Jazz Singer

The room is so small I sleep with my duffle.

The apartment rent was up so I'm in El Centro until my plane leaves. Working Wi-Fi and cable TV with Spanish dubbed stations except one playing a concert.

Clean, classic ensemble jazz with a young woman fronting.

Women jazz singers are sexy. Her voice is low and smoky and I'm hooked. Got to have her CD.

NYC and I was 19. Safe bunk, free tickets to Broadway, and girls were willing to dance. I had just enough cash to act a fool.

Saturday morning I caught the train to Rockaway Beach. Opposite side, three seats to my right there was a young lady my age who had long hair the color of polished teak and eyes that were sun sparkled Mediterranean.

She made to get off the train and looked my way. I did what most 19 year old guys do when confronted with radiance – froze. She smiled.

I'm annoyed because the camera is panning the rest of the ensemble as each soloist runs his riffs. Young guys with old school chops. The singer is just feeling the music. No finger snapping dance. She's melody.

All jazz people are all melody.

They run the highways to get to the side roads. Coltrane, Monk, Davis, Byrd, Mulligan and the rest of the greats explored the smallest trails not caring where they went or if you followed.

This jazz singer doesn't notice her visual statement and when she sings again, the lyrics exude sensuality because she feels it.

I made it to the beach still seeing her in my head. This obscured the smells, tastes, and joy of toes in the ocean. Obnoxious people everywhere. Busted day but I had found love.

Scheming back in my room I realized that there was only one way to find her again. With no idea of what to say if I got lucky, I set off. Next day. Same train full of hope of the heart.

The singer says in French and English that she's a Russian native and came to Canada by way of Israel.. Clues but no name.

Amazon is open and my One Click poised to order her CD. The band grooves again and I am mesmerized.

Fearful of missing the credits I sit then pace (all of three feet) eyes to TV, thinking that, at the end, they must say her name. The singer introduces each of the six musicians for deserved applause but she won't tell me who SHE is. Neither does the program.

I consider leaving the station on full of hope that her concert will re-run but don't do that.

The subway train, for a month, moved with hopeful me aboard. Scanning females who resembled that once vivid memory of dark red hair, glittering blue eyes, and a genuine smile.

After so many years.

Paroxysm and Curiosities

I came late to the Catholic faith and fell in love with the mass. No matter the language in which it is spoken the ritual touches me.

The cathedral across from Calderon Park is the one I like best. The door is always open. Every weekend these guys pictured entertain tourists and locals with haunting Andes music in front of the church wall. The acoustic bounce is brilliant.

As I happened by, though, They played the melodies from Paul McCartney's "Yesterday", and, perhaps in homage to St. Patrick, "Danny Boy". Wonderful tunes that go straight to my nostalgic heart.

I turned the corner and entered the church. Mass just ended so I knelt in a pew about midway down the long aisle. A nun's choir sang the angelic recessional music. In fact, about half the congregation was religious orders.

Tingling with emotion I am muttering some Our Father's and Hail Mary's and asking God to make me less of a fool. One of the passing nuns, as tall standing as I am kneeling, gently touches my shoulder and whispers "Vaya Con Dios".

That does it. My face starts raining in convulsive sobs. I try, in vain, to control this unmanly display. My heart just won't have it though!

Finally the church is empty and I walk the aisle out, emptying my pockets of all the Susan B. Anthony's I have into the hand of the tiny, wizened Indigena who sits at the doorway. The nun who stopped for me is talking to the priest. She glances up, smiles at me and waves.

View from 14000 feet

Past the treeline. The continental divide is there. The three crosses represent nature - earth air water (I think but doesn't that seem logical to you?) This is on the Inca trail that passes from the coast to Cuenca through the Andes. The larger one leads to Macchu Pichu and all that. It was a trade route. The rocks were brought with the traveler to lay at the crosses. I asked Gustavo about the really big ones. He doubted that they were carried. We had a good laugh while gasping for air. The oxygen level was 40% less than normal. For the first time in my life I used a hiking stick. Thank goodness I packed light.

Would you rather go down or up? I can tell you which one I prefer.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meter part 1

Signed up for an art tour. We boarded the “short” bus. I acted a caballero and let the women go first. That left me and an older lesbian couple (that's what they told me) in the back. Except for a grumpy old guy dragged by his wife and Juan, the driver, I was the only dude.

Seats filled for this two hour tour that began at 3pm but the wheels rolled at 3:45.

A two hour tour.

Art tours are for gringos with cash. The first, Pablo Cordero, is a traditional ceramicist. Cool to see the process. I asked my seatmate what she thought and she told me “it sucks”.

Then into the hills for Eduardo Vega who is eccentric. He said he would be there but wasn't. His work is superb and, if I had a house that needed filling, it would be with his stuff – including dinnerware.

It's raining. The girls stop for a group picture despite the mottled view. Juan expertly wrestles the bus into position despite the hazards. About a dozen of them jump out to prance and giggle. We back seaters exchange eye rolls.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 2

A quarter to 5. The agenda was Vega's workshop then an artist who does BIG metal and wood sculptures that you see in parks and airports. But first, we retreated a few miles to pick up one of the ladies who could not make it to the starting time and place. Nice of us.

That put us into rush hour so we skipped Vega's workshop. Our back seat group sighed relief. 6:10 and we're at a stoplight for 15 minutes in front of the museum where we started. Flowing estrogen, aroma therapy. No Chardonnay thank God.. I was going to throw up. Since another bus was blocking us I grabbed my jacket and backpack. Margaret and her partner asked if I was bailing. I said hell yes.

They smiled. The tour cost $15 but I gave the guide a twenty and told her to give the extra to Juan. Door open, fresh air, street noise. I smiled and descended toward that beautiful river and my shelter.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 3

Next morning early. Guilty about the reason I left that excursion because I was brought up by women, I have been married to a couple of them, and I have daughters for whom I would die. So I hike to a place sympatico.

8:30 AM. Cheap food and massive quantity. Burritos, tacos, chorizo, eggs – manly eats. Mix of gringos and locals. Happy hour begins at 8 AM with 2 for 1 beers and bloody Marys. Rugby, not tennis, basketball, or even soccer is on the TV. Rugby. I like that. An Australian walks in and says “Ahhh....the usual suspects!” We raise our glasses and call for a Fosters which they don't have so Pilsener Grande it is.