Category: TRAVEL

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The Concert

This particular elementary school concert was the musical equivalent of waterboarding.

The concert, to celebrate Black History Month, was preceded by “Food Fiesta” in the cafeteria. Much of the school was Latino. So “Food Fiesta” was basically code for burritos. They were excellent. Everyone ate way too many. Then we waddled down to the gym like bloated cows on clover to partake in the musical extravaganza.

The teacher in charge of the evening worked the mic like a drunk relative at a wedding who won’t take a hint. Not that I have any experience in that area.

At one point he introduced three 6th graders of modest musical talent. They were to play Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” on their poorly-tuned violins. He then announced they would play the song as a round, noting “those of you who are musically trained may detect that this song was not actually written as a round”. He was right. It sounded like multiple cat claws being dragged across a chalk board for a tortuous eternity. The proud parents swooned and took video.

Interspersed with the music were stirring readings from African American luminaries such as Doctor Martin Luther King, Langston Hughes, and Frederick Douglas. Regrettably, the microphone stand was set at “drunk relative” height, which was far too tall for the children doing the readings. As a result, we could only hear a small percentage of what they actually said. During one such reading of the famous “I have a Dream” speech by Dr. King, our 5 year old leaned over and asked in a rather loud voice, “Daddy, did that boy just say that he’s been to the muffin top?”

When it finally ended we stampeded back to the cafeteria to mop up the leftover burritos.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Fishing in Florida – 08/01/2017

[Welcome back and Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a good break. This holiday story is a wee bit longer than most, but I believe it’s worth it. And it’s all true.]

A few Christmases ago my brother-in- law and I rose in the early dawn light and piled into the car with our respective sons, sandwiches, a change of clothes, and high expectations. The previous night we had received a text from one “Captain Biff”, confirming that our deep sea fishing trip in the Gulf was on. His text also included an apology that his primary boat was in for repair so we would be using his backup
craft. No matter.

Not knowing where to park, we drove towards a man standing by the pier to ask for directions. He was a strapping fellow with short, ginger hair. He looked like a retired Rowdy Roddy Piper. He was wearing a filthy pea-green shirt covered with fish-ick and ripped camouflage shorts which offered a full view of his black boxers underneath. as we rolled up, the man leaned into the open driver’s window and said in a voice bristling with enthusiasm, “Y’all looking for Cap’n Biff?!” We nodded. “Co-ink-ee-dink! You found him!” He pointed us towards the parking lot and told us to meet him at the boat. The thrum of marine engines filled the air and added to our anticipation.

We gathered our things from the car and made for the pier. There sat Cap’n Biff’s backup boat, a little putt-putt party-barge pontoon with a 50hp Evinrude outboard. It looked like a floating David surrounded by marine Goliaths. As we stepped aboard, The Cap’n apologized that this was a lesser boat than his normal one, and noted we wouldn’t be hitting any deep water today but would instead fish in the shoals near shore. My brother-in- law slumped. The Cap’n cranked up some Bob Marley as we made for open water, while the Evinrude whined like a swarm of angry bees.

Despite the early hour, and I suspect in part to compensate for his crappy boat, Cap’n Biff proved to be quite the chatterbox. As we headed towards the shoals he told us about his time in the service, the ins and outs of charter fishing, and prattled on about the local gossip. My brother-in- law finally engaged. “Captain Biff”, he said, “I can’t help but notice a sort of musty smell here on the boat.…”

For the first time the Captain looked sheepish. “Yup”, he said. “When I pulled her out of storage this morning the seats were covered in a ton of dust and I didn’t have time to give her a full wipe down. So I covered the seats with these old hunting blankets here from my truck. I forgot that some of them blankets is scented with male buck urine, you know, to attract the horny female deer? So I expect that may be what we’re all smelling”. The air filled with Bob Marley as my brother-in- law and I sat tried to process the moment. …Buffalo soljaaahhh, dreadlocked Rasta…

Finally the Captain eased off the Evinrude as we drifted up to the shoals. Here he proved himself to be a veteran fisherman and a master at working with us novices. He taught us how to bait hooks, avoiding the spiky parts of the bait shrimp. He prepared the rods and lines, and taught our boys about the reels. Each time as we brought our arms back to cast, Captain Biff would yell “FLANG THAT DAWG!” with genuine enthusiasm.

As we kept casting, I noticed the Captain looking to the back of the boat with growing alarm. “Uh, fellas”, said Captain Biff with genuine worry in his voice. “I’m afraid we’ve got to cut this one a little short. It appears one of them pontoons is taking on water and we may be sinking”. Only then did I realize that my brother-in- law was indeed sitting a few inches lower than the rest of us at the back of the boat, and that we were listing noticeably to one side. Quickly Captain Biff flew into action, stowing the gear and firing up the Evinrude. He turned back for the pier as the rest of us huddled precariously on the front corner of the boat to counterbalance the growing weight in the rear waterlogged pontoon. The putt-putt Evinrude screamed for all it was worth as we inched across the open water.

Finally the pier came into sight. Captain Biff headed straight for the ramp, ignoring the stares of the other Captains who looked on wide-eyed at our semi-submerged party barge with its smoking outboard. Captain Biff threw a line on to the pier and ran up to get his truck and trailer, fearing that the boat might actually sink before he could skid it up out of the water. We remained on the front corner of the boat as counterbalance to keep it from going down. Meanwhile, the harbor master, an elderly man standing on the pier with glasses on the end his nose, began scribbling on his clipboard.

Captain Biff backed the trailer down into the water. Lashing the bow of the boat directly to the trailer he dispensed with the winch, knowing that he could not haul up the tons of water now filling the leaky pontoon. He motioned for us to step off the boat at the same moment as he dropped his truck into low-gear 4 X 4 and gunned it. The entire dripping mess lurched up the ramp. Tires smoked and the weight of the waterlogged pontoon almost crushed Captain Biff’s trailer. The prop, still spinning, flung water and weeds into the air. The harbor master’s writing became a blur while. Above the chaos …I shot the sherriiiifff…. could be heard coming from the boat’s sound system.

Then, right there at the top of the ramp, in the midst of the stares from onlookers, the judgement of his peers, and pending fines from the harbormaster, Captain Biff proved what kind of man he really was. He stepped from his truck up on to his boat, now spurting water from its leaky pontoon like a dozen little boys peeing, and crowed like a rooster on a dung heap “YEEAAAHHH! FLANG THAT DAWWWGGGG!!!” And while others waited in disbelief to get their boats down the ramp, Biff took the opportunity to fillet our caught fish. And he took his sweet time doing it, too. Then he added as a masterstroke while handing us the bag of fresh fillets, “I think I’m gonna offer you boys a discount”! Pure. Divine. Poetry.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Happy New Year!]

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The Parrot – 11/12/2017

I had not planned to spend the night locked within the walls of a foreign prison. Even more unexpected was my host hurling a brick through the window.

Hours before my best friend and I had been hitchhiking through England. We were picked up by a lovely, salt of the earth English family. We squeezed into their car, already crammed full with people and camping gear. Their younger children wound up sitting on our laps. This does not normally occur when one is hitchhiking.

The girl seated on my lap (perhaps 4 years old) quietly repeated the last phrase of every conversation. I remarked about this, to which her father replied “Yeah, she’s odd like that. Repeats everything she hears like some damned parrot”.

“Like some damned parrot”, she repeated sweetly.

 My friend and I had plans to find a park somewhere in which to roll out our sleeping bags. But the family insisted we spend the night at their place. The father noted that he was a warden at the notorious Wormwood Scrubs. Their house was actually located in the prison grounds. How could we say no?

As we pulled up to the old prison gates (pictured), the father exchanged pleasantries with the sentry. We drove through and parked in front of their row house. Only then did the warden realize he had left his house keys up at the camping site. In frustration he exclaimed, “We’re just going to have to break that son-of-a-bitch window in!”

 “Son-of-a-bitch-window!” piped the young girl.

 This he proceeded to do, pitching a brick through his front window and then sending one of his children in to open the door from inside. My friend and I helped the family unpack their car, clean up the glass, and tape plastic over the broken front window. The weary family retired upstairs. We unrolled our sleeping bags in their living room. The house grew quiet.

Moments later we heard the father’s heavy footsteps on the landing above us. A light went on. Peering down he asked us matter-of-factly, “You two aren’t a couple of pansy boys, are you? Just checking”.

 We assured him we were not. Off went the light. He padded away.

 From within the silent house came the voice of his parrot daughter speaking softly into the darkness: “Couple of pansy boys. Just checking”.

 

NB: Photo credit to Wikipedia

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The Elephant – 20/11/2017

The only sound was the bullet sliding into the chamber of the Park Ranger’s rifle. I reached for my keys to turn on the engine, but his shaking hand reached over and touched mine, silently indicating that starting an engine at this precise moment was a very bad idea. Both of us stared straight ahead, frozen.

Moments before, we had been marveling at a parade of elephants passing before us. On safari in Africa, we had gotten our jeep into position in a small clearing between the river and the deep shade of the forest. Each morning after a cool drink the elephants would lumber up the path from the river and head to the forest, as they were doing now.  Parked at a safe distance, we had a front row seat to this majestic, awe-inspiring procession.

The matriarch led, trumpeting for the other elephants to keep up. We could see black smudge marks beneath her ears, indicating that she was in heat. She was followed by more than a dozen other members of the herd, including several baby elephants. Our own baby girl was in the back seat of the jeep, happily chatting away with my wife and her grandmother as the elephants passed before us.

We fell instantly silent as a large tree crashed down, almost on the hood of our jeep. Out from the bush stepped a full grown bull male elephant. He was so close we could almost touch him. He towered above our car. Startled to find us in his path, he spun his body towards us, lowered his head, and flared out his ears in defiance. That was the moment the Park Ranger reached for his rifle and I reached for my keys. Not that either of us could have done anything – in two quick steps the bull could easily have been upon us.

One other important detail: he was sporting a full erection. I mention this because an erect bull elephant penis is a rather impressive and pretty unmistakable spectacle, especially when it is 10 paces from your car. It did cross my mind that he might crush us in his anger. Alternatively he might attempt to mate with our jeep in his confusion.  Either way, the outcome was less than desirable.

As we stared at him, frozen, there suddenly came from the front of the line a loud trumpet. It was the matriarch in heat calling for the bull. Without hesitating, he reacted in predictably male fashion. He turned immediately and ran off in her direction, his trunk, tusks and dragging penis cutting a swath through the underbrush. We all sat in silence, our hearts pounding out of our chests, trying to regain our breath.

At that moment the Park Ranger felt the need to add some commentary to this terrifying nature moment. In possibly the most unnecessary statement about any situation, ever, he observed: “Indeed. That one was a male”. Indeed, that one was.

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The International Incident – 09/10/2017

I was inadvertently the cause of an international incident during a trip with my wife to Venice, Italy. The cause of the incident was gelato. While in Venice we were on a pretty strict three-gelato-a-day regimen. Occasionally, we fell off the wagon and had a fourth. 

One evening, after stopping for gelato, we went to see a classical concert in an ancient stone church. Uniquely, the floor of the church sloped down to form a sort of bowl at the front where the small orchestra was setting up. Having arrived early we settled into seats mid-way back and watched the musicians unpack their instruments.

I was struck by the first violinist. He was a slender, older man with long silver hair and an air of authority befitting his position. He unpacked his violin with flair and then warmed up with some intimidating scales. He was every inch the Italian artiste, with flowing white scarf and thick, green-rimmed glasses.

About this time there came from my mid-section an ominous rumble. I locked eyes with my wife. We both knew that such a sound could only mean (a) the gelato dam was about to burst, and (b), soon. I began to perspire as I hastily arose and made my way towards the restroom, located down a passage at the front of the church behind the orchestra.

The lavatory was a small cell with ancient stone walls two feet thick. The only aperture was a tiny keyhole window, obviously designed for light rather than ventilation. But I did not have time to luxuriate in my surroundings. Evil comes in many forms. That day, it came in the form of vengeful gelato performing some sort of digestive exorcism. In the interests of propriety I will refrain from further detail. But I will add that the ancient lavatory architecture served as a pressure cooker to magnify the entire, awful experience.

Then came a knock at the door. This was accompanied by desperate pleas in Italian from someone needing to use the facilities right away. I had no options. I weakly replied “uno minuto” and began to wash up.  Then, steeped in my own shame, I slowly opened the door.

There stood the first violinist. Our eyes locked. Then his arty glasses fogged up as he encountered The Gelato Death Cloud. Taking advantage of his temporary incapacitation, I lowered my head and motored past him as fast as my weak knees would carry me.

I had returned to my seat but an instant when a murmur began to ripple through the orchestra. To my horror, I realized that The Cloud was not exiting via the small keyhole window, but was rather being propelled out of the pressure cooker and into the church. Moreover, it was settling into the sunken orchestra bowl like mustard gas in a trench.

The muttering grew in intensity until the first violinist returned, his white scarf now hanging limply. What followed was an outpouring of accusation from the orchestra. The violinist responded with indignation and, though I do not speak Italian, I clearly caught in his reply the words “grande Americano”. I forgave him this slight, given the circumstances. How was he to know I am Canadian?

As the orchestra began tuning their instruments amidst gasps for breath, my wife suddenly arose from her seat. Being pregnant with our second child, she too now had need of the facilities and wanted to go before the concert began. I tried in vain to stop her but, too late to intervene, she made her way to the aisle and turned to go down the sloping floor towards the front of the church. She had gone but a few steps when she was stopped in her tracks by The Cloud. Her eyes widened. She turned her face slowly towards me, her countenance a mixture of disbelief and, dare I say, awe. Perhaps, and this may be a stretch, even perverse marital pride in a husband who, with the mighty power of gelato, had rendered an orchestra pit and the first 10 rows of a church uninhabitable.

I honestly don’t remember much about the concert. But afterwards, I do clearly remember stopping for one more gelato as my wife and I strolled arm in arm along the winding canals of Venice.

 

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Ocean City – 02/10/2017

I am in Ocean City for a conference that begins tomorrow. It is late in the evening. I am sitting in my undies smoking a cigar and sipping Thera-flu on the balcony of my seaside hotel. I can see distant fireworks from the boardwalk and the offshore lights of a trawler, but the only sound is the beautiful waves crashing on the shore below me.

I arrived here late and, starving, set out to find a restaurant. I came across an all-you-can eat seafood buffet called “The Way of the Whale”. With a promising name and, my wife not being with me, I went in. What can I say? I am a sucker for a seafood buffet which frankly requires her to be elsewhere.

I was greeted by the smell of Old Bay and a waitress that looked like Steffi Graf. I deduced that the entire staff was imported from the former Soviet Union. The clientele, however, was all American.  It took but an instant to appreciate the sheer girth of the average “Whale” patron: we were the heaviest clientele per square foot anywhere outside of Iowa. I was ushered to my seat next to the soft-serve ice cream station and knew I was in for an epic evening. I missed my wife acutely.

Tucking into my tater tots and rubbery buffet tuna, I observed an alarming number of children in sleeveless undershirts with missing teeth and mullet haircuts. They were being parented halfheartedly by sunburned moms and tattooed dads, one of them sporting a t-shirt three sizes too small that said “Free Hugs”. I was not tempted.

The highlight was the soft serve machine itself. I was seated so close that everyone who used the machine – and that was everyone in the place – had to put their bum in my face in order to dish out their soft serve. They would then shuffle to the adjacent “toppings table” with maraschino cherries, various syrups and some liquefied marshmallow topping. The exhaust fan for the soft-serve actually came out the front of the machine, with a force like a public bathroom hand dryer aimed right into the crotch of each soft-serve seeker. This elicited giggles from most patrons but also a few Marilyn Monroe skirt-blowing moments which, given my earlier description of the Whale clientele, did little to aid my digestion. The highlight was two bearded Coptic priests in full black robes and big silver crosses who made no fewer than four trips apiece to the soft serve. Perhaps they were drawn by the liquefied marshmallow topping. Perhaps the exhaust fan. We shall never know. All part of life’s rich pageant swirling about me with its butt in my tater tots.

I waddled back from the “Whale” along the twilight beach and paused near an abandoned lifeguard chair to call my wife. I soon discovered this location happened to be the rendezvous point for gay men out cruising after sundown. As I chatted with her on the phone, several buff Latino lads approached the lifeguard chair in the fading light, only to be repulsed in wide-eyed horror as they got closer. I assume their reaction was to me. Perhaps it was to the lingering scent of Old Bay. Regardless, they moved on quickly.  

And so, I retired without event to my balcony to sip Thera-flu and smoke this cigar. I do so in clear violation of the hotel’s “no smoking” rules, the warnings on the Thera-flu pack, as well as general decency and common sense. If I am discovered dead in the morning wearing nothing but my undies with this note as my epitaph, I do truly love you, darling. And I recommend the soft serve.