France -- Day One: Casper the Friendly Ghost and the Sorcerers of Bué

Day one of my two week vacation to France started badly. The day had been going very smoothly. I finished packing and got everything necessary done on my to-do list before leaving. I was calm, collected, and actually had time to kill before my friend Franco (should I call him my little brother?) came to pick me up and take me to the airport. Then, about twenty minutes before Franco was scheduled to arrive, I decided to sync my iPhone in order to backup all of the contacts I had added in the previous month – you know, just in case. A few minutes after I had synced my iPhone, my friend John texted me, but rather than showing his name – typical when one of your contacts texts, my phone instead showed a telephone number. I texted him back and asked if he was texting me from a different phone. He replied that he was using his same cell phone. I went to my contacts list on my phone and found that all but about 10 people were missing. I contacted Apple’s support to get assistance. At first, the support tech stated that this was an easy fix. We would just re-sync. Didn’t work. As a matter of fact, now it deleted even the 10 contacts it had previously saved. He had me re-sync and use the replace all contacts option. No dice. And it got worse – this latest process actually deleted all of the telephone numbers and email addresses for all of my contacts from my backed-up list – a list not even associated with an Apple program. I was livid. Here I was leaving the country for two weeks and had not a single contact in my phone!

Over the period of the next hour, two support techs tried everything they could think of to recover my contacts. As a last result, the second tech had me use the restore from SIM card option. Unfortunately, iPhone does not save contacts to SIM. I questioned as to why there would even be a restore from SIM option, if contacts weren’t saved to SIM…? His response was a godsend: the purpose is to copy contacts from the SIM card of a previous phone. Voila! I still had my old phone. I took it out, replaced the SIM card in my iPhone, used the restore form SIM option, and all of my contacts – with the exception of those added in the past month and a half – were there. Granted, their formatting was all over the place, but that I can deal with. So, Franco (who had long since arrived) and I were off to race to the airport.

Tiny problem. If you have a friend take you to the airport, and you are in a rush, running late, or short on time, you should probably make sure that said friend does actually drive fast. Franco does not. I love Franco to death, but he drives like a little old lady. I questioned how he could be from New York and not be an aggressive driver, as New Yorkers are known to be. “I don’t trust any of these bitches,” he said, pointing at random cars on the road. Luckily, the traffic gods were good to us, and we arrived on time. Of course, it hardly seemed to matter, as my incoming flight was delayed 2h15m. So, I casually strolled to the gate, as others were shoving and running past me. I decided to have a leisurely dinner at the international terminal food court. I checked Delta’s online flight status website and found that it listed my plane as “on time.” Of course, I realize that even in the worst of weather, airlines will list flights as on time when they will obviously be leaving late. I texted my friend Stephen, almost jokingly, wondering how my incoming flight could show as 2h15m late, but my flight showed as on time. Stephen was a flight attendant for 13 years, so I thought he might have some insight. He pondered, then said that it was possible that since the incoming flight was a domestic flight from Tampa, and my flight was international, possibly requiring a larger plane, that they may use the same flight number but use a different plane. He did some digging on Delta’s flight schedule and found that, indeed, my flight was on a larger plane. Whoo hoo! Chances were that my flight would leave on time. I finished my dinner, walked back to the gate, and found that they were actually boarding the plane. Yea!

We left the gate about half an hour late, but were calmed with the fact that we would make up for the lost time while in air. I attempted to settle in to my seat for the 8-1/2 hour flight. I say “attempted,” because I get very fidgety and have a hard time getting comfortable on a plane. I often pity the poor person who has to be seated next to me during the first 15 minutes of any flight. In today’s case, the person was quite an attractive young man from Denmark. He did not speak during the first 20 minutes of the flight, but then turned to me and said, “Excuse me sir, but do you happen to know what time they will be serving a meal on this flight, or if they will be serving one at all?” I told him that I knew that they would be serving one, since it was such a long flight, but I didn’t know what time it would be served. He said that he had not eaten since that morning and was quite hungry. He said that he was also very tired and was afraid that he would fall to sleep and not be awake when the meal arrived. I joked with him that I would just nudge him to wake him when the food was served. He said, “Please, feel free to do that. I would appreciate that.”

And so started a conversation that would last several hours. His name was Kasper – “You know, like Casper the Friendly Ghost, only with a ‘K,” he said. It was one of the most pleasant conversations I’ve had with someone on a plane. We had a lot in common – we both write, we both write songs, and we both have an appreciation for words, language. I was enthralled by the way he spoke. He had that proper Denmark accent, and used very precise, distinct words. It was a pleasure hearing him speak. I love listening to people from other countries speak English. It makes me realize what a hatchet-job we, as Americans, do on our own language. We cut corners when we speak, muddy our language with slang, and improper grammar. Hearing English spoken in it’s proper form is always quite refreshing. Kasper was returning from an 11 day vacation in Tennessee, Georgia, and Arkansas. Luckily, he had not picked up a southern drawl. At 24 years old, it was the first vacation he had taken without his parents. I thought it ironic that this was the first vacation I’ve ever taken alone as well, though I’m a tad bit older. He was describing his experiences on vacation, again in that proper, beautiful English wording. When he uttered the phrase, “all of these things created such glorious memories…” I couldn’t help but smile. What a great phrase way to put it, “glorious memories.”

Dinner was served, and we ate in silence. He read, I listened to music. He slept, I attempted to do so. After the flight was over, we wished each other well and then it was the mad dash – Kasper for his connecting flight home, mine to get my baggage, get through customs, and then to my rental car.

At the rental car counter I was informed that the GPS that I had requested did not exist. As a matter of fact, none of their cars even came with GPS, contradicting what was stated on their booking website. I had actually planned not to use a GPS, but after printing out all of the step-by-step directions for my two weeks in France, I realized that I would spend more time looking at directions, rather than enjoying the scenery. I asked the rental car agent if there was a place near the airport that I could purchase one. He told me that there was an electronics store in the airport, and directed me where to find it. Of course, his directions were quite skewed, and after fighting through an incredibly packed airport, I managed to locate the store, only to find that they were out of business. Oh well…

SIDE NOTE: Did anyone know that the Charles de Gaulle airport has guards wandering throughout with machine guns? Well, they do.

I made my way to my rental car and began following the directions I had printed out towards my first destination. After going about 20 miles, I noticed a mall off of the highway. I pulled in, parked, and set out to find an electronics store. I quickly found a store that would be the equivalent of a Best Buy or Circuit City in the US. After wandering the store to no avail, I asked where I could find a GPS. I was directed to that section, and upon arriving at the sales counter, I had the first of several rude interactions I’ve experienced so far in France. I was speaking French to the salesman, and we were conversing quite well. Then he asked me a question that I realized there was no possible way I would be able to answer in French. I asked him, in French, if he spoke English. He said, very rudely, “What language do you want to speak?” I said, again in French, “Excuse me?” as I was taken aback by his sudden change in attitude. He said, this time even more rudely, “Do you want to speak French or English?” I told him English, and he said, “Okay,” and began conversing in English. I bought the GPS, unpackaged it, and after a few minutes of trying to figure out how to enter in my destination address, I set back out towards the town of Sancerre, a small town built on a mountain about 2-1/2 hours southeast of Paris.

SIDE NOTE: If you ever purchase a GPS in France, make sure you understand more than just basic French. It is all in French, and there is no English option.

I arrived in Sancerre, though not at my destination. You see, I am finding that many of the hotels in these small towns do not actually have street numbers, there address is simply, “Rempart des Augustens or Quai Faconnet.” In this case, the street was not even listed in the GPS. So, even though I had arrived at the town, I quickly became quite lost. That was okay really, as the freedom of not knowing exactly where you are or how to get where you’re going is something that I was looking forward to on this trip. This was an area of one small town connecting to another by vast vineyards. I knew that once in the area, there was only so far I could go before leaving the town. So, I drove around attempting to locate my hotel. After about 20 minutes, I realized that I could, indeed, quickly be out of the town I was in and into the next before I knew it. I knew that I was lost. I continued to drive, eventually coming across a deserted playground. Outside of the gates of the fens listed.ced in play area was a sign that showed a map of the town with various sites shown. Fortunately, my hotel was one of the sites listed. I made my way around the small mountain and located my hotel. I was pleased that the concierge spoke some English. He directed me to my room, which was 3 stories below ground level. However, being built into the side of a mountain, this meant that this level in the hotel was actually on the poolside terrace level. I got on the tiny elevator to go down to my room. Since my last trip to France, I had forgotten how tiny the elevators in France are. This is due to the fact that most of the buildings in France are 400+ years old – pre-dating the elevator by several hundred years. In most cases, the only place to put an elevator is in the small atrium of a spiraling staircase. Thus, not much space, tiny elevator. I have often thought that France would be a very difficult place for someone who has a handicap, or who is overweight by more than 20 or 30 pounds. In Paris, for example, there are few handicap ramps. Tourist attractions like Notre Dame have no elevator, so if you want to go up to the roof and make friends with the centuries old gargoyles, you’re out of luck.

I got to my room and couldn’t wait to see the view of the mountains, terrace, and pool that I was promised when I booked. I was not disappointed. The view was beautiful, calm, and the countryside was quiet -- perfect for relaxing. One problem: my patios doors wouldn’t lock. I like to think of myself as a rather trusting person, but there was no way I was going to leave my laptop, camera, iPod, clothes, etc. in an unlocked room on the poolside terrace level of a hotel! I gathered all of my luggage and dragged it back up to the front desk (just in case they were going to give me another room). I advised the concierge of the broken lock and he said he would come to check it out in a little while. I hesitated before saying okay and schlepping all of my luggage back to my room. My hesitation was due to the fact that I was starving and wanted to go seek out dinner, but didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for the concierge to come check the lock.
I took a shower, and no sooner than I had finished dressing, a knock came at the door. It was the concierge. He greeted me, went right over to the door, fiddled with the lock, and pronounced it fixed. Voila! Dinner, here I come. On my way out of the hotel in search of sustenance, I asked the concierge if he knew what time the “Foire des Sorciers” (Sorcerers Fair) in Bué began tomorrow. This was my whole reason for coming to this town. The first Sunday in August, all of the children dress up like witches, goblins and ghosts, and run through the down. I thought this would make for some good picture taking. However, the concierge pointed me to the areas calendar of events, which clearly showed that the festival was in half an hour. Apparently, the first Sunday in August no longer applies – damn travel books! Even though I was well past the point of needing to eat, I opted to make my way to the festival in Bue, one town over. I plugged in “Bué” into my newly purchased GPS and I was off, hoping to get there before the festivities started. I needn’t have worried. The town was literally 3 miles away, just though a weaving of vineyards. The town was a very quaint, very tiny town, with maybe a total of 30 houses, a few with vineyards attached. As I made my way through the town following the hand painted signs consisting of a humorous witch and a red arrow pointing the way, the paved road turned to rocky dirt, and I entered the property of one of the local vineyards. I was directed where to park – in the remote corner of a secluded field. Mine was only the third car to arrive. This did not bode well, considering that the festival was scheduled to start in about 10 minutes. I made my way to where I assumed the festivities were, following a pack of three elderly ladies whom I figured knew where they were headed. I ended up in a field with several enormous tents, two of which housed row after row of picnic tables set up very beautifully with candles, colorful napkins, and fresh sunflowers. The two other tents housed the food (apparently there was a cookout – yea! Remember, I’m starving) and drinks. There was a separate champagne stand bookended by two large paper maché figures, one of a witch, and one of the devil. There was a wooden dance floor set up in the middle of it all, as well as a table with day-glo green punch (witches brew maybe?) and various hors d’oevres. There was also a booth for face painting. In the corner of it all, a live band was setting up and tuning their instruments. I roamed over to one of the picnic tables and sat down, scanning the environs. I noticed out in the middle of one of the many rowed fields of grape vines was a see-through tarp, trying unconvincingly to cover the makings of a large bonfire, with a demon on a stake in the middle. His fate seemed set.

Slowly people trickled in, greeting each other familiarly. They purchased their beverages, mingled, and staked out their place at the tables for what undoubtedly would be a great feast. I people-watched for a while – one of my favorite pastimes. The band started to play, stopping several times, as they just couldn’t get their sound right. We were treated to the first minute of The Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited” three separate times. The band eventually conceded, and instead opted for “Disco Inferno.” It was going to be a night of seventies hits. At this point I got a little bored. I noticed people going over to the hors d’oevres table and getting a plate containing a sample of each, and some punch. Money was being exchanged, so I figured it was time to get my grub on. I wandered over to see what was in store for me. As I scanned each of the eight hors d’oevres, I noticed one thing in common: meat. Bread with meat baked in, quiche with ham, stuffed rolled meat. For those of you who know me, I am vegetarian. This was not going to work…

I decided to walk into town to look around and take some photographs. On my way out, I noticed that the feast included ham, a rice dish, cheese, French fries, dessert, bread, and quiche for 15 Euros. Yea! I couldn’t wait! I strolled though the old town, taking photos of unusual objects here and there – the kind of things I live to take pictures of – found forgotten objects. I was enjoying my time in the town. It was extremely quiet. Eventually, my weakness from lack of food was getting the better of me, and I actually got dizzy several times. I decided to turn back and see about food. On my walk back the silence was shattered by a band of four or five hooligans on dirt bikes racing up and down the town. It seemed very out of character for the feel of the town. But hey, I guess there are hooligans everywhere.

When I arrived back at the festival it had grown into quite a party. Well over 200 people from neighboring villages had arrived, the band was deep into their playlist, and the tables were loaded with people engrossed in their feast. I decided to join them. I purchased my ticket for the meal and made my way over to the chow line. The first thing I saw was bread, French, of course. Bread covered in flies. Next. Then I was asked if I wanted ham or sausage. Neither was my response. I was then given a small rectangular bowl containing a rice dish. As the woman held it out to me, I could make out that it had olives, carrots, corn, and some sort of sauce. I told her I was a vegetarian and asked if there was any meat in it. She seemed surprised by the question and asked me to repeat it. I did. She wasn’t sure. She asked two or three other people, and the consensus was that it was meat free. I determined it was edible and put it on my tray. I moved on to a meat dish. Pass. I was then asked if I wanted cheese. “Oui, merci,” I replied, and was handed yet another rectangular bowl of something that looked like a thick block of stiff, juicy yogurt. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but my options were running out, so I took it. I was watching others with their bowl of “cheese” trying to figure out how you were supposed to eat it. I assumed it was to be eaten on bread, but I needed something more. I noticed some people piling on raw onions and chives. Hmmm…not really into raw onions, thanks. I saw no dessert, and had now reached the end of the line. As hard as it was, I decided to return to the bread and take a few pieces (Don’t judge me. I was famished). I took my few bits of food and went to my table. As I gathered a fork full of the rice mixture, I noticed what looked like small bits of chicken. I took the bowl of rice back up to the counter and asked another woman, who was working the French fry counter (they were sold separately) if this was chicken, pointing out several bits of what looked like chicken. She asked if I thought there was meat in it. I pointed out the bits of “meat” again to her. What then ensued was at least two minutes of people yelling back and forth in French, one after another trying to determine who had made the rice dish and if, indeed, it contained meat. Finally, a woman with a British accent came over and asked me what it was that I needed to know. I again posed my question. Another woman came up and frantically grabbed her arm. They looked each other dead in the eyes as the British woman posed the question to her. The woman looked at me and in her French-tinged broken English said, “No, it is tuna.” Cool. I’m not a fan of seafood, but tuna I can do. And at this point I was beyond starving. I asked the British woman if I could have some French fries. She got them for me and then asked if I was having any meat, apparently forgetting the whole conversation we had just had. I told her no, and she said that I could probably just have the fries since I wasn’t having any meat. She, of course, had to verify that this was an approved exchange, but she eventually confirmed that the exchange of meat for fries was fine. I took my food and sat quietly eating the meal. It was not great by any means, and certainly not worth anywhere near 15 Euros, but at this point, this was all I was getting until morning. All of the businesses had long since closed. After my meal, I took photographs of jugglers, witches, and children dressed up like macabre demons. Continuing my people watching, I noticed the French equivalent of rednecks – country, white trash (how do you say that in French?), with butt crack showing. I guess there are some things that are not strictly American.

Deciding that I was too tired, and a bit too much like a fish out of water, to stay for the bonfire, I headed back to my car and drove to the hotel. Once back at the hotel, I sat out on the patio outside of my room and watched the clouds roll by. It was painfully quite, yet I welcomed it. A cool breeze washed over me, and I felt I could fall asleep right there in the chair. I decided to go back inside, lest I did fall asleep where I sat.

I prepared for bed, remembering that I had a few chocolate truffles left that I had purchased on my journey. They had melted and were stuck to the paper, but at this point I had no pride when it came to food. My dinner did little to satisfy my hunger. And besides, I was alone in a hotel room. Who would know (until now, that is)? I licked the chocolate from the wrappers, turned off the lights, and went to sleep.

Things I learned today:

1. Hotels in France do not have wash cloths (sorry to housekeeping for that soaked towel I had to make do with).
2. You will most likely never find toilet paper or hand soap in any public restroom.
   

And so ends day one. Stay tuned for more!

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The music that completes today's look is "I'm So Excited" by The Pointer Sisters. (Why the hell not?!?)

4th

I wanted to take the chance to post an experience that I had a few years ago, that seems apropos for the 4th of July. The following was an email that I sent out after my experience. As a side note, this email somehow made it's way to the mother of the soldier I wrote about, and his local hometown newspaper printed it in it's entirety for July 4th:

Hello all!

I’m writing to all of you to tell you of an experience I had last week. This is not spam and this is not a joke. This is not religious or political. This is a true story that happened to me last week – Friday, April 27, 2007 to be exact -- that changed my life forever. It is not a short story, but I hope that you will take a moment to read this and that you will be as moved as I was.

Yesterday I, along with 3 colleagues, was returning from home office in Chicago where we attended our company’s bi-annual Continuing Education Week. We arrived at O’Hare, tired and anxious to get on our scheduled flight that would take us back to our homes in and around the Atlanta area. On our way to the gate we happened to notice on the departures and arrivals monitor that our flight had been cancelled. With a sigh and a few muttered rumblings, we proceeded to the gate to see about having our flight re-scheduled. The gate agent informed us that due to extremely severe weather between Chicago and Atlanta there were currently no seats on any remaining flights that evening. What’s more, she said that it was doubtful that any flight on any airline would be leaving. As a few of my co-workers debated various alternatives with the agent, I called our company’s travel department to see if there was anything they could do to get us back home that night. After 20 minutes of passing messages from our travel department to the agent and back, discussing every possible scenario, it was decided that our only option was to spend the night at a nearby hotel and take the 9:40 AM flight to Atlanta the next morning. The agent made the arrangements and gave us our boarding passes for our new flight. Then she uttered a phrase that I never want to hear again – “You will not be able to get your luggage back.” In shock, we asked why. She stated that it was against regulations to return baggage that had already gone through security, unless there was medication in the luggage that the owner of the bag needed. Being the smart negotiators we are, we pounced, claiming that we all had medication that we had to have that evening. The agent, obviously skeptical, questioned each of us as to the description of each of our bags. She did some typing on her computer keyboard, and then announced that our bags would be pulled and that we could retrieve them on Baggage Carousel 10. Triumphant and relieved, we made our way to the baggage area.

When we reached the baggage area, we discovered that carousel 10 was closed for renovation. We stood, confused, trying to get our bearings and discuss where the bags could be. A helpful bystander overheard our discussion and told us that the airport was using carousel 4 in place of #10 during the renovation. We thanked her and headed to carousel 4. On our way, I noticed an area with a lot of baggage lined up in rows, as people stepped forward to claim it. I asked the attendant where we could locate our bags, and he motioned to two lines, one on either side of his appointed area. One line was about 50 people deep, while the other had about 20 in it. Not wanting to put our eggs all in one basket, we split up, with 2 of us heading to each line. While in line, I asked the agent at the desk if I was in the correct line to get my baggage back from canceled flight 4444, and she stated that I was in the correct line. I used my cell phone to call my co-workers that were standing in the other, longer line to come to join us. The line moved quicker than I expected and we were pleased to finally reach the counter. I explained that we needed to get our baggage back from our cancelled flight 4444. The agent looked up the flight and stated, “We cannot release your bags.” When, perturbed, we asked why, she pulled out a list of about 10 destination cities that the airline could not release baggage for. Apparently, this would be a security breach. Utterly defeated, not having the strength and energy to argue, we all made the long walk to the curbside waiting area for the shuttle to take us to our hotel. After checking in, we had dinner and drinks in a sports bar that was attached to the hotel. After dinner, 3 of us took the shuttle to Target, where we bought a few sample sized toiletries, new underwear, and new shirts to wear home on our flight the next day. Then, it was back to the hotel for a very restless nights sleep.

The next morning, we made our way to the airport bright and early. We checked to make sure that our flight was still scheduled to take off on time, which it was, and then had a leisurely breakfast. After breakfast we ambled towards the gate. I commented how, in spite of our ordeal, the fact that we seemed to be finally on our way to getting back home seemed to make us all more relaxed and content. Everyone agreed, as we shuffled calmly to the gate.

Just before the gate agent called for us to board the plane, the ladies I was with noticed a handsome, young soldier standing in the gate area. The usual chitchat that accompanies the discovery of an attractive man ensued. Then, as quickly as it had changed, the conversation turned back to previous discussions. We boarded the plane, and located our seats -- all in the very back 3 rows of the small, 18-row plane. I, of course, had what I believed to be the worst seat on the plane: the last row, right across the aisle from the bathroom. Of course, the ladies I was traveling with were quick to point out that, in their eyes, I had the best seat, as I was seated right next to the handsome, young soldier that had caught their fancy. At one point, while we were taxiing out to the runway, I asked the soldier if he was on his way home, or on his way out. He stated that he had been home since the 11th of April, and that he was on his way back to Iraq. He said that he didn’t expect to go back, but that he had just been informed that he was being sent back to Iraq for another year. I asked where he was stationed and he said the center of Baghdad. I said that I was sorry that he had to go back. He said that he was alright with going back, though it was hard when nobody really knows the good that is being done in Iraq. He said that they are making some real progress, even though it is moving slowly. He expressed his disappointment that you never see the good that is going on in Iraq, only the bad. He felt that the media will never show the good for several reasons: the Democrats hate Bush, and we’re nearing the election year, and that the media needs to report on the bad things going on in Iraq to sell papers.

I asked if he was from Chicago, and he told me that he was from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I noticed that he had closed the shade on the window, occasionally raising it ever so slightly to peek out to see what progress the plane was making. I asked if he didn’t like to fly, and he stated that he didn’t really mind, and as the plane began it’s race down the runway and we lifted into the air, he mapped out his journey from Chicago to Iraq for me. He described what it was like to fly on the two military planes that would carry him during the last two legs of his journey to Kuwait, where he would be shuttled to Baghdad. We talked about the tiny MP3 player that he had removed from his pocket, and how he loved music, but due to the slow connection speed, it took a long time to download a song in Baghdad. He told me of his desire to study Health Science and Nutrition, and how he hoped to be a personal trainer and nutritionist. He said that soldiers had the option to take classes while in Iraq, and though many of his friends were, he had decided not to, as he wanted to be able to focus on his schoolwork and do his best. This was something he didn’t think he could do with the daily distraction of his mission in Iraq. I asked when he would be finished and able to start school. He said that his new tour would end in June of 2008. He told me that when he returned from his tour, before he started classes, that he planned to visit some of his family in Connecticut, and then go on vacation in Florida. When I asked where in Florida he wanted to go, he said, ”Someplace with a beach, and with sand. Even though I see sand every day, it’s different sand. I want to go somewhere that I can stand in the sand and see the ocean. Somewhere where there’s beer, and girls!” A big smile came across his face. Our conversation continued until the captain announced that it was safe to use electronic devices. He put in his MP3 player earphones, turned on his music, laid his head back, and closed his eyes.

At some point in the flight I looked over and noticed that he had fallen asleep. His face was so serene, almost angelic. I was amazed at how someone who had been exposed to the horrors of wars, and was on their way back to face that horror once again, could be so calm, so relaxed and drift into sleep. Moved by the scene of this young soldier, facing an uncertain future, sleeping peacefully, I slowly and quietly reached into my computer case and took out my digital camera and took a few pictures of him sleeping, so serenely. One of the ladies I was traveling with noticed what I was doing and commented that she wanted a copy of the picture of the handsome man. While taking the pictures, I noticed the patch on his uniform that had his last name: Hansel. I thought it ironic that he shared his last name with the name of a boy from a child’s fairy tale – the storybook Hansel, an innocent who fought an evil force; this soldier Hansel, an innocent on his way to fight an evil force.

I settled back and scrolled through the photos I had taken of the soldier, hoping that I had captured this scene that had amazed me so. Suddenly it hit me that the very photos that I had just taken, the ones that I was looking at, could very well be the last photos ever taken of this young man. The thought was more than I could handle. Tears began to roll down my face and I was at that moment grateful that I was in the very last row of the plane, able to simply stand up and step a mere 2 feet across the narrow aisle into the bathroom. Trying to hold back the eruption of emotion I was feeling, I fumbled with the seatbelt, unable to unlatch it. I pulled and tugged at the belts’ mechanism, desperate to exit my seat and reach the solitude of the bathroom where I could unleash my emotion without being seen by any of the passengers. The seatbelt finally unlatched and I hurried across the aisle into the bathroom. My hands began shaking as I locked the door behind me. I collapsed onto the closed toilet lid and began sobbing. I cried harder than I ever have in my entire life. Here I was, a 40-year-old man who has seen my share of sorrow, my body convulsing in emotion, sobbing, unable to control my emotions. I let go and let the tears flow, body shaking, voice whimpering…

After what seemed like an eternity, afraid others were lined up outside, waiting to get into the bathroom, I managed to compose myself, and returned to my seat. I sank low into the seat, hiding my eyes with my hands, hoping no one would see me. The two of my travel partners that were sitting in front of me were carrying on a conversation with a woman across the aisle. She looked at me and, knowing that she could see the telltale signs of the tears I had shed, I hoped that she wouldn’t tip off my colleagues.

I began thinking of 2 songs, both coincidentally by one of my favorite singers, Jann Arden. One of them, “Fighting For The World,” about a family waiting through Christmas, New Years, and Easter for their loved one to return from war, is a melodic, somber song, that has always made me cry. The other song, an upbeat remake of the 1971 Freda Payne anti-Vietnam War song, “Bring the Boys Home.” (I have attached a document with the lyrics to these songs to this email for those who are interested). I took out my I-Pod and listened to both. As I did, tears began to well up in my eyes again and I tried desperately to contain my emotion. One of the ladies I was traveling with turned around with a big smile. Her face fell into concern as she saw the tears rolling down my face. She mouthed the words, “Are you alright?” I slowly shook my head to show that I was not, and told her that I would explain when we got off the plane.

I managed to compose myself only a few minutes before our pilot announced our descent into Atlanta. The soldier awoke. He lifted the window shade a bit to see if he could get a view of the Atlanta skyline. I leaned over and asked him his name. “Cody,” he said. I asked him if I could ask a favor. He said that I could. I told him that while he was asleep that I had taken a photo of him, and explained how it amazed me to see someone who was going into war, be so calm and serene. I told him how you see the war on the news everyday, but you are distanced from it. With tears welling up, I told him that spending this time with him had truly changed my life. I told him that for me, the war now had a face. I tried to hold back my tears as I shook his hand and thanked him for what he was doing.

I asked if I could take another picture of him while he tried, for a moment, to forget where he was going and imagine that he was on the beach, in the sand, with the girls, and happy. He said, “Sure.” I took out my camera, aimed it and said, “Think of the beach. Think happy.” His face lit up and I snapped the photo. I thought to myself that if anything ever happened to this young man, that the last picture of him could now, possibly, be one of happiness and joy. I shook his hand again and wished him the best.

He told me that he was so surprised that he was able to sleep. He stated that he does not get a lot of sleep, as his workday is normally 16-20 hours long. He described how the human body can only go so far before it gives out. He told me how you can be marching one minute, and then wake up lying on the ground, your body having collapsed. He said described his small, meager living area, and how it was overcrowded, and noisy from the nearby airport in Baghdad. He told me that this is why he has the MP3 player – so that he can put in the earphones, listen to music to try and drown out the noise, and try and get a few hours of sleep. He mentioned that this trip to Baghdad would be 16 and a half hours in the air, but that he would get to see “three sunrises and 2 sunsets.” He described how beautiful it was to fly through a sunrise and sunset, watching the sun rise and fall. I was in awe that, once again, this young man was finding the beauty in what most would find an awful situation.

The plane landed and we all began laughing and joking with the soldier. As we exited the plane, he asked if we knew what area of the airport soldiers were supposed to report to. One of the ladies pointed him in the right direction. I shook his hand one more time and wished him a good trip. He thanked me and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

The four of us made our way to baggage claim and rejoiced out loud when we saw our bags waiting for us. We gathered them up and moved to our respective bathrooms to freshen up. As we regrouped outside the bathrooms, I recounted my experience to them and why I was so emotional on the plane. Once again I began to cry, but this time I was not alone. As I looked at the faces of my traveling companions, I saw that they shared my same emotion. We stood together and cried…and hugged.
On our way through the airport we began to notice soldiers everywhere. At one point, we stopped, frozen in our tracks, seeing a large group of about 40 young soldiers, lined up in formation, beginning their march through the airport towards an uncertain future…


I believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that the reason that our flight was delayed, that we were without luggage, that we “suffered” through the night unexpectedly, was so that I could meet this soldier. It was so I could realize that all of the small stresses in my life are nothing in comparison to the life of this young man and the uncertainty, fear, courage, and strength that he has to muster everyday, just to survive. It gave me clarity as to what is important in life, and what is not. That the petty annoyances that we hold on to, are just that – petty. I realized that there is a world outside of my own, one where there are men and women that I have never met, that I will never meet, who have chosen to fight for me…for me…

I am not a political man. I have my opinions about the war and about our President. But what I experienced was beyond those opinions. Meeting this young soldier changed my life.

I want to ask anyone reading this email, regardless of your beliefs on the war, to take a moment to remember Sergeant Cody Hansel, as well as all of our soldiers, who are risking their lives on the other side of the globe, fighting for freedom, fighting for you and me, fighting for the world…

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The music that completes today's look is "Fighting For The World" by Jann Arden.

Beauty

A friend and I were reminiscing the other day about a few TV shows that we watched as kids. We were discussing "Wonder Woman," when I asked, do you remember "The Secrets of Isis?" He said, "I loved Isis!" Without hesitation I gushed, "I wanted to be Isis! I wanted to be Wonder Woman, too!" We laughed for a moment, then he said, "Isn't it interesting that gay boys want to be heroes like Wonder Woman and Isis, rather than Aquaman, or some other male superhero?" It made me wonder, why are so many icons for gay men women?

Growing up, I can vividly remember dangling a towel around my head, pretending it was long, luxurious locks of hair. I can remember wrapping my body in a blanket, imagining myself clothed in a form-fitting, stunning evening gown. When I was lucky enough, I would commandeer a pair of my mothers high heels and wear them around, proud of this gorgeous feminine creature that I had, in my mind, become. I did this with no shame, no deliberation, no remorse. It was natural for me. It was the exploration of my feminine side, the innate longing to understand the sense of femininity and beauty that lay inside of me.

Growing up, I left such things behind, slowly becoming more comfortable with the masculine side of my being. Yet, deep inside, I still help on to that desire to be beautiful.

I can remember as a young adult, specifically shunning anything typically "gay." Until my late twenties, I had never heard a Patsy Cline song. I refused to listen to her, as she was a stereotypically gay icon, and I did not want to allow myself the possibility of liking her. That would be expected of a gay man. Barbra Streisand? Ditto. Joan Crawford, Bette Midler, Cher -- any stereotypically gay icon I simply turned my eyes and ears to. Then one day, I thought, "Fuck it, let's see what all of the hype is about," and I listened to my first Patsy Cline song. I was mesmerized. Such an incredible voice. Such swooning emotion. She spoke to me...

Over the years, I discovered the talents of other gay icons, some intentionally, some by happenstance. Though my mind wanted to fight the attraction to them, my heart somehow overruled, and I became enthralled with these icons, as so many generations of gay men before me had done. What is it about these women that makes for such positive role models for gay men?

I think within all gay men is a desire to be beautiful. I don't mean in the purely physical sense (though, God knows, gay men have an almost obsessive need to be outwardly beautiful). I mean beauty in all it's forms. I think all gay boys -- growing up to be gay men -- have desire to have someone really see who they are, to accept them, unconditionally, for the beautiful creatures they are. We want to be recognized for our inner strength -- the fortitude for standing tall when everyone is making fun of us, ridiculing us, abusing us, or telling us we're wrong, worthless or going to hell. We want someone to see our humor -- our ability to laugh at not only ourselves, but at the small absurdities that make life delicious. We want someone to accept the desire that we have to be loved -- truly loved -- by someone that just happens to be of the same gender. We want someone to see our vulnerability, tears, weaknesses, successes, hurts, anger, spunk, giddiness, loyalty, romanticism, sensuousness, and affection. We want someone to see that light in our eyes that says. "I am what I am." We want someone to see our...beauty.

I think it is the characteristics that we want others to see in us that draws us to these women who seem to embody all that we want to be. If you look at any gay icon, you will see someone who has led a life that parallels that of a gay man -- self-awareness, self-doubt, success, criticism, standing tall in the face of adversity. These icons are deeply sure of themselves, their abilities, and of who they are, even when everyone around them is telling them to give up, or that they will fail, or that they are not as relevant as others around them. These icons die many figurative deaths, but they persevere. They are unflinching when they need to be, tender when they know to be, and invisible when they have to be. But regardless of what happens, these icons retain their dignity and their strength, and they radiate a light of self-assurance. They are...beautiful.

I cannot speak for all gay men, but I know that I do have the desire to have others see my beauty. I know who I am, what makes me the person that I am, and what it took to get me this far. I know that I have the ability to make others laugh. I have the ability to cry at the smallest thing that touches my heart. I can be outrageous, sensitive, smitten, and carefree. I can be strong, yet insecure. I can hold a friend who needs to be comforted, and can sink into anothers arms when I need to be embraced. I can fight when I need to, and I can back down when I am wrong. I have an unlimited capacity for love. And I can have my heart broken. All of these things make me beautiful. And I desire to have it be recognized. I want the world see all that I embody. I think it is this same desire that I share with other gay men.

We live vicariously through these amazing women, these icons, these beautiful creatures that speak for -- and through -- us. It is their beauty that we see in ourselves. It is our beauty that we see in them...

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The music that completes today's look is: whatever song makes you feel beautiful. Play it, listen to it, embrace it, feel beautiful.

Letting Go

I was sitting at a stop light yesterday, listening to a song that I've listened to many, many times in the past year -- "Let The Wind Chase You" by Trisha Yearwood. Whereas I am usually just singing along, rapt in Trisha's exquisite vocals, yesterday I actually stopped and listened -- really listened -- to the lyrics of the song. I was struck as I realized that this song seemed to sum up the way I was feeling last year just prior to the break up of my 12 year relationship.

During the last several years of our relationship, I realized that my ex and I had lost the ability to communicate our feelings to each other. Whether it was fear, pride, shame, or defiance, we just stopped telling each other what we needed and wanted. After 12 years I realized that we both had changed, too much it seemed. I was no longer the man that at my ex fell in love with. I was no longer the man he wanted, nor the man that he could ever love again the way he once did. I think it was that thought that initiated the conversation that led to the eventual break up of our 12 year relationship...

It is only now, listening to the lyrics of this beautiful song, that I realize what I was feeling at that time, and the way I was living that I was no longer willing to live:


Like a wildwood flower
Doesn’t have to reach for the sun
And when it needs a drop of water
It doesn’t have to ask the rain to come

I don’t wanna work for your love
I don’t wanna try to be
Something that you’re looking for
You’re never gonna find in me

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

No one says a diamond ain’t precious
Just because it hasn’t yet been found
And no one blames the moon for not shining
Just because it’s hidden by a cloud

I don’t wanna blame myself
Thinking that I’m not enough
And wonder what’s wrong with me
Because I couldn’t win your love

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

I don’t wanna work for your love
I don’t wanna try to be
Something that you’re looking for
You’re never gonna find in me

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

Let the wind
Chase you

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The music that completes today's look is "Let The Wind Chase You" by Trisha Yearwood

To Become What I Became?

I used to be attracted to a certain type of man -- masculine and confident, with facial hair, a hairy chest, and a little bit of a rough side. Unfortunately, that type of man was not attracted to me. This perplexed me, as I was attractive, grounded, and an all around nice guy. I went to the bars where specimens of this type of man hung out, but I never got noticed, never got approached. Then someone told me, "To get what you want, you have to become what you want." This intrigued me, and being young enough to not have a real sense of who I was, I took this advice to heart. I changed my look from innocent college boy, to a more masculine, adult, sexy man. I changed my wardrobe. I changed my behavior. I changed the way I interacted with others when I visited the places where this type of man frequented. I had become a new man. The change was apparently more than I had realized, as a then recent ex questioned, "Wow, I was not your type at all, was I?"

The plan worked. I found myself having one night stands, dates, friendships and relationships with this type of man. I had become the man that I wanted, and this was what I attracted.

Time passed and I settled into a more relaxed version of the man I had become. I ended up in a long-term relationship with a man that embodied some of the characteristics that I had become used to, but ,in essence, was quite different, more "mainstream." I remained on this mainstream side of the fence for twelve years. When the relationship ended last year, I found myself in the unique situation of not having any real "type" that I was attracted to. I found that I was attracted to many different types, shapes, and looks of man. Recently, however, I have found myself looking at a particular type of man and saying to myself, "Wow..." Apparently I do have a type after all. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, this type seems to be the one I had become all those years ago. And surprisingly -- or not so surprisingly -- that type of man is eluding me once again...

There is the thought that I could once again become what I became years ago. There are still traces of that man -- the masculinity and confidence, though the facial hair has disappeared. My dress has segued into a more sophisticated style, as I opt to shop at Banana Republic these days. However, it would be easy to move back into that old person I used to be -- a slight change in dress, attitude, venue, a few more days of stubble. After losing my identity during the twelve years of my last relationship, I am prime to become someone else while I am in the process of discovering who I truly am. So the question seems to be, do I once again become what I became in order to get what I want..?

I am now at an age where I view the world differently. My priorities have changed. My ideals and dreams, desires and needs are different than they were when I was younger. Even now, as I am trying to discover who I am as a person, I am more confident in who I am and what I want to be than when I was younger. I can see the value of being a whole person, devoid of semblance to anyone else but myself.

My main track of thinking now is, "Why should I change who I am to become something that I am not to attract a man?" Do I want to be in a relationship with someone who is not attracted to me as I am now? If I need to become someone else to be with the type of man I want, is that type of man really for me? If I compromise myself to be happy, am I really happy?

The decision seems obvious. But I find myself in the same predicament I found myself in all those years ago -- the type of man I am really attracted to, the type I want to be with, doesn't know I exist. I smile at him...I speak to him...I try to converse with him...I flirt with him...but nothing. So, where does that leave me? How do I get this type of man's attention without changing who I am? Do I relegate myself to another type and accept that that my desired type is not for me...?

I subscribe to the belief that everything happens for a reason. Because of this belief, I realize that the universe has its plan for me. It has lined up my next partner, and has chosen when and where we will meet. But waiting for the universe to work its magic can be a bitch. Sometimes I want to give it a nudge...

Perhaps I can give it a little nudge. Maybe there's a minor solution, one that doesn't require me to drastically alter myself. Maybe I could adjust my dress in subtle ways that are still keeping true to my own style. Instead of Sketchers, maybe I could wear boots. Always wanted a pair, maybe now's the time to buy. Maybe I could start going to a few of the bars that I've wanted to try anyway, bars where these men hang out. Maybe I can reach out through my network of friends to have them introduce me to men who are "my type."

So, maybe I can make this happen, while still remaining myself. Maybe I can make it happen by revealing deeper shades of me. I may even find that as I am discovering who I am as a person, that who I am embodies many of the qualities I admire and desire in others. I may not need to change anything. Those things may have been a part of me all the time. They just needed to be rediscovered.

So, I will continue my journey of self-discovery. I will discover what elements of myself, my look, my personality are truly who I am. When I find me, perhaps I won't need to look for my type. Maybe then he will find me...

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The music that completes today's look is "Only When I Lose Myself" by Depeche Mode.

Confluence

con-flu-ence: /ˈkɒnfluəns/ [kon-floo-uhns] -noun

1. a flowing together of two or more streams, rivers, or the like: the confluence of
the Missouri and Mississippi rivers.
2. their place of junction: St. Louis is at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi
rivers.
3. a body of water formed by the flowing together of two or more streams, rivers, or the
like.
4. a coming together of people or things; concourse.
5. a crowd or throng; assemblage.

There is a small town at the very southern tip of Illinois, the confluence of the dark, muddy Mississippi and the pure, clear Ohio rivers. The town is called Cairo (pronounced Kay-row).

Cairo was once a thriving town, founded in 1837 as a perfect stop along the shipping routes of the Mississippi and Ohio rivers. It housed a U.S Customs House, one of only seven still in existence. During the Civil War, Cairo was a strategically important supply base and training center for the Union army. For several months General Ulysses S. Grant even had headquarters here. The town is surrounded by the most elaborate levee system in the United States. There is even a Congressional order that this town will never flood -- if flooding seems imminent, levees in towns south of Cairo must be blown, flooding those towns, rather than having Cairo be destroyed. Cairo seemed destined for prosperity.

But in the 1960's, the fate of the town took a swift turn. Cairo had a growing black population, though 100% of it's businesses were white owned. After the passing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, the majority of white business owners refused to serve blacks. Those businesses that did follow the law and served blacks found their businesses quickly failing, as white customers refused to frequent them. In 1969, amid violent race riots and the boycotting of many white owned businesses by local blacks, white business owners closed their doors and moved out of Cairo, choosing to relocate rather than serve blacks. One by one, homes and businesses were abandoned, left open, as-is, to age and decay.

Today, Cairo is a ghost town. Where the population was once twenty-three thousand strong, it now hovers at a sad twenty-five hundred. Driving through the town is surreal, like being on the set of a war movie, or sci-fi film where the townsfolk have mysteriously disappeared -- "The Town That Time Forgot." On Millionaire's Row, the ruins of beautiful Victorian mansions lay dormant, crumbling, trees the new inhabitants of their stately rooms. Entire neighborhoods of turn-of-the-century bungalows are mere shells of their original glory. Cairo's main street, about a mile long, once lined with bustling department stores, beauty shops, diners, and clothes emporiums is now deserted. Some of the structures are still in tact, though their facades and innards have crushed and crumbled. Most of the buildings have succumbed to age and neglect, having simply given up and died. One such building has toppled into the street, but rather than clean it up, the town has, instead, decided to just block the street. The town has sat dormant for the past forty years.

Today, Cairo's population is 63% black. The average salary is 16,220.00 per year, with 33.5% of residents living under the poverty level.

It is ironic to me that Cairo is known as the Confluence of America, when it's own history seems to be the antithesis of the definition of confluence. Here is a city that was built on the idea of merging, melding and growth. Yet it's history shows segregation, separation, and decay. Even the rivers seem to tell the past: the muddy, dark Mississippi -- blacks -- and the pure, clear Ohio -- whites -- merge, but the Mississippi never mixes or flows into the waters of the Ohio. Massive levees protect a town that, for all intents and purposes, no longer exists. A Congressional order preserves a way of life that has disappeared.

Ride through Cairo and you will find a town that is ripe for revitalization. Homes can be purchased for a fraction of the standard cost. Businesses still stand, ready to be re-discovered. This is the stereotypical small town America. The people are some of the nicest you will find. They are personable, and perkier than the setting would suggest. They are proud of their home, despite it's history. I received a tour of the town by a member of Cairo's City Council. He drove me around, giving me insights into the town's once illustrious past. We visited the town library, an enormous, gorgeous architectural specimen, with a spectacular history of it's own. We visited the Customs House, previously a Federal Courthouse, now the town's museum. An elderly gentleman giddily took me through the myriad of displays that told the story of this town. His eyes gleamed as he told stories of not only Cairo's history, but of his remembrance of better times.

I was grateful for the chance to experience the way of life that is Cairo. I was glad to be able to experience some of the town's history, rather than leave with the thought that this town was sad and forgotten. I was delighted by it's citizens and actually look forward to returning.

Cairo makes you appreciate your own city. It makes you understand how far we as a nation have come, yet how far we have to go with accepting each other and our differences.

Will Cairo ever prosper again? Will Cairo ever be able to save itself? One can only hope.

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The music that completes today's look is "Revival" by Eurythmics.

Tornado vs. Oak

There I talk of a Tornado in Atlanta tonight. I capitalize the word Tornado to give it respect. You see, a Tornado almost took my life once, but be it the will of the universe, sheer luck, or the tornado changing it's mind and rolling elsewhere, I was spared. I was three years old. My mother and I had just returned home from a shopping trip with my grandmother and cousin (actually, he was my uncle, but since there was only a year between us, I called him my cousin). It was a beautiful, amazingly sunny day in rural Manning, South Carolina. I still remember how blue the sky was that day. The air silent, and calm. I can remember being happy...

My grandmother dropped us off at our mobile home, which was on the edge of a long dirt road which led up to the house owned by the people we rented from. The mobile home was surrounded by enormous, hundred year old oak trees, trees that used to both intimidate, and shade me as I played beneath them. We went inside as my grandmother, with my cousin in tow, drove off down the dirt road. Almost immediately after closing the door, my mother noticed how windy it had gotten. Huge streams of breeze were gusting into our open windows, blowing items from their usual resting places on side tables, counter tops, and night stands. We could feel the wind physically moving us as we were stumbling around our home. My mother instructed me to help her close the open windows. I ran into my bedroom, climbed up on my bed and began cranking the window shut. As I was closing the window, suddenly I found myself hanging from the handle. A few quick jolts, and a slam. Chaos... noise... screaming. We had no idea what was happening. My mother stumbled to me, grabbed me and we began to run out of our home. Swinging open the front door, we prepared to bolt down the stairs. We stopped dead in our tracks. Our stairs were no longer there. Looking out we could see that they still sat where they always had, yet we were about 50 feet away from them. The Tornado had picked up our home and wrapped it around a tree while we were inside. If not for the protection of those intimidating oak trees, we may have flown farther, maybe flown to our deaths. Oak...capitalized.

Still unclear what was happening, my mother grabbed me and we leapt from the mobile home onto the ground and ran furiously towards my grandmothers car, still in the driveway. We could see the car was rocking side-to-side, literally balancing on two wheels one way, then slamming down and lifting onto the other two wheels. Still we kept running. We were being pelted by baseball sized hail, but still we ran, believing in the safety that lie in my grandmothers station wagon. We jumped in the car, still dazed, crying. My grandmother hit the gas and we sped towards the garage my father worked at, a mere mile or two away. I can still remember crying, screaming that I wanted my pillow and my Matchbox cars. It's funny what comforts children value...

We pulled into my fathers workplace. I can still remember the big grin on my father's face as he saw us pulling in to pay him an unexpected visit. My mother was incoherently screaming out the window the events that had just occurred. He tried to comprehend. When he had finally grasped what she was saying, he laughed it off, thinking it a joke. Where he stood, there was not a cloud in the sky, the ground was dry, and the air was still. It was not until we drove him to the debris of what was our home that he believed. There, surrounded by fallen, mighty Oaks was the rubble that we used to call home...

So you see, I owe my life to that Tornado, or maybe to the Oak. Did the Oak fight furiously to hold onto our home and our lives, while the Tornado fought and fought to take us as a souvenir of its journey through Manning? Was there a terrible battle, each vying for victory, for the lives that each held in its hands? Did the Oak win? Did the Tornado admit defeat, or just give up and move on? I'm not sure I'll ever know, but respect is given regardless.

Tornado. Oak. Thank you.

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The music that completes today's look is"Blow Wind Blow" by Alison Moyet.