I pray and I take

as my eyes see fit,

as my lips would touch
in shadows,
in symphony,
in sighing sweetness of roses dark with bloom

I take my right of you
as my fingers can find of you,
as my lungs can breathe
in essence of you
from the traces of shapes of you
from the the cradle of your cheek,
the curve of God's horizon of you.

In my daily fix of you,
my nightly remembrance of you
from that time before your breath and mine
when my skin first drew life
that I might know of you
again
and again
in these suns,
these sounds,
these oldest of souls,
I take my piece of you in my life and this love.

Religion Reels - a poem

 

In one ringing brass sound the world conspired.

Blue and Green spinning

four times fast inspired

red angels to smoke and scream

from hundreds of pink carbon fires.

Trumpets into angels floated down to stop

sirens singing from top to top

by black nets of indistinct eyes and body lies

encased in black, once enveloped.

A second, an hour, a century gone.

Indifference salted by romance and song.

Pink shelters bloomed with soft spring tides

and promised un-kept secrets from so many slides

because a walk with fate

would only let you breathe

if your dropped the armor and agreed to bleed.

In Flaws & Perfection - a poem

In Love, sanctimony is condemned and confounded,
understood as intangible skin by grace abounded,
and although my blood may course and race
and time disards in our haste
my pride that was twisted and bent
is straightened now by your feathery taste.

My voice, trembled and shaken
enraptured by your gaze
grows decidedly silent in these midnight morning stays,

and the stone tower once housing
all that I fear to become
crumbles as dust in the wake of your love
and is undone.

These are my imperfections, my gifts, my flaws.
This is my soul righteous, alive and raw.
This is my future now to bend two into one
that we may know God in Life as in Love.

A Vampire, A Sunset & Accessory Electrocution in Prague

Prague City Street

 

It was our second night in Prague and the Old City shops were closing early and making me angry. Prague is not cheap. And if they charge you $25 for soggy buns, the least they can do is have shops that stay open past four. Mark and I were being delayed by my constant diving into shops whose proprietors had forgotten to lock the doors. But even those were few and far between.We were running out of time to get to the real goal - the Charles Bridge at sunset.

So I gave up, handed Mark the map and (with great difficulty) walked by the storefronts. Beautiful glass blown figurines were displayed, jewelry filled with semi-precious stones in circular new inter-locked patterns, metal-workings of knights & Kings - mainly King Wenceslas I imagine. There were amazing works of art and beauty in which I would not partake. Because our hotel shuttle was run by a drunk vampire with lambchops and we got to the Old City far too late.

He got us here at 2pm (it was supposed to be 10am, but I imagine the sun angled wrong for him at that hour). I was irritated. We'd learned our lesson and would never again stay outside the Old or New City areas. But. How was I to know that there were only 2 shopping hours remaining when we he dropped us off? We saw sights for 2 hours. And then we went to the shopping areas and found them closed for no reason. No guidebook had shared this tidbit, this unique shopkeeper habit, and we had done our homework.

I was almost ready to break a storefront window from the increasing mix of no-shopping induced rage and helplessness when we turned a corner, and everything went quiet. There, without warning, was the Prague Castle at the other end of the Charles Bridge.

It looked as if someone had taken every Modern era castle, combined them with fairytale touches and drawings, before combining it all in a whirlwind of brick and mortar to create something breathtaking in description and detail. I was frozen, my mind blank at the sight of it.

The sun was just beginning its rendezvous with the horizon. The castle's red spires and candelit windows were highlighted by a mix of sun and approaching moonlight. The red-velvet towers and golden tributes to past leaders and religious icons glowed but still shined in the fading sun, and a meeting of castle and sea created something akin to a lovely ledge - the bottom part of an intricate frame. Of everything I've seen and done, this ranks only below the Kotel in Jerusalem and Michelangelo's David in pure beauty of experience.

And I was surprised because I am not a castle girl. Not big on tapestries. And the extravagance gets old sometimes. But not here. This was not a severely over-the-top display of wealth for the sake of displaying wealth (or, as the Project Runway judges would say, "your castle really would have benefited from some editing... I'm worried about your taste level."). This was a work of art honoring a royal family and the people. And, thankfully, there were no tapestries.

Once we'd gotten as many photos as the nice Asian couple behind us would take, we turned, and there was the entrance to the Charles Bridge.

The Bridge is fantastically designed with religious, political and historical artwork incorporated into the structure's very iron - like much of the Old City. There are beautiful crosses, gold workings inter-mixed with the regular lines and curves of a bridge, and artists lining each side selling stories, paintings and music.

It has an odd feel to it, this place. The Soviets weren't kind and driving into the main City areas there are still the sqaure, jail-like "Khrushchevki" apartments. They span the City outskirts as barren and demoralizing tributes to the dead Soviet leader and his precursor, Joseph Stalin. They are small, cement square rooms grouped together to form a larger cement square with dead grass in the center and no forseeable signs of life. Perhaps this is where the Vampires gather at sunset.

Inside the Old & New City areas of Prague there is a much warmer, more vibrant vibrant feel, although certainly not the feel of Western Europe or the US. This is a place that has suffered and it makes almost no effort to cover the pain. It wears it instead as a badge of survival. The people endured. They fought back. They won but they paid a price.

People are generally slow to help because there is distrust lingering in the air. Lost boys in the train station ask for money disguised as station employees, their eyes too glossy to be real. In transportation stations and the New City especially, there are more than the average scam artists - although, as a whole, they're not very committed to what they do. And I suspect some of that is because their hearts aren't in it. They feel they were meant to stand taller. There is the scam, and then there is guilt. I've never seen this anywhere else. There is desperation and then there is a very old soul waiting to reclaim the people.

And that Bridge. It felt like the home of the ghost, the soul waiting impatiently to take back its own. The people would likely say it was Wenceslas himself, the people's King, dead but not gone. As the sun set, one side claimed a view of the castle increasingly and ethereally lit from the inside as old oil-lamps were set ablaze. The sky exploded in a mix of pink, blue, yellow and red, each element growing more defined as the sun sank lower into the river. From the other side, a modern skylight was modestly lit from afar and barren trees collided with the fusion in the sky like something from Picasso's widely unknown (because it's non-existent) 'Bright Color' phase.

The musicians, skilled and enthralled in music, still proudly played for anyone or for no one. A few clearly trained and talented artists remained to sell paintings and sketches to whatever tourists remained. Old men walked the night talking about whatever it is that older European men talk to each other about on their nightly walks.

With the snap of a finger, the sunlit sky was gone, and along with the moonlight, a mist came to escort us back across the bridge. To our hotel. Where I really didnt want to go. Where there was the Czech version of a mojito created 2 days ago still gracing my bedside table because the cleaning staff's general motto was, 'Welcome! Now go f*ck off.'

We made it to the hotel shuttle pick-up location and our vampire was not there. Perhaps he was hungry and Americans are too salty for his palette. As the pick-up time passed, two Northern Irish couples, the men clearly souced, indicated through slurs and points that they too were now waiting for the shuttle. About 30 minutes after it was supposed to arrive we tried to call the hotel, but of course nothing was open to sell us a phone card after a payphone ate the one I had. Someone got ahold of them somehow, and they said he'd already been there... which was only true if the driver, along with his van, was invisible. Vampire or not, he wasn't coming back.

So, with no tickets (because the stores that sold them closed at 4 or 5), we all decided it would be a great idea to ride the buses back to the hotel. We had no idea where each bus went because we couldn't read the signs, but, honestly, why not? Taxis had long ago disappeared.

Hours were spent getting on and off buses and trying to read ridiculously complicated station maps, some of them in English. Two hours in, one of the men said what we were all thinking - "Well, there's six of us without tickets, they can't arrest all of us, right? Hahaha.... Right?"

I don't know how exactly, but a short four hours later, we were back at the hotel (for better or worse, I'm not entirely sure which). And, as predicted, there was my "mojito." We'd had some fun with our new North Irish friends and we'd arrived safely. I decided to just have a drink at the bar, take a shower and call it an interesting travel night.

And that's when I set the room on fire.

The room outlets were old and my appropriately outlet-fitted hairdryer proved too much. It started with a spark and a 'holy sh*t' from Mark, and then the cord was burning. Someone got the great idea to pour the mojito on it - because alcohol is always what you should turn to when extinguishing fires.

I learned something else then. My $20 "mojito" had little to no alcohol in it (it tasted like a Communist did something bad in a glass and added mint so I hadn't had a whole lot) because out went the flame like it had been doused in water. Thank God my hair was wet. Thank God nothing flammable wants to hang out in old-school Soviet hotel rooms. Mark called the desk and was told someone would probably come by tomorrow to take a look. 'Kay.

At least we'd seen what we'd seen. And we had some new North Irish friends. I would have requested a refund on the hotel, but you know what? I don't like vampires with drinking problems who have my credit card information angry at me. So we called it a stay, and the next day just headed out for London. London, where the wall sockets don't try to kill you.

*********************************************************************************
Buffalo Girl Travel Tips: When staying in Prague, and please do, stay in the Old City if you want old historical sights, including the infamous (and highly offensive) gorgeous blue clock. If you want more recent history, like the Velvet Revolution or Prague's general fight against the Soviets (astray bullet holes included), stay in the New City. But really, to understand the context of the latter, you have to see the former.

If you want local, albeit somewhat touristy, shopping, go to the Old City - but beware the menus of local restaurants if you're not intersted in learning whether you like things like boar testicles. If you want high end fashion boutiques, then the New City's your place.

DO NOT STAY IN A HOTEL OUTSIDE OF THESE TWO AREAS IF YOU DO NOT WANT  SOMETHING TO CATCH ON FIRE WITHOUT ANYONE REALLY CARING IF YOU LIVE OR DIE.

As always, your safest bet is to google recent pictures of the place you're visiting and dress like a stylish local.

Adoration - a short poem

Lively iron & ocean

layered before eyes

and sunlight, the

future begins to kiss

hello again,

my love.

 

Hoping desire will flow

from second story

windows & sacred

rooftops of once again,

remember me,

my love.

 

Silence in thought

and emotional construction as

the oxygen net is heavy

before the storm,

water and blood of

a soul's reprieve,

my love.

Prague, Part One - Six degrees of Josefov

 

 

“Josefov.” The center of Jewish influence in Prague. A few other temples are scattered around the oldest part of the city, but “Josefov” is the vortex of Prague’s Jewish past. It was this name of the Jewish quarter, a name stringing together letters sounding so remarkably Jewish, arranged on a street sign like any other, hanging on a building like any other - inconspicuous but startlingly familiar in this place so unlike home, that brought to me a shadow of earthly belonging. Of a place of Jews. A place where people like me live.

As an American, I have so many ancestral ties that I tend to get this feeling a lot - an Irish pub in Dublin, a rooftop in Jerusalem, poet’s corner in Westminster Abbey. Usually, I adore these places. I am drawn, lovingly, almost ethereally to these places. It is like being led inside from a new and sometimes discordant rain - the stepping stones of ancestors’ byways warm you, bring you back to yourself, and somehow restore stability through a kind of raw and sanguine strength.

But here I had procrastinated. This was the virtual first step of the Holocaust, and these are stones of horror as much as honor of family past. I am not big on horrors. Hick-ups in life are one thing, and I do my best to avoid them. Horrors are not hick-ups. For me it was a big step onto these stones, and my husband and I, although we never said why, had left this for last. We finally made it to the first temple within an hour of closing.

Surprisingly, there was a high security alert that day. When is there not a high security alert around a regularly visited Jewish site? So we had to give our ID, and then we happily paid the entrance fee granting us access to centuries old temples, museums and the infamous overcrowded graveyard. It was like paying a fee at any other attraction. There was the bored ticket-taker. The turn-styles. The poles designating the proper place to line up had there been a line. But, security alerts being what they are, the poles really served no purpose other than to make it clear that, should a line appear, this was the proper cueing place and formation. We took our tickets, glad to be contributing to restored old places, and went inside the first part of the 'attraction', the Pinkas Synagogue.

 

 

And attractive it was. An old, high-ceilinged temple with twists and turns through manicured arches, beautiful candlelight, and walls a pleasant cream color with a stylized, ragged appearance. There were writings on the walls - an instant joy for someone who covered her bedroom walls with quotes from artists like Whitman and Bono. There were beautiful words collected and arranged into beautiful phrases about life and loss. All before even the first arch. Before the first turn.

Through the first arch and around the turn, and we had fallen into a rabbit hole with the depth of death without leaving the ground. There were still the stylized walls, the warm light, the beautiful ceilings, and a welcoming, almost beckoning, resonance in the air. There were still beautifully collected writings on the walls. But here they were intensely organized and virtually covering the room.

 

They were names. Etched in red and printed just large enough to read. It was as if the designer had tried to list as many names as possible, because every last one was as real as the one before and the thousands to come, but there was only this limited space. They had to be big enough to read, big enough to be remembered, big enough to remind anyone who saw one that this person was not just ash dispersed into the skyline but a soul that had lived and breathed and meant someone to at least one other person. A problem of space. A fight between giving a ghost her justice and imposition of spatial limitation. Not an uncommon problem in the world.

These were the names of the lost people of Prague. The Jews at the center of the Nazi whirlwind who, it was likely, had actually been whirled away and turned to wind. Ground zero, I guess we might call it now. Names of people, real people, carefully inked in columns on the walls, listed by community and listed alphabetically to make them easy to find.

And find them we did. My husband’s family.

It became almost like a game, like a surreal Where’s Waldo search as we went from wall to wall, room to room, arch to arch, looking at the people from different communities. Here’s a Berman. I think it was Miriam. There’s another. I think it was Benjamin. And another. And another. And another. Until finally we had to leave if we were going to see anything else.

I stood under the last arch and looked at my husband. This tall, beautiful, jet-lagged man was seemingly undisturbed, more curious than anything else. Like he had been looking through an old family photo album of relatives he had never met. I looked back at the red people living on the walls and had a sudden momentary feeling that his blood had been used as the ink. And then I thought how strange that was. And how upside down it was, because it had been their blood that gave life to him, not the other way around. Not that they would ever know. But I know now. I know they gave him to me.

So I said a quiet thank you, and passed through the arch.

*********************************************************************************

 

Travel Absolutes: When visiting Jewish holy or religious sites, cover your shoulders and legs (legs if you can, the shoulders are the main thing), and feel free to go all out with the cover. That silver and gold sequined silk scark with shiny red thread that was a little too much for New Years but you're dying to put on? Bust it out, they don't care. You may not even have to worry about revenge pics, because many Jewish sites no longer permit photography for security (and gift shop) reasons. Speak quietly and answer any security questions directly - don't get offended, it's normal to be questioned but well worth the minute of squirming.

If you have any questions about anything, ask. The people who run these sites are phenomenally dedicated to their work, proud of their heritage, will love you for asking and probably share other things hidden from the average tourist, maybe even a fresh bowl of matzoh ball soup in the back. It's the Jewish way - warm fuzziness on the inside hidden by a hard yet somehow flirtatious outside shell.

Save a Small Business, Don't Pet the Sharks - Oahu's Shark Tanks

If you're in Oahu and you've seen enough scary people in Panda suits waiting for you to drop a dollar in their bowls so they can lunge at you and give you nightmares about Giant Pandas, why not try a shark cage tour?

There is a debate going on in Hawaii about that very question. About whether the tours are good for the sharks. About whether they're good for the people sticking their hands out of the cages to pet the sharks. And about what kind of liability such stupidity will rain down on the small companies that run the tours.

The debate continues in Oahu, and, to my knowledge, such tours no longer exist on any other Hawaiian island. The other sharks go about their badass, black-eyed lives unbothered. The tourists keep their fingers (thus, throwing yet another wrench in Darwin's plan), and small businesses move onto less risky things, like shark free-diving.

While on a family vacation in Hawaii, my father especially was anxious that we participate in a shark cage tour. He'd done it before. He'd been stung across his chest by jellyfish and puked on by sea-sick jocks, so naturally he felt a strong urge to return.

My mother and brother were both committal and non-committal at the same time. I don't know how they managed it but they did. I suspect it's a mix of 'I don't really care if we do this although I'd rather not' with a small dose of 'Your father won't shut up about this for years if I don't get on the damn boat.' But, on the boat they came, their gazes steadfast and mildly bored with the occasional flash of terror as we pushed farther out to sea.

We had with us a party of about 15. The two crew-men, my family of four and two other families that looked remarkably similar. They were all large, white, and had conversations filled with phrases like, "DAMMIT, LOOK MAMA!", or "DONNIE, GET YOUR GODDAMN FINGERS OFF THAT STEERING WHEEL", and "YOUR FATHER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHIN' TO SAY ABOUT THIS." They were loud but they were friendly. And I knew I could outswim them.

If you've been on any in-water tour, then you already know the crew. Baseball caps or short cropped hair, t-shirts with the company name, sun-craggled faces, indifferent and slightly annoyed. But you know (or, you hope you know) they'd risk their lives for you even if you were being an idiot (to a certain point, I mean, honestly, there's got to be a point where you'd just say 'fuck it, man, you're on your own', but to their credit I've never seen them get there).

As we moved out to sea, they started the "talks" about boat and cage safety, as well as the environmental debate with a slight bias. Basically, they told us to try not to pet the sharks or accidentally leave an appendage hanging out of the cage. I started to laugh when they said "please don't try to pet the sharks," but then I looked at my group. And I understood. They were disappointed. I began to wonder if the woman in the tankini standing recklessly on the back of the boat had really thought this thing through.

The crew then went onto tell us that they ran this operation because they loved the ocean. They loved the sharks, they felt the experience brought people a better understanding of sharks, and they did not want to be shut down.

On and on went the boat into open water until we couldn't see the shoreline. The crew announced without prelude that sharks were usually seen in this area. Almost on cue, big, sleek, dark shapes appeared when the boat's engines were cut, and a metal cage of about 8 ft x 5 ft was dropped into the water and assembled. A ladder was attached to the boat's edge. It started above deck and ended in the cage somewhere underwater.

Ok, we were told, anytime you want, go on in.

There is a moment with things like this, when everyone looks at everyone else. There's silence and wide eyes and unspoken questions - Is this the most stupid thing we could have done this morning? Did I ever change that Will? Who's going in first?

After a healthy moment of silence, a middle-aged man popped his snorkeling gear on, and with a, "There's nothing to be afraid of, you guys are weak!", lowered himself into the water slower than a sloth on muscle relaxants. His teenage son followed him in faster, having learned to fake manliness early in his young life. They both lasted about 5 minutes, shouting things like "Holy shit that's close!" and "Are they usually this big? I mean, I know they're big, but are they supposed to be THIS BIG?", before falling back onto the boat because they'd forgotten to take off their flippers. They never went back. But you know what? Everything else aside, it took guts to be the first ones in.

Having seen the sharks surrounding the cage and it maintaining its integrity with the two bigger, flailing men inside, I volunteered to go with the next group. To get in the cage, I had to turn sideways and step leg by leg over the boatrail and onto the ladder, and I had to face the crew while I did this. Dante would've liked me then, because I would have sold my soul for a pair of boardshorts to avoid inevitably flashing the crew and straddling the rail in my bikini + sexy snorkel gear. I must have looked like a half-blind cat in heat "presenting" itself to the male crew before mating as I threw one leg high in the air...bikini coverage shrinking... then the other leg. Embarassing.

Thankfully there wasn't much time to be embarassed because as soon as I hit the water, there were the fins. Big fins, small fins, medium sized fins. They sliced in and out of the air in constant motion, sometimes graceful, sometimes sloppy with wet kickback and waves.The sharks were between 3 and 7 feet, the crew guessed, of a variety of those commonly found in those waters. I froze for a minute as the adrenaline started to run and the theme from Jaws began playing in my head.

One deep breath, two deep breaths... jump. There was a rush of water and panic, and then I took a clear snorkel breath. I opened my eyes to see that my mask was clear and leak-free, and every so slowly a sense of calm overcame me. Then the excitement started to build as the shapes transfixed together underwater.

I swam to the farthest edge of the cage, a comfortable place to stay for awhile. There are fewer people around who are unaccustomed to open water movement and likely to knock you into the bars while trying to get their bearings. With my head submerged I looked around. There were plenty of them, but they were keeping away because the cage was a new addition to their environment. I imagine it was sort of like if someone drove up to your house and threw a hamster ball through the living room window - you're curious but cautious because people dont generally do that sort of thing.

I felt safe in holding onto the bars and balancing my flippers on the cage bottom (do NOT do this). Only the very tips of my fingers were outside the cage but I was able to hang on and be steady in the rocking water - having small hands is useful sometimes. I could see the sleek gray scales, the shine of their skin. Their eyes were black but alive - no one could confuse them with the steadfast stare of a stuffed animal. There was something akin to curiosity, occasionally holding my glance before sliding back into the darkness around us. They got used to us and started to come closer, one actually bumping the cage (I believe by accident, the cage was moving with the water, but I could be wrong). I loved every second. The crew was right on that count - I felt a connection, a curiosity to learn more that comes only from direct contact with wild animals.

My brother joined me for most of the time, my parents bailing early on because the water made them cold - a common sensation that I don't usually experience. My brother was happy to be in there too, so we stayed in the water, watched, pointed out the bigger ones, and posed for a bunch of crazy pictures.

In addition to the board shorts, I also REALLY REALLY wished I'd gotten a pedicure for the awesome photo with my flipperless foot on the cage floor with a big shark just below. We couldn't tell what we'd gotten with the cameras because they weren't digital and the water prevented us from staying still. But it was fun to try for a good shot.

Time was up too soon and I lingered in the water until the crew got cranky. I finally climbed out, they collapsed the cage, pulled the ladder and off we raced to shore. The ride back was a nice one, fast and sort of bumpy, and I sat under the hull with my family to stay dry and warm. Tankini was still propped on the edge of the back of the boat. Images of Goldie Hawn reaching for her ring in 'Overboard' came to mind, but by some miracle (and, yes, weight) she stayed on. No one fell overboard that day, and only half decided to go in the water. But everyone had fun with a little mix of fear, which made them happy. And then they all bought sweatshirts, which made the crew happy.

The tours are still running. Admittedly, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. And I'd pay for it.

*Buffalo Travel tip - Take a digital camera if you're shooting underwater. Make sure you have a dry, shady and stable place to see what you've taken. Be sure to wipe down the lens (spit helps defog a camera lens, in addition to defogging your goggles - spit or fuzzy photos, you choose). Just don't give up too much time taking underwater photos because good ones are near impossible without great (*read, 'insanely expensive') underwater gear. The best bet is to take a million up front and then put the camera away. Or, just take the experience and have someone else be the photographer.

How Calvin Klein Saved My Face in San Diego

No one ever said travel in Southern California is without danger.

There is the language barrier. Learning to use 'bro', 'man', 'rad', and 'duuuuuddeeee' in everyday conversation takes time and concentration. You will lose essential brain functions if you do it correctly as your entire left lobe shuts down with the effort. Childhood memories, directions to the airport, breathing all become secondary.

Then there are the impossibly beautiful people. Everywhere. All the time. In IHOP for f*ck's sake. Seriously, people, IHOP?? Who sucks down a full-stack and still fits into size 2 hip-huggers?

 If you had self-esteem issues before, you will need to schedule more therapy sessions upon your return. If you are dangerously close to a beauty-related psychological disorder STAY AWAY from La Jolla and Beverly Hills. You will not survive.

There is the real risk of immediate and permanent damage if you drive anything more than 2 social wrungs below the most recent version of a BMW, Lexus, Range Rover or Mercedes. People will move into your lane on the highway without looking because, really, you have no reason for living. They will think nothing of stealing your parking spot even though your blindingly expressive blinker clearly indicates possession.

And don't even try valet. The thorough disgust emanating from the tiny man in the little brass-plated jacket as his delicate hands make contact with your Hyundai will cause even the most self-assured person to engage in a walk of shame completely unassociated with bad sex and lost shoes. Your guests, if your pariah-like status has not sent them hiding behind bushes and little men in brass-plated jackes, will ask you why you are crying into their bottled table water.

Having said that, please keep in mind that I actually live in Southern California. And I love it. Even though I drive a Hyundai. And love it. The plastic people are limited to a relatively small part of the population, even if the per capita percentage is considerably higher than in other states.

The point (and by now you must be DYING - read *lost and wondering what the hell you are reading* - to discover the point) is that there are several dangers in So Cal aside from the occasional earthquake and sudden appearance of deadly undertows. And the EXTREMELY rare shark attack. (No discussion necessary about my snorkeling, swimming or scuba-diving habits. Mom.). And one can prepare for these dangers.Take them in stride. Have an amazing vacation if you're visiting us - or a great lifestyle if you're a resident. Nowhere is without cause for trepidation. Just ask Gulf Coast and Tornado Alley residents.

But no one warned me about the june bugs. If you do not know what a june bug is, look it up on google image. It is the drunk driver of the bumblebee family. It is big, about the size of a quarter, black, has a buzz akin to an Evanrude, and no navigational sense whatsoever. It will dip, dive, buzz and bend course without a care in the world or a thought about obstacles in its path.

And, like most giant bugs (and drunk people) it has an afinity for me. Today as I sat innocently on a bench outside of my hotel, enjoying the sun and a giant bottle of lemon Propel, I was attacked by something with the sound and determination of a Nazi aircraft. Dive after dive it dipped and changed trajectory, determined, I am convinced, to get my guard down long enough for a clear face-shot. I moved benches (read *ran wildly swinging my arms to the other end of the parking lot*). I took a 45 minute nap only to find it waiting for me at the pool. Colin Powell didn't have this kind of determination when searching for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq (please note and appreciate the political restraint here).

I was ready to go hide in the room (or closest in-door mall), and that's when I saw it. My over-sized Calvin Klein purse. It is beautiful. I bought this purse as a gift to myself when my grandfather passed away a few months ago. It has a smooth black leather exterior (no worries about smudges or dirty airplane carry-on spaces), and a nylon interior that is easily washed with water. And it is easily filled with a whole lot of heavy shit. I have case files, a hardcover novel, metal wallet and bottle of lemon propel in there, to name a few items. So, essentially, if you swing this thing it becomes a deadly weapon.

The next time the june bug seemed primed to dive-bomb my head, I picked up the bag, held it by the strap... waited... and SWUNG at that bitch.

I should've seen it coming. The bastard changed course at the last minute. I whiffed, fell out of my chair, no doubt permanently damaging a cell phone and a small muscle in my back. But you know what? If he can keep it coming, so can I (and, no, the fact that I have declared war on a BUG is not lost on me, but I am who I am. I make no apologies).

The next time I faked his ass out. I got up to leave, and as he swirled through the air towards my hair like a bat after half a keg of vodka, I took hold of my purse handle, turned, swung, and SMACK. It was like when Randy Johnson hit that bird but a whole lot less sad. Children stopped marco-polo cries to admire the wreckage. Other travellers applauded me. It seems they too had been stalked periodically throughout their stay.

But they didn't have my weapon. My Calvin Klein numbchuck. Suck it june bug. You had your shot.

'Lyrical September' Explained

Fundamentalism seduced desperate minds

on September 11, 2001,

collapsing two towers to ash.

Falling alongside the glass and the blood

was a generation's intimacy and innocence.

 

Hatred was bred by ignorance

and acted in freedom's name, in twisted form,

freeing its' holders from

American Ideals. The indemnity,

the cost, of that desecrated freedom -

3,000 innocent lives and an indelible cityscape.

 

The towers, then ash leading to the Hudson,

carried utterly infallible collateral loss

in this fundamental war.

 

The flag from the Towers, tattered, alive,

waving in the wind before all &

without care for race, temperament or creed,

the emptiness left in the New York sky -

they scream, demanding remembrance

of the firemen, the heroes, the lost American sons

running up the Tower stairs

while others knowlingly fled from the fire.

Deep in our psyche is lodged the image, the pride,

the sacrifice, never to be faded, never to be lost.

 

Lyrical September - a poem

Sirens sang, as harbingers will do,

of promises,

seduction

and martyrdom.

Innocence was hanged

by ignorance,

by two, and renamed

as the freakish indemnity of freedom.

 

By the gray river now almost at the sea,

by the emptiness of this infallible,

collateral decree,

Life crawled, bleeding, to a stand

and bayed at the half-moons

and the color bands.

 

Still,

beyond yellow the Stated iris is one.

And even the vacuum will bellow

for the sainted

silent son.



Navy SEALS, Hypothermia & San Diego's Breathtaking Ocean

The beach in San Diego is picturesque. Rolling waves, golden sand, and temperate sun abound. On most days it is a zen-like haven (until after sundown when some areas have been zoned by local gangs), where one inhale brings you peace and an exhale drowns your stress in the ocean. Dolphins chase wavelines in schools and whales play just a hundred feet offshore. It creates those times that stay with you, images locked in your brain like a personal national geo archive. The San Diego Ocean is a powerful keepsake of life.

It is also a training ground where the Navy Seals weed out recruits susceptible to hypothermia during something called "Hell Week.".

As the story goes, Seal Officers send new recruits into the water during colder months and, early in the morning, have them laying in the waves wearing only standard fatigues and large doses of testoterone for protection. About ten feet away on the sand, tables are set up. They have coffee, bagels, towels, sweatshirts, blankets and various items the Coast Guard routinely uses to stave off hypothermia during air to sea rescues in Alaska.

It is here that the Officers set up camp in comfortable folding chairs when they are not yelling at the recruits. They drink the coffee. They eat the bagels. They invite the recruits to join them because it is such a lovely experience compared to the extreme shrinkage currently being felt in the ocean. One by one the recruits leave the water. Some engage in a walk of shame, head drooped, trunks dipping dangerously low with the weight of water and fatigue. Sometimes bad things happen to the coffee cups.

Ultimately a select few fantastically hardy, brave and slightly crazy men make the cut and are hired on to do far crazier things in defense of our country. These are truly amazing men. I've had the honor of meeting them. I can honestly say they are unparalleled in their loyalty, steadfastness and strength.

Which brings me to my next point - if you are not a Navy Seal, do not go running into the ocean in San Diego without a wetsuit when it's not late July or August. You will not make it past 5 feet. And if by some miracle you do, someone will have to rescue you from self-induced hypothermia and stupidity, and it is highly unlikely that the people laughing at you from the beach are going to be that someone. Also keep in mind that everyone on the beach who sees you is laughing at you.

This is not from nastiness. I remember getting off the train in northern Italy, where locals sweetly pointed at me and laughed because with my bare shoulders I must be a hooker (I'm not. Let's be clear about this). It wasn't nasty. It's just that we came from different places with very different norms.

Winter, Spring Break and 3-day weekends brings many tourists to town year-round. As they flood the city there is one constant truism - they will get near the ocean and some of them will lose their minds. 

Whatever the reason, they are determined to go for a swim. Sometimes in itsy bitsy bikinis. Sometimes in speedos (these are the days that I wish I had both a viodecamera and MIB neuralizer in my beach bag). Many times no forethought has gone into the adventure. All towels & warm clothing have been left at the hotel because hey, this is San Diego. They've got this.

Last February I watched a teenage girl in t-shirt, jeans and sneakers walk onto the beach and ROLL in the shoreline water like an excited Datsun because she was afraid of undertows. Apparently freezing to death wasn't on her radar. 2 minutes later she was sprinting back to her car on tiny legs, sand flying from the kickback.

One March, 4 guys in their early 20's formed a casper-white line and ran at the water like ghosts )still drunk from the night before), forcing themselves to laugh instead of vomit in front of the girls sunning themselves on the sand. They kept those smiles plastered on until the first wave hit. Then they all sucked in an air & water mixed cocktail from the shock.

One dove in, thinking that covering his head would help his body adjust. Joke's on you, buddy. That might work in your pool in Cleveland, but here in 50-ish saltwater you could drink it and pretty much get the same result - a quick trip to the local med station. His friends helped him out before collapsing in a shivering heap on a pile of beached seaweed. The bikini girls didn't twitch. To be fair, they too were probably recovering from another fun-filled spring break get-me-sick-and-sloppy binge night.

Buffalo Girl Travel tip - For those of you still undeterred, let me describe what a dip in the water feels like once summer has gone.

You arrive at the San Diego beach and pause. You take in the pure, majestic beauty unfolding before you from toes to horizon. You marvel at the pristine sand. You casually watch the volleyball players and admire... their skillset. You feel the rush of the ocean as the waves move back and forth with a crash and swing.

And then you make your first mistake - you take a deep breath. Oxygen fills your body. You're invigorated, strong, healthy. Invincible? You fail to notice that NO ONE ELSE IS IN THE WATER.

You strip down to your bathing suit and run toward the ocean as one lover running to another after a long, desparate separation. Your toes hit the water and a single thought races to your brain - 'holy sh*t, that's f*cking cold' - but it's too late. Your momentum carries you in until the first wave hits your chest, pushing you back.

Suddenly your lover has gone from delicious to the Devil and you do not feel like you're in water - you feel like someone angry is throwing a million burning pins at your skin. You open your mouth to scream, or, perhaps, to suck in oxygen to counteract the pain in your lungs. But you are instantly rewarded with a giant gulp of seawater while ocean weeds wack at your unmentionables.

You turn and stagger to the beach while more waves hit your back. You realize that fire can feel cold as well as hot, and maybe those PBS cold fusion scientists you were laughing at last week in their undershirts and cokebottle glasses were onto something after all. You lunge-walk to your towel. Your suit begins to lose its integrity but you don't care if you moon the entire beach because in all likelihood the paramedics will shortly be removing your remaining clothing anyway.

An hour later you sit before the ocean again, only a little worse for the wear. From a safe distance. In an oversized sweatshirt, socks, hat and 2 pairs of leggings, clutching a mug of coffee close to your chest. You vow to return in the summertime. Or just go to Hawaii.

And how do I know these things? Because coming from Buffalo, NY grants you unique insight into many things - humor, neighborly support, how to enjoy a blizzard, and yes, experience in overenthusiastic stupidity at the sight of sun and water. The Pacific rocks. But you have been warned.

Vienna vs. Jane Doe, Why Her Middle Name Isn't Beyonce (Not that there's anything wrong with Beyonce)

Vienna, Austria

When people find out that my daughter’s middle name is Vienna, the first question is inevitably some variation of, “You didn’t name her after that mean girl from the Bachelor, did you??”

So, no. I have never watched the Bachelor. I don’t think the Bachelor is the hottest thing since those big sunflares last month. I couldn’t pick the man out of a nicely dressed, rose-holding man-ish line-up. I’m not saying I think I’m above reality tv, that would clearly be a lie since I’m streaming half of the Real Housewives, I just don’t like the brand of reality that the Bachelor brings.

My daughter is named after two things: (1) the Billy Joel song 'Vienna' (We grew up in NY, what do you want?) & (2) the city. But mainly the city because this is bigger than Billy.

I love Vienna, Austria.

Villazon as 'Werther'

My husband - let’s call him Mark (because that’s his name) - and I saw the Opera ‘Werther’ in Vienna in 2007. In case you haven’t heard of Werther, and not many people have since 1892, it’s an operatic drama, and that should tell you all you need to know. Someone gets stabbed - Werther, in this case. He spends the next hour and a half singing to his brand new fiance about how he was stabbed and is going to die. He dies. His fiance is sad but she will prevail against this evil. She sings about this for about a half an hour. Curtains up, applause, and then everyone goes for ice cream. Love it or hate it, there is no denying the ridiculousness of opera.
 
But ridiculousness is not necessarily bad. Mark & I had the chance to see a Mexican singer whom we’d never heard of before - Rolando Villazon. He was, rightly, one of the world’s most reknowned operatic tenors alive and performing. It was his comeback night after months off-stage with an injury. I later discovered articles about his triumphant return to Vienna all over the internet.

 

We arrived at the Opera House during a walk around town about 2 hours early, and we found a group of women with portable chairs hanging out around the building, talking excitedly about something in German. And that's when it hit me - these are Opera tailgaters. I'm from Buffalo. I know tailgating when I see it. We asked around and discovered through a mix of bungled English, German & French, that, sure enough, there was a great show to be seen & sausage was about to be shared. So we joined the tailgate line. 2 hours and 6 Euro later we had two tickets to one of the most sought after performances in the country.

 

Let me repeat that last part - 6 Euro. $10 at the time. For two tickets. I've since been to the Opera in San Diego and you can't get to the ticket booth for that much money. It's true we were standing the entire time, and it's possible my boots may have come off - I was not the only one - as I dressed for comfortable, fashionable walking, and not comfortable, fashionable standing for hours on end. But no one cared. Not even the gentleman behind me in his clearly tailored, expensive herringbone suit. The Viennese care about appearances, but they care more about experiences - everyone's experiences, not just their own. The Opera, as well as many museums and artistic sights, are government subsidized. Because art is like air in Vienna, and everyone needs to breathe.

 The Vienna Opera House looks like it belongs in the opulent backdrops of Cameron’s ‘Titanic’ except that it’s real. And on land. And filled with ghosts & history anyone can experience.  Gold filigree, purple velvet seats, green, blue & yellow intricacies carved in the walls and perfectly dimmed lighting. Each 'seat', whether sitting or standing, had its own small translator box conveniently located directly below your view of the stage so you could read, watch & hear what was said almost instantaneously.

Werther is in German, but we read every word on the little screens in front of us in perfectly translated English. There was intimacy like no other venue I’ve experienced because everyone so wanted to be there and share in the experience. And everyone was dressed to the nines - except the American tourists (hi) who just found out about the show 3 hours ago and were originally planning on a brewery.** (see below for 'Bflo Girl Travel Absolute' on how to change from brewery to opera attire in 30 seconds).

There are many stories that come with this experience, but this is about those moments at any great concert or show when the world around you begins to shrink. The circumference of activity defining your life grows gradually smaller and there is simply less room for worry or want. The music played. Darkness settled into your skin. Sights and sounds collided in the House, saturating you with intertwined images of bodies, costume & warm dusty air until everything ran together in a haze and, then Villazon gave his soul in his voice. The walls could be on fire and it would not matter. It was so real, this constructive connection, even flames would blend into the foreground. All that mattered was the voice in the vacuum.

For some time it was us and that voice. I’ve no idea how long. It was like being in a trance. But it was at least 2 hours that Vienna & Villazon gave to us. For 3 Euro. I’ve paid a lot more for a whole lot less.

Having done the equivalent of taking deep, soothing breaths for hours in a row simply by standing in place, the Viennese thanked Villazon with 5 standing ovations. There were tears of appreciation from both singer and audience. Villazon, for his part, loved back. He must have to deliver that depth of performance. 

And then we went for ice cream & phenomenal hot chocolate at the stylish & comfortable Hotel Sacher cafe. 

That’s one reason why I love Vienna. That’s one reason why Vienna is my daughter’s middle name.

 

And (nod to Billy), of course, she was waiting for me that whole time. 

 

Vienna

 ** Buffalo Girl Travel Absolute. I learned at the Opera House to always carry a nice looking scarf. This one was a checked Burberry-like number I'd purchased earlier for about the same price as my ticket. I slipped it around my neck in a smart tie and suddenly I was a version of dressy. Beautiful scarves are very inexpensive and they are travel magic. Wrap one around your neck and tuck in your hair to avoid messy hair/makeup look. Cover your shoulders or low-neck lines in churches, or tie one around your waist to create shape in an otherwise comfortable but boxy outfit, etc. And if you make it a neutral it will go with anything so you only have to pack one.