity isolation.

This was a continuation of his sixth grade science fair project he presented when he attended The Town School in Manhattan.

The news of the intended lunar mission came on the heels of President Donald Trump’s public dedication of his deep-seated interest in research into such topics as climate change, evolution and space exploration.

“I am signing this Executive Order to relocate $15,000,000,000 to pure scientific endeavors…good things…for scientists…great people…for the pure joy of knowledge even if there is no immediate monetary return.  I remember hearing that we have laptops because of the space program…good stuff,” said the President at a recent news conference.

“Now, with this funding, I can give my wife, Alice, what I’ve always promised her.  I used to tease her when we lived at our old apartment at 328 Chauncey Street in Bensonhurst that someday it was going to be ‘Bang, Zoom…to the moon!'” said Dr. Kramden.  He was flanked at the press conference, held appropriately at the Air & Space Museum on the Capital Mall, by Alice and his Associate Director, Dr. Edward Norton (Sanitation Specialist for the International Space Station).

The Marine Band stood below him on the white marble steps.  When he completed his prepared statement, the band began playing Dr. Kramden’s own composition, You’re My Greatest Love.

When Dr. Kramden turned to his future astronaut-wife, he was heard by many to whisper: “Baby, you’re the greatest.”

This reporter had difficulty finding a dry eye in the crowd of 12,000 who had gathered in the heavy rain to hear the historic announcement for themselves.

This is a great day for America and a great day for Brooklyn!

 

Breaking News: Chubby Checker Slightly Overweight But Not “Chubby”

[Photo: Google search]

Washington, D.C.

In a stunning announcement, Dr. Rudolph Rowbottom of the National Institute of Health (NIH), has shocked the music world and exploded a decades-old myth shattering the common knowledge concerning the pop star, Chubby Checker.

“Yes, Keith Richards is most likely clinically dead, but we’re here to discuss a real legend of music, Mr. Chubby Checker”, said Dr. Rowbottom, 63, in an exclusive interview after a crowded news conference held under a slate-gray sky and a persistent and annoying drizzle that was punctuated by an occasional snow shower that fell earthward from nimbo-stratus clouds while standing on the steps outside the NIH headquarters just outside of the Nation’s Capital.  His red-headed research assistant, a Miss Lola Cotton, 19, held a chartreuse umbrella that was decorated with the movie logo of Jaws over Dr. Rowbottom’s thinning gray hair.

“Thanks to the famous Height/Weight Charts developed by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, my assistant and I, along with our crack research team, have determined that Mr. Checker was merely slightly overweight and not chubby as indicated by his nickname.  His height is not available in any public records but from various album covers and YouTube videos of him on American Bandstand, we have concluded that he is approximantely 5’10”.  That, of course is an estimation that lies clearly within the boundaries of the Standard Deviation.  Mr. Checker, upon being asked his name by the wife of Dick Clark after his first recording session, answered: ‘My friends call me Chubby'”.

(Mr. Checkers official weight is unavailable to the public and subject to doctor/patient confidentiality rules as well as HIPPA.)

“Ironically, he had just completed an impression of Fats Domino, when Clark’s wife replied: ‘As in Checkers?’  Instantly seeing a play on words, “checkers” and “dominoes” and “Fats” and “Chubby”, the pop star took the moniker and has been using that name for decades.  It certainly sounds better than Ernest Evans, which was his birth name.  Pardon me, but Ernest Evans sounds like a dairy farmer from Ohio,” Dr. Rowbottom concluded.”

Cutting reporters off in mid-question, Dr. Rowbottom and Miss Cotton hastened to a waiting limousine and drove away into the foggy afternoon towards Maryland.

As a reporter who was present at the briefing, I can add the following known facts about the legendary musical icon: Mr. Checker then went on to record a cover of The Twist (1960) which was first released in 1959 by Hank Ballard and the Midnighters.  Chubby’s version instantly went to the top of the charts.  He became the “go to” guy for dance crazes like the haunting and immortal Hucklebuck, a dance still done at reunions of high school classes of 1960-1965 (with varying degrees of accuracy and physical agility).

In a little known footnote of pop music history, Mr. Checker was a childhood friend of the teen idol from Philadelphia, Fabiano Forte, who later became known professionally as Fabian.

Mr. Checker was born on October 3, 1941 in Spring Gully, South Carolina.  One is left to wonder why he never went into country music, following in the footsteps of Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton.

Yes, one wonders…until one realizes that few African-Americans went into country music in the late ’50’s.

Besides, I don’t think Dolly Parton sold as many 45’s as did Mr. Checker.

And, in 1961, when I entered high school and began to twist the night away at sock hops in the Owego Free Academy gym, I never heard a Dolly Parton song.

[Photo source: Google search]

 

 

 

 

 

My 400th Blog!

 

[Hi, I’m Fluffy. Remember me? My human, Pat, has used me in other posts in shameless attempts to peddle one of his books.  I hope you like this one. You see, Pat suffers from severe Post Holiday Blues and if he doesn’t get a lot of likes and comments…well, I may have to be sent out to pasture, if you get my drift.  Photo source: Google search.]

 

Writing four hundred blogs is not an easy thing to do.  Even if you’re retired and have little else to fill your time.  It’s an accomplishment of which I am proud.  Some bloggers have written thousands…some have written three.  I know how easy it can be for some people and much harder for others.

Back in the late 1990’s, I taught at the Town School on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.  One afternoon, the technology teacher, Al Doyle, mentioned to me that he wrote ‘blogs’.

“Blogs?”, I said.  “What are they?”

“Anything you want them to be,” he answered.

I listened and learned.

Sometimes the words would come easy to me and, on more than one occasion, I struggled with ways to communicate my thoughts and feelings.  Some bloggers have chosen ‘themes’ to address, such as marital problems, eating disorders, benefits of certain health foods, conspiracy theories, political rants and self-absorbed musings that interest only the writer.

I have chosen to go my own way.  I have no theme.  I write about topics that interest, amuse, fascinate, intrigue and beguile me.  I have experimented with various writing styles and subjected my readers to topics that some would consider morbid or overly maudlin and sentimental.

But, that’s me.  What you read is who I am and that is what you get.

I published my first blog on July 15, 2012.  It was an excerpt from my novel “Standing Stone”.  Since then, I have taken my readers on two cross-country road trips and a partial winter in Fort Myers, Florida when I learned to sail.  I’ve shared my experiences at a rodeo in Yuma, a hike in Zion National Park, a stroll among the sand dunes of Death Valley, a frightening drive pulling our RV into the Yosemite Valley, a Thanksgiving in Orting, WA., a month in Joshua Tree, CA., and several trips to Europe.

I’ve shared memories about childhood sweethearts, meetings with childhood friends and even wrote about the first woman who ever saw me in my life…the doctor who delivered me in a Binghamton hospital on May 31, 1947.

I shared the birth of my grandson and celebrated the lives of my son, Brian, my daughter, Erin and my wife Mariam.

One of my favorite posts was titled “The Brick Pond”.  It recalled childhood innocence and the coming of adulthood.

The blog that was the favorite of my readers was called “This Old House”.  In this, I attempted to convey the sorrow of handing over the keys to the house that I grew up in, a house that was in our family for over fifty years.

I sincerely hope that you, my readers, have enjoyed reading these 400 musings from a humble and insecure writer…myself.

I hope I live long enough to celebrate an 800th blog, or even a 1,000 posting.

Let’s hope.

 

[Source: Google search.]