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Our Expectations Are All Out of Whack

Home delivery of liquor on my bicycle in Brooklyn when I was 17 years old, provided a teachable moment which has stayed with me my entire adult life. I walked into my house after four hours of peddling all around my neighborhood, carrying hard liquor for desperate alcoholics. Trust me, it made me grow up fast. My dad, who was rarely home early in the evening, asked me why I had that look of dread on my face. I told him that I had worked hard that evening for next to nothing in tips. My dad, who was very familiar with working for tips, reminded me that I was providing a service to customers who would learn to trust me and be able to rely on me in the future. He assured me that once that happened, the tips would come. He also said that I should learn to never expect a tip. He reminded me that the customer was paying for the product and that the delivery was included in the price. Tipping was not obligatory; therefore, whatever tips I received were an extra bonus and that the amount was entirely up to the customer. He said that I should be grateful to receive anything at all. My father was my guru; any advice was sage advice.

I ended up doing very well at the liquor store. I went on to work for tips at other times in my life; always recalling my father’s wise words. Humility goes a long way when one is performing a service. The bigger lesson here is that expectations are too often unrealistic and sometimes lead to disappointment. This has been a lifelong lesson. I’m not sure if it’s my hard head or sensitive nature, but it has been one of my greatest challenges.

People

My expectations of people have always been way too high and unrealistic. Starting with family, I won’t list my many disappointments because it will only cause anger and resentment toward me. I have learned that most people do not want to hear what you really think. Instead, let me say that these days, my expectations are very low except for one individual whom I know would step up to the plate should I need urgent care. I’ve discovered just how self-absorbed and judgmental family members can be. If I’m going to be honest, there are very few family members I would consider taking in.

Close friends I have known almost my entire life are in a different category. My expectations are high and will remain high. The bond created over years of life’s travails, makes for frank conversation, trust, and loyalty. Expectations are a given; break the trust and the friendship is gone. Unfortunately, I have lost two close friends in recent years over trust issues. One of these friends revealed an unacceptable truth about her hatred toward Muslims and the other took me for granted. Walking away from toxic people is necessary; I have no regrets. Relationships are not always meant to last forever.

Moving overseas has shifted my expectations of strangers. Portuguese people have been kind and warm toward me. Culture and my openness have played a role.

Places

Of all aspects of my life, adapting to new environments has been the easiest. Growing up in Coney Island is probably the main reason, anything after CI was an improvement. The amusement park which once attracted millions, was in decay and losing its allure when I was a child. I have always sought out a better place to live and my instinct has never failed me. Hence, one aspect of my life where expectations for improvement have been met. I think it’s almost better to start low and work your way up; although to be fair, there are parts of the world far worse than Coney Island. In fact, CI is currently going through a period of revival.

Travel is a category where I go from extremely delighted to overwhelmingly disappointed. My expectations have always been far reaching; the case of a big imagination versus lackluster reality. The one good thing that has come from this truth, is the appreciation of home. I can’t complain, I’ve been all around the globe and as a result, I have seen more than most and I have no regrets. I firmly believe that exposure to other parts of the world and other cultures, helps to better understand humankind; our faith, our understanding of how we are connected to the earth and each other, and how we see the future. My expectations for a better future are changing daily and not in a good way. I fear greed, climate change, and diminishing resources. I think humankind’s finest moment has passed. It makes me sad and of course, I hope I’m wrong.

Things

Material things hold less significance for me as I get older. My expectation for the length of time “things” should last has decreased. Appliances are not made to last anymore and technology is always evolving, making devices obsolete after a short period of time. When I moved to Portugal, I realized how easy it is to replace stuff — sometimes with even better stuff. I try not to get too attached to things. Artificial Intelligence will factor heavily in the future, but I do not fear it. I’m hopeful that we will find a way to use it to our advantage and to rein it in when necessary.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month); a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States sometime in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I can now fly direct from Faro to Newark, thanks to a new United route. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025 — it sails from Tel Aviv, (as I suspected it would be, this cruise has been canceled. I’m looking at other options, this time out of Lisbon; convenient and no airfare). I had little to no expectations; therefore, I am not disappointed.

State-of-Mind

When you live in a place with over 300 days of sunshine a year, rain becomes glorious; at least for me. We’re getting some much needed rain this week and I love it. Also, the kids are not in school for a couple of weeks, therefore, the neighborhood is deliciously quiet. I have this “guy” thing that applies to fixing things; I fixed it so that my new computer is synched with my printer/scanner. It only took four hours, but I’m patting myself on the back as I type. When it comes to technology, my expectations are extremely low. To my credit, I try everything before seeking help.

I’m currently hosting friends from the States. We are making memories.

Note from last week’s blog: I learned that electric buses beep when they are coming and going, so that people will hear them because they are so much quieter than gas powered buses. Oh well, good to know, but I still hate it. I feel the same way about the beeping sound you hear when trucks are backing up.

“You are your own worst enemy. If you can learn to stop expecting impossible perfection, in yourself and others, you may find the happiness that has always eluded you.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

Please excuse typographical and/or grammatical errors. I promise you they occur quite by accident.

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Too Close For Comfort

A near miss that changed my life

I can still see the terror in her eyes. She was young, frightened, and eight months pregnant. I’m as guilty as anyone in that I take near misses for granted. But there is one thing that I will never take for granted and that is the night I came within inches of a head-on collision with a very pregnant woman.

My sister Debbie and I have always been close. Just one year apart and many domestic battles won and lost. We share 99.9% of the same chromosomes and a similar sense of humor. When we are breathing the same air and we find something funny, we laugh until snot covers our faces. This has always and will always be the way we are together. I honestly believe there is no other human who gets me the way she does. Trust is everything if you are to allow yourself to be vulnerable. Our defenses disappear when we are together.

It was a very rainy January night in North Carolina. I was home from University for the weekend and Debbie and I needed to get away from our annoying stepfather. His smoking and drinking was always extreme and our appetite for his nonsense on this particular evening was nil. Without knowing a thing about the impending weather, we ran out of the house and jumped into my Chevy Nova. The rain was heavy and it was chilly, but North Carolina temps rarely went below freezing. We were so pleased that we’d gotten away, we were giddy. “Where do you wanna go?” Debbie asked as she shook off the rain. I replied, “I need BBQ.”

Heavy rain battered the windshield; and the radio was turned way up. We drove on a long stretch of roadway known for speedsters. About halfway to the restaurant, the music was interrupted by an emergency announcement: a cold front was due to arrive at any moment and a deep freeze was expected. I had only arrived in North Carolina months before and I had never experienced a southern deep freeze. Debbie said, “I don’t think it will affect Salisbury. I’m sure it will be worse at the coast;” I shrugged it off.

What happened next was so surreal, I still can’t really wrap my head around it. Within seconds, everything froze. My car began to swerve and we laughed. Clearly others had heard the warning and stayed off the roads. I cannot recall having even an ounce of fear or concern (a problem when you’re young). Debbie seemed to take it in stride and it felt like a very slippery joyride. I recall pointing to frozen solid telephone lines and lampposts, amazed at how thick the ice was. We found ourselves in an unexpected and unwelcome winter wonderland; nearly gliding on the ice.

Debbie was so tickled by the circumstances, she screamed gleefully. Her laughter as always was contagious; so much so my belly hurt. Suddenly our silly joy was interrupted by a jolt; the car spun out of control. I tried turning the steering wheel to the left and right, with no luck; pressing the brake pedal only made it worse. We spun numerous times before finally finding ourselves headed in the wrong direction with a car coming straight for us. I panicked and Debbie screamed. We were not slowing down and I was certain we were going to have a head-on collision. I slammed on the brakes and we spun again, this time sliding inches away from the car we were headed for. I looked out and saw that there was a young woman slumped over in the driver´s seat. I got out of my car and tentatively approached her vehicle. I noticed she was draped over the steering wheel and weeping uncontrollably. I was concerned that she was hurt. I knocked on her window with my knuckles and she looked up. It was then that I noticed that she was extremely pregnant.

She opened her door, stepped out of her car and through her tears, asked if I was okay. I said, I’m fine, are you okay? She said she was okay, but admitted to being a bit shocked; she was shaking badly. I told her that my car had spun out of control and that we ended up on the wrong side of the road. She expressed her relief that we had not collided and I adamantly agreed. She told me that she was about eight months pregnant and on her way to pick up her husband from work. She had also not heard anything about the ice storm. This all happened way before cell phones. Being that the temps were below freezing and there were no other cars in sight, the only thing we could do was to get back in our cars and drive away slowly.

When I returned to my car my sister was sitting very still. When she finally spoke she asked if the other driver was okay. I told her everything and she started crying. The whole ordeal shook us to our core. I told her that we needed to head home and she nodded. I don’t like thinking about what could have happened, but that’s where my mind goes — perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I still don’t know for certain that she returned home safely; I certainly hope she did.

______________________________________________

My driving was never the same after this incident. I’m more careful about weather conditions, I’m more cautious behind the wheel, and my Uber app gets a lot of use. Oh, and I live in a place that never has ice or snow.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month); a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States sometime in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I can now fly direct from Faro to Newark, thanks to a new United route. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025 — it sails from Tel Aviv, so it’s a bit uncertain. It includes parts of Turkey and Egypt I have not yet explored.

State-of-Mind

Do you ever have anxiety or tension and you have no idea why? I woke up distracted and detached on Sunday. I decided to go out on the terrace and clean up my plant beds — tearing out weeds, repotting, turning up soil; it cleared my head like nobody’s business. It was exactly what I needed to do in order to feel better.

I have a new laptop with a Portuguese keyboard, making blogging a slow and painful process. I thought if I wrote less I would be okay — didn´t happen; neither happened. Time.

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Coming to Terms With Aging

Update along with additional content to 2018 blog

Could be me in 10 years

I tackled this blog topic five years ago; shortly after my relocation to Portugal. At that time my life was in a state of upheaval: the shutting down of my consulting business for an early, unplanned retirement, selling my home and leaving Maine, buying in a foreign country, saying goodbye to friends and family, losing Giorgio (my pet), financial instability, Trump’s America, and approaching 60. In general, gay men struggle with aging. The idea that my body was changing and that I was no longer a young man, hit me hard. My anxiety level and life’s uncertainties are reflected in my writing back in 2018. When I look back on my journal entries and my blog, I wonder if I could ever replicate that kind of strength; I was running on high octane. Today I am stable, secure in my decision to reside in Portugal, career averse, and feeling very much alive at 64. A look back and an update:

You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide

When I made the decision to leave the States:  my friends, my family, and my home; I also made the decision to leave some baggage behind. I’m not ashamed to say I have baggage; I’m fairly certain that all adults have baggage and lots of it. Coming to terms with getting older and losing my youth has been one of the most difficult challenges of my life. As with so many other things I write about, I know others share my angst.

I decided a while back that rather than ignore the inner turmoil around aging, I would face those feelings head on. I challenged myself to look in the mirror when I preferred looking away, to light heartedly tug on the sagging skin under my chin, to grab and hold onto my growing love handles; by doing this, I am fully embracing every imperfection. In truth, they are only imperfections because I identify them as such. I am learning that it is much healthier to just accept my aging body. To admire every line and to see the aches and brown spots as a reminder that I have lived a life. Not so easy. Often I take two steps forward and three steps back. I know that it’s a process and I am determined to conquer this challenge. I welcome your thoughts on the subject.

Update: Going to the gym five or six days a week is a very positive experience. My gym in Faro has a diverse clientele; all nationalities, ages and sizes. People are extremely friendly and save for the very young, I feel seen and accepted. Although I ache all over — not the case when I moved to Portugal, I mostly feel really good. I have accepted my aging body and I do what I can to stay healthy.

Quick story: there is this Portuguese guy at the gym whom I only know as a gym acquaintance. The day Trump lost in 2020, he approached me while working out on a machine, voice raised and veins popping from his neck. This is just some of what he said, “You must be happy now that Biden won the election. Maybe this guy will give you what you want. I don’t know why you people need your own fucking parade anyway. You make me sick.” I see him at the gym almost everyday. That which doesn’t kill you . . .

My new Mediterranean diet consisting of a healthy breakfast, a substantial lunch and a dinner snack (about a third of what I used to consume for dinner), is helping to keep my weight down. I sleep better because my belly is no longer full at bedtime. I have found that my body rhythms respond best to an early bedtime and early wake-up pattern. It also helps when I drink less alcohol in the evening. I find an occasional cocktail (twice a week), and a maximum of two glasses of wine, prevents the alcohol from interfering with sleep. It helps that my daily life is more stable and that the stresses of a career and a life partner are no longer factors. Having a healthy pet and a beautiful home, also contribute to a better life. But mostly it has to do with the work I have done in “cleaning up” my act. Getting rid of unhealthy relationships, accepting who I am despite my limitations, worrying less, and being grateful for what I have and where I landed.

Men are from Mars . . .

I don’t think it is sexist or stereotyping to state that this aging gracefully challenge is greater for women and gay men. Western society places a great deal of pressure on these two groups to stay young — the goal being to remain desirable. You have an inner ego voice urging you to walk into a room and be noticed. When this stops happening, and it stopped for me over 20 years ago, you begin to feel less than.

There are things I have done to convince myself that I am still young and vital. One of them is something many men with means do, gay or straight, and that is to buy a shiny new sports car. I’ve done this more than once and although it does actually help make you believe you are young and fetching, trust me, it doesn’t last. Another thing I have done is to shop and purchase clothing that is suited for a younger man. I actually wore skinny jeans for a few months last year, a truth I am not proud to admit. Thank goodness I came to my senses by summer. Why didn’t anyone tell me that it was very wrong? (This was five years ago, but still). I know that my friends and family members are reluctant to share their thoughts in fear of hurting my feelings or facing a defensive me — I assure you that I’d rather be gently slapped into a more appropriate conscious state.

When I Started Feeling the Effects of Aging (again 5 years ago)

I’m getting very close to being 60, so it may be difficult to recall when I started to feel the effects of aging. I remember when my hair started thinning and receding in college, I became very concerned about baldness. Although embracing baldness seems to be more prevalent these days, clearly society and the media place a huge emphasis on a full head of hair. When a person is described as someone who is getting older and letting themselves go, “fat and bald” are usually adjectives used in that description. If you yourself are bald, that seems somewhat derogatory. Now I know there are women out there that will say that they find baldness in men attractive. I believe that to be true because women are much less concerned with physical attractiveness and more concerned with character and other attributes — sorry for the generalization, but that’s been my experience (it’s what women tell me). And you gay men know what I’m talking about. Just go to a gay resort and you’ll see what I mean. Many men cover up their bald heads in shame or surround themselves with eye candy in order to feel better about themselves.

Then there is the “fat” part of that “fat and bald” description. We all know that it is more difficult to keep weight off when you’re older. Some reach a point in their lives when they can afford a nicer bottle of wine and a thick steak and then find themselves having to cut back on these things because they negatively affect their health; not just their appearance, but their overall health. I don’t have to tell you about heart attack rates, stroke, diabetes and other weight related illnesses. At a certain age you begin to think about the future and your quality of life.

Loss (new)

I lost a good friend this year; the first person I came out to and an individual I have loved and admired for over 40 years. Watching Angela succumb to cancer was difficult. She was always youthful and optimistic; a fighter until the end. Our fathers were both born in Puglia, Italy; my father adored her. Angela’s death has helped me to appreciate life.

As you get older, the losses begin to pile up: parents, friends, former lovers, former classmates, and celebrities you felt you knew and grew up with. Grieving is not easy; however, there is so much one can learn from the process. I’m not a religious man, but I do feel the presence of those I have lost all around me. They are cheering me on, boosting me up, giving me the strength to carry on with grace.

Slowing Down the Process

There are a number of people in my life who believe they have discovered the formula for keeping aging at bay. They take 23 supplements at various times of the day, they eat only fresh vegetables they personally witnessed being plucked from the ground; no bread, no carbs, no meat, no alcohol, no life! And then of course it is essential that they share their healthy lifestyle with us and convince us that they know better . . . “Well the experts said so.” I have always said that if I learned today that I would live five years longer if I never ate bread again, I would eat bread and die a happy fella.

“What helps with aging is serious cognition – thinking and understanding. You have to truly grasp that everybody ages. Everybody dies. There is no turning back the clock. So the question in life becomes: What are you going to do while you’re here?”

— Goldie Hawn

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Future Travel

Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, Iceland, Scotland, Norway land & sea in May, and Oslo, July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025; more about that some other time — it sails from Tel Aviv. I know you may not see it, but this is a much lighter travel schedule than the past.

Current State of Mind

I’m excited to spend Christmas with a good friend and her family in Lyon. I consider myself a very fortunate fella.

I normally hate photos of myself, but I looked at this one and thought: okay, this looks like me and I don’t mind it. Seven surgeries (not cosmetic), a couple of car accidents, a few tough break-ups, years of working with difficult people, the passing of several siblings and friends, and I’m still here.

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Missing in Italy

A personal story I posted several years ago — many of my readers have not read about this nightmare from my past. Sometimes I shake my head wondering: did this really happen?

Alma graduation photograph from their website (not ICA class)

I’ve waited for quite awhile to tell this story. It’s a rather sensitive matter, therefore, I will use fictitious names to protect those involved. There are people in this story who were supportive, sympathetic, and brave and then there are the rest. I should start by saying that the entire matter was surreal. As I went through the motions and experienced it, I felt as though I was on the set of a film shoot; none of it seemed real, and all of it bizarre. What I know for certain, is that it happened and it changed me.

Searching for a Needle in an Italian Haystack

It was an ordinary day at The International Culinary Center (ICC) in New York City when I received the call. At the time, I was School Director and Dean of Student Affairs. The year was the early 2000s. I had worked with others to create an Italian cooking training program in Italy. Students would start their training at ICC and then travel to Alma in Colorno, Italy for the final six weeks of their training. I had traveled to Colorno (by way of Milan) several times. Our relationship with the staff in Italy was solid and the student experience was exceptional. I was proud to be a part of a very unique cooking school experience. Most of the students were in the 20s and 30s; very mature and focused.

We did several rotations a year and enrollment was better than expected. I was the administrator-in-charge of the program; however, there were over ten faculty and staff members doing the real work of executing the experience. The cost of the complete course was close to $50,000 and because half of it was overseas, there were many moving parts. My father was born in Italy; in many ways, it felt as if I had come full-circle in my Italian heritage. While I worked with others to create the program, I learned a lot about regional Italian cooking, its rich history, and I got to try every dish taught. In addition, I was a proud judge during finals in Italy, on several occasions.

Francesca (her real name) was my contact person at Alma. What we were about to experience created a bond and lifelong friendship born out of a terrifying situation. Francesca’s call about one of our students in Italy, continues to make me anxious all these years later. There are deeply felt emotions that are never lost and never leave us.

“Chris, I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to worry too much.”

My body tensed and I stayed quiet and I listened.

“One of your ICA (at that time we called the program Italian Culinary Academy) students has disappeared.”

Francesca was not an alarmist and she took care of nearly any incident on the Alma campus, so I knew this was serious. Sal was gone for two days and no one had heard from him. His passport and toothbrush were still in his room and there appeared to be no foul play. Administrators at both schools agreed that he had probably met a girl and he was with her on a sun drenched beach. Sal’s friends and classmates didn’t believe that was the case and this caused great concern. Apparently, there were witnesses to an argument outside of a bar the night before he’d gone missing; in fact, the last time Sal was seen. The argument was between Sal and several locals. Some students speculated that the argument was over a Russian girl from the bar, but no one was certain. Francesca and I agreed that Sal’s parents should be informed. She was also going to call the Colorno carabinieri (local police).

I quickly booked a flight to Milan, packed a small bag, and headed for JFK. Alma had a car pick me up in Milan and I attempted to rest my eyes and calm my brain on the 2.5 hour drive to Colorno. It had been 16 hours since hearing from Francesca and by this time, I imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. Growing up in Brooklyn during the 60s and 70s made me tough, street smart, and terribly jaded. Film and murder mysteries didn’t help.

Riccardo (head of the school, also his real name) and Francesca met me at the school when I arrived. There was no news from Sal and everyone was thinking the worst. Sal’s parents were on their way from the States and Francesca was arranging their accommodations. Jet lag was helping make a bad situation untenable; my thoughts toggling between despair about what might have happened to Sal and dread concerning meeting his parents. A living nightmare and nowhere to hide.

Francesca drove me to the police station for a conversation regarding next steps. I sat with several carabinieri officers asking every question I could think of. Francesca was interpreting for me and I could tell she was exhausted and worried. The carabinieri would not confirm or deny a street argument or that there might have been a Russian girl involved.

After hours at the police station and talking with students, I headed for my hotel room to close my eyes. Francesca agreed to contact me with any news.

There was one particular bar not far from the school that was popular with the American students attending Alma. Colorno is a very small town and everyone knows everyone. There were rumors among the students a number of Russian woman were available for hire and that Sal might have owed money to one of the handlers of these woman. Administrators at Alma seemed genuinely surprised to hear that prostitution was taking place under their noses. My mind took me to dark place; imagining Sal buried six feet underground somewhere outside of Colorno.

Sal’s parents arrived the evening of my first day, however, they did not show up on campus until the following morning. By then, I had slept a few hours and I was more prepared to meet with them. Alma was very sympathetic to their anxiety and did everything possible to make them comfortable. Looking back, I was actually quite surprised by their calm and decorum. They too spent time with the local police. They also took several students close to Sal for lunch and tried to better understand where he might be.

At some point at the end of our first full day, we all met to discuss what we might do next — parents intentionally left out. Alma seemed reluctant to contact the press, for fear the school’s reputation might be harmed. I believe we were secretly hoping Sal would turn up on campus behaving as if he’d done nothing wrong.

As time passed, the street argument became more of a factor; all involved were called in and questioned by the police. The carabinieri were convinced that there was no there, there. I started to feel as if there might be a cover-up and Sal’s parents were skeptical as well. Although his parents and I were in communication throughout the day during early days of the incident, I felt fairly distant from them; detached. They were understandably frustrated, tired, and concerned.

On the fourth day, none of us believed Sal would just reappear. If he had run away with a girl or decided to bail from the program, he would have taken his passport at the very least. We were all fairly certain foul play of some sort had taken place. The Italian state police were brought in after Alma’s administration began to feel as if the local police were not doing enough. Word got out to the press and just about every local and regional news outlet was covering the disappearance. When word got out that an American student was missing and there was speculation that the Russian mafia might have been involved, a search party was dispatched and the rivers and lakes in the area were dredged. I silently hoped Sal would call us to say that he’d see the reports of his disappearance and wanted to let us know that he was fine and that he was sorry for all of the trouble he’d caused. That didn’t happen, but all I had was hope.

I wasn’t sleeping very well and couldn’t help thinking that this would probably be the last class studying at Alma. One incident, completely unrelated to the cooking experience could threaten the viability of a program we worked on for two years. The pubic relations machine at both schools was working hard to highlight how positive the Alma experience was and that this was an unfortunate one-off situation. Sal’s parents were angry that the Italian police and government were not doing more to locate their son; we were mindful that they alone could potentially raise enough concern to shut us down.

His parents decided that a trip to the American Embassy in Milan might help get the Italian government to take this more seriously. I regretfully volunteered to drive them to the embassy. They sat together in the back seat; Sal’s father consoling his mother most of the way to Milan. Over two hours in a vehicle with someone crying hysterically is not easy for the person at the wheel. I didn’t say much for fear of saying the wrong thing. I tried my best to be supportive and reassuring. I didn’t think the people at the embassy would help, but it wasn’t my son who was missing.

When we got to the embassy it was a well-guarded fortress. I dropped them off as close as I could get to the entrance and parked the car. Just as I arrived they were being escorted in. The guards told me that only the parents would be allowed. I called for Sal’s father and he walked over and apologized. He knew that I would be staying in Milan that night and flying back to the States the next morning. It had been a full week since Sal had gone missing and there was nothing more I could do in Italy. Sal’s father agreed to call me if they needed anything and we said our goodbyes. I felt very sorry for Sal’s parents and I was exhausted.

I recall making a call to Gary (real name), ICA’s president, that afternoon and becoming emotional on the phone. The fear of learning that a dead body was found was becoming more and more real. Gary, as always, was extremely supportive and grateful. He and the rest of the staff at ICC were hoping for the best. He asked me to remain calm and to get home safely. The administration at Alma was also very supportive and assured me that they would do everything possible to find Sal. I flew back to the States the next morning.

Time passed and still no word from Sal. His parents stayed in Italy for a couple of weeks and then returned home when hope of finding him had diminished. They became angry, resentful, and blamed both schools for gross negligence. They claimed that we had placed their son in an unsafe environment. Sal’s brother publicly posted a scathing letter, claiming the school was completely negligent. Threats of a lawsuit were being bandied about. The students in Italy had gone on with their studies hoping to complete the program. I had all but given up hope.

Graduation at Alma was scheduled a few weeks out; I knew it would be best for be to return and attend. When I arrived on campus, the students, whom I had stayed in contact with, greeted me warmly. They all assured me that the ICC was not to blame for Sal’s disappearance. We all wondered if this great mystery would ever be solved. I met with the local and state police for an update — there was none. Still much speculation that there was foul play, however, the guilty party or parties, had not revealed themselves. I returned to New York having lost quite a few pounds and feeling like I’d let a lot of people down.

Thanksgiving came and went. Each day brought less talk of Sal’s whereabouts. My emotions had gone from remorse to sadness to anger; acceptance was not within reach. Then, out of nowhere, shorty before Christmas, a call from Francesca in Italy, Sal had been located. He had joined the French Foreign Legion. Apparently, when you join, you leave behind the material world and those you once cared about; some join to escape their lives. Sal somehow managed to slip a note with his parents telephone Number to an Asian guy who was leaving the Legion and had agreed to make a call. It was the best Christmas gift of my life.

There are several takeaways from this life event that are forever etched in my brain. First, Sal’s family never apologized for their treatment of the two schools. They blamed us for Sal’s disappearance for months and when he turned up, not one of them came forward to acknowledge they were unfair and had hurt several good people. Lastly, when Sal left the French Foreign Legion he did not contact me to explain himself, apologize or thank me or the ICC for trying to find him. Oddly, I didn’t care. It bothered others at the school and it made several people in my life angry, but I had something far more important to me, I had peace-of-mind and Christmas that unfortunate year.

Disclaimer: This incident occurred over ten years ago, therefore, I cannot swear by every detail outlined in my accounting of the story. Due to the seriousness of the situation and my own personal involvement, I can only vouch for my own recollection of what took place.

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Future Travel

Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025; it’s about time I visit the birthplace of my father.

Current State-of Mind

Just back from Basel, Switzerland. Three days were perfect. It’s a beautiful city, offering magnificent architecture, excellent museums and galleries, good eating options, easy to navigate transportation and only 2.5 hours by air from Faro. Transport from the airport to the city center by shuttle bus in 20 minutes (leaves airport every 10 minutes). Be prepared to spend some money, Switzerland is pricey. If you go, Steinenschanze Stadthotel was excellent and affordable. If you spend more time there, the city borders France for other travel options. Several other countries are close by.

I seldom return from vacations feeling rested and rejuvenated; Basel was a perfect city getaway.

Please forgive any grammatical or typographical errors. No AI software used in the creation of this blog.

Posted on by CP · 2 Comments

Righteous Rants Get You Nowhere

A Periodic Reminder (to myself)

This blog is not meant for anyone else but me. I’m making notes for future reference. Righteous behavior, righteous thoughts, righteous finger pointing; all harmful to one’s health and well-being. I figure if I consider it and write about it, it might someday actually stick. I’m taking bets, anyone interested?

righteous*

adjective

*morally right or justifiable.”feelings of righteous indignation about pay and conditions” Oxford Languages

If you think that someone behaves or lives in a way that is morally good, you can say that they are righteous. People sometimes use righteousness to express their disapproval when they think someone is only behaving in this way so that others will admire or support them. Collins COBUILD

Example: One morning this week, I was walking Paco and a man and his unleashed dog were walking toward us. I politely asked him if he would leash his dog (there are signs everywhere in the park). We are not in a controlled environment and Paco is not always friendly when dogs run up to greet him. The man told me his dog was friendly and I replied, “My dog is not always friendly.” He ignored me and kept his dog off-leash. I had to keep myself from chasing and threatening him. Paco has never bitten another dog, but when aggression begins, it can go in several unwanted directions. Herein lies the problem:

This guy doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Paco or his reaction. His dog weighed a good 80 pounds more than my 8 pound pooch. So he’s probably annoyed with me for about 10 seconds as he continues to defy the law and my wishes. I, on the other hand, carried the anger around for hours, days even. So who is right and who is wrong and does it matter in the long run?

How Do You Know When You’re Being/Feeling/Thinking in a Righteous Way?

Oh this will be a fun list to create:

  • When your blood instantly starts to boil
  • When you can’t see straight
  • When you write an angry text, press send and immediately regret it
  • When a friend calls and tells you to take down a post
  • When punching your pillow gives you no satisfaction or even breaking a dish against the wall
  • When you keep thinking, “But I’m right, doesn’t that count for something?”
  • When you start screaming while driving your car because you think no one can hear you
  • When you are wide awake at 3:00 a.m. thinking about something someone said to you three days earlier
  • When you find yourself spending more and more time alone
  • When something that happened 10 or 20 years ago is still occupying your thoughts

What Can You Do About it?

This question is more difficult for me than it might be for others; I am mighty righteous. I’ve had a lot of practice when it comes to dealing with righteous thoughts and actions. The following are some of the things I’ve done — a combination of successful and unsuccessful coping mechanisms:

  • Take a step back, breathe, and wait
  • Ask an objective party to evaluate your scenario and advise you
  • Let it go and keep it gone
  • Do some research on the topic and then act to address the problem
  • Escape. Leave the house. Leave town. Get away from your everyday life.
  • Read
  • Meditate
  • Find a positive way to relay your thoughts. For example: a friend of mine carries extra poop bags and when she sees someone leaving their dog poop, she walks over and hands them a bag. She usually adds, “I thought you might need this or did you forget this?” Brilliant.
  • Therapy or life coach (both have helped me navigate through life)
  • Think through the pros and cons of acting on your rage
  • Journal entries where you purge the anger and live it on the page (or blog)
  • Sometimes you just have to tell someone to go f*^k themselves

I do believe personal freedom is important and right; however, when people infringe on my freedom or space, that sets me off.

Finding Your North Star (your center)

The absolute best thing you can ever do is make peace with whatever or whomever is causing you to feel anxious and/or angry. It may mean apologizing even if you’re right. I don’t want to be “that guy.” You know that guy, the one who climbs onto his or her soap box so often everyone stops listening. I used to follow a couple of liberals on social media. I thought they had some great things to say about our current state of affairs. Things quickly changed when they went too far left and you know what happens, people stop listening; I stop listening.

My List

The kinds of things I get all righteous about on a daily basis:

  • People trying to sell you on religion
  • Motorcyclists revving up there engines and/or riding without a muffler
  • People who do not pick-up their dog poop
  • People who refuse to recycle
  • People who try to overtake you in traffic or bully their way to the front of the line
  • People who try to top you when your sharing something (i.e., my accident was worse than yours or my illness is worse)
  • Individuals who cheat and then try to justify it
  • People who lie to your face and know that they are lying
  • People who underpay their workers or cheat them out of their pay
  • People who block traffic by double parking
  • People who throw trash on the ground
  • People who complain about the government and do not vote
  • People who vote for candidates just because someone in their family (or a friend) tells them to
  • People who hate on others because whatever it is someone else is doing goes against their religion or personal values
  • People who accept invitations for parties/dinners/events, but never reciprocate
  • People who refuse to communicate because they cannot tolerate any level of conflict
  • Individuals who always think that we should laugh at their stupid, inappropriate jokes
  • Individuals who for one reason or another, think they are better than anyone else

I could keep going, but it’s making me anxious. This should help you understand why I live alone.

Side Note: I have always been jealous of individuals who seem completely unaffected by an injustice they may have witnessed or experienced. I wonder if they are so healthy that they can clear their minds of any thoughts related to what they experienced or if they can sort it out quickly and move on. Either way it is admirable, but not usually the way things go for me. Two questions loom large: 1) Are they telling the truth about their response? and 2) Is it healthy to be unaffected?

My theme song from La Cage aux Folles: I am What I Am

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zreTvtpTeoU Gloria Gaynor

At this point in my life I don’t see that POV changing: righteous, stubborn, obstinate, cranky, opinionated, emotional, critical, and big hearted. I’m not defending who I am; just stating a fact. Then of course there is the nature vs. nurture question — that’s for another day.

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Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025.

Current State-of Mind

Milder weather has arrived to the Algarve. My spirits are lifted when the air has a slight chill and a cool breeze is blowing — perhaps even some rain in the near future. I’m sure you can always ascertain from my very telling blogs, that I’m going through some sort of existential crisis. Jotting down my thoughts and tumultuous feelings, helps me to sort it out — I highly recommend it as a tool for peace-of-mind. Either writing or moderate drinking, both work.

I’d love to hear from you on this topic. Please forgive any grammatical or typographical errors.

Posted on by CP · 10 Comments

My Last Night With Anthony

I only wish I’d known my brother would soon leave us

Anthony was super sensitive, troubled, and a danger to himself. He was also extremely supportive and people couldn’t help loving him. He was born two years after me in Brooklyn, at a time when behavioral and psychological issues went undiagnosed. Anthony wasn’t lock-him-up crazy, but he wasn’t meant to be left to his own devices either. I knew my brother struggled, but I had my own shit to deal with growing up. Our broken home was not the best environment for personal instability. As if by random selection, I thrived in our shared dysfunction, my brother did not. Anthony was only 38 when a fatal dose of heroin took his life. He apparently had an enlarged heart as a result of years of cocaine abuse. The coroner documented his death as an accident — we’ll never know for sure. This is the story of our last night together.

I was turning 40 and finally somewhat satisfied with the direction of my life. A career that was progressing nicely, a completed Ph.D., a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn that was all mine, and for the most part, acceptance of my sexual orientation. I was ready to celebrate. I planned a big party at a friend’s Manhattan, Park Avenue penthouse. I hired chefs, entertainment, and invited nearly 100 of my closest friends and family. I had already come out as gay, but this was more like coming out as having survived my youth. I prepared a speech for the occasion where I would let those who cared about me know how much they meant to me. Anthony flew to New York from North Carolina. I was too busy during the day of my party to spend any time with him; I told him I’d see him at my party.

By the time he arrived, the party was in full swing. He walked over to me at some point, sullen and resembling death. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, I’d seen him in despair many times in our lives. He suffered from severe depression and his marriage had recently ended. I hugged him and promised him that at some point during the evening, we’d have some quality time. We passed one another several times throughout the night. I asked him to stick around for my speech because there was something I wanted him to hear.

My sister Kathy approached me during the party chaos. She told me that she knew I was busy, but she was worried about Anthony. I recall saying something like, “Aren’t we always worried about Anthony?” A failed suicide attempt in his teens left us all forever on edge. I assured her that I’d check in on him before he flew back to North Carolina. It was a big night for me and my focus was on other things.

I gave my speech and referred to him as my brother and best friend. I was hoping that would cheer him up; it did make him smile, but clearly he was in a dark place. He’d been clean and sober for a long time and I was concerned that he might be so despondent he’d start using again. Anyone who has dealt with depression will tell you that the attempt to help someone is not always met with an embrace.

Anthony stayed till the end of the party and helped me load my gifts into the car. He had an early morning flight, but he seemed eager to speak to me about something on his mind. He had a history of placing me in the center of challenging times in his life. At one point in his early twenties I found him emaciated and close to death in his North Carolina apartment. There were empty heroine vials and used needles everywhere. I carried him out to my car and drove him to a rehab facility in Charlotte. He stayed for the three week treatment and remained clean (as far as I knew) until a short period prior to his death. He traveled the country speaking to young people about addiction and his journey to a better life — a healthier life. He often credited me with saving him, although I never wanted that responsibility. It was my mother who begged me to go to his apartment on the day I found him. By then, I was close to giving up on him. Rehabilitation, meeting a woman he fell in love with, and then having a beautiful baby girl, all led to stability and some semblance of happiness. Until it all came crashing down. Back to the night we unknowingly said goodbye forever.

After loading the car, we drove to Brooklyn and went to a diner to talk. Anthony wept and shared his disappointment about a marriage that had fallen apart and the knowledge that his six year old daughter would no longer be a part of his daily life. He was devastated and blamed himself for all of it. I listened and tried my best to be supportive. His tendency toward violence and extreme anger made it difficult to absolve him of any blame. Considering his state of mind, this was not the time to chide him for his bad behavior. I liked and respected his wife, but I also felt that she had in some way brought it on — I’m certain some of those feelings came from being a protective brother; I knew the triggers that brought out the worst in Anthony. 

Hours of talk painfully passed as the sun eventually showed through the filthy diner windows. I began hearing some softening of Anthony’s sobs and a small amount of relief. His flight was due to take off soon and I needed to get him to the airport. We were both spent and weary. I was deeply concerned about Anthony’s state-of-mind, but I needed sleep. We had been there before and I knew this time we had together would only be a bandaid. 

When we arrived curbside at departures, I stepped out of the car to hug my brother. As he wept in my arms, I recall telling him that he could come and stay with me anytime. I asked him to call me when he got home and he nodded and left me with a hint of a smile. I was relieved that the night was over as I drove away. This was the last time I saw my brother. He called me several times before overdosing/heart failure in July. After his death, I asked myself if there was anything more that I could have done. The answer of course is yes, there is always more one could have done, but I’m certain that there was nothing I could have done that would have prevented his death. His last call to me was a few days before he took to the streets to find heroin. He was deeply depressed, however, that was par for the course. I know that it was Anthony’s lifelong struggle with depression and addiction that killed him. Those of us who loved him may have at times eased his pain a bit, but none of us could have prevented his death. His struggle and friendship will inspire and haunt me until I die.

____________________________________

If you are struggling with a loved one who suffers from depression, there is no formula for helping them survive. Love, counseling, mental health programs, the sharing of resources, and the support of everyone around you can hopefully get you both through this devastating reality.

Anthony is sitting next to me on the sofa. My guess is that he was a year old in this photo and I was three. In the second photo, we were in North Carolina sometime in the early 80s.

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Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. My sister Debbie and her husband Lynn, will be joining me on a visit to our father’s birthplace in the Puglia region of Italy in 2025.

Current State-of Mind

These last few weeks in Faro have been a gift. Lots of quiet time for reflection and rest. I have once again decided to steer clear of toxic individuals — I say once again because I occasionally lose perspective and use poor judgment; I needed a good jolt. It’s impossible to rid yourself of all who cause you grief; however, you can limit the number by being proactive. Taking the high road is always the best path. Healthy disagreement is good, but not always possible; therefore, when it’s not an option, walk away. Anthony and others I have lost remind me of how fleeting life is.

____________________________________

News: I have been waiting for the following (it will be a deciding factor in my remaining in Portugal):

After a long battle, Portugal passed a law on Friday legalizing euthanasia for people in great suffering and with incurable diseases, joining just a handful of countries around the world (wikipedia). Bravo!

Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

Posted on by CP

I Thought it Was the Scotch She Wanted (repost 2020)

17 years old, naive and eager to please. Pimping myself out on the streets of Brooklyn for tips and a piece of pie. No I was not a rent boy, I delivered booze by bicycle.

Before you judge me, keep reading. I claimed to be 18 years old, but I’m pretty certain Mr. Park knew I was lying. Back in the 70s you could sell and drink liquor at age 18. Back then, there were a lot of things I could do that I cannot do now. I wasn’t quite 18, but I would be soon enough . . . I wanted the job badly. I altered my baptismal certificate by changing 1959 to 1958 — one little numerical change. Desperate measures, I was moving out of the house and I would have rent and college tuition to pay. Mr. Park, who was a liquor store owner, said he’d give me a chance to prove myself; however, he’d made it clear that one slip-up and it was over. I am certain he was fully aware of my actual age. Deception on both sides. There would be no slip-ups; well, none he would know about.

The neighborhood liquor store was across the street from the subway station and although not hidden, it was somehow safe territory for the local alcoholics. The Park’s were Korean, very friendly, and way smarter than the rest of us. I recall Mrs. Park schooling her husband on how to talk to customers. I pretended not to understand, but I was intrigued by their culture and language, and at times, I felt more a part of their family than my own. And to be truly honest, the meals they brought me were delicious. Hence why I eat Korean food whenever and wherever I can find it.

My job was to stock the shelves and make deliveries. Having delivered groceries in the neighborhood for two years, I knew the streets and the people fairly well. I was the kid from that huge family on Marlborough Road. I was polite, shy, and fortunate to have inherited my father’s charm. In early days, I kept my head down and my mouth shut (I have obviously changed). I was surprised to learn how many customers wanted booze delivered to their door. I imagine some people didn’t want to be seen going in and out of the liquor store on a regular basis; others just didn’t want to carry the bottles home. Still others, I came to learn, were clearly shit-faced when I arrived with their refill. I would imagine some started the evening thinking they’d just have a shot and ended up clearing out their liquor cabinet. I encountered a good deal of binge drinking and abuse, not of me, the alcohol. This could very well be the reason I’ve never been a big drinker.

There were a few characters I delivered to several times a week and others, nightly. The only day we were closed, was Sunday. Trust me, if it wasn’t against the law in New York State to sell from a liquor store on Sunday, we would have been open. Thinking back, it didn’t make sense that you could open a bar and not a liquor store. There was this one customer, I’ll call him Mr. Taylor, Mr. Taylor ordered a bottle of Smirnoff vodka every night of the week. He was very quiet and always tipped me 50 cents (often a 50 cent piece). I suspect he was a raging alcoholic and afraid that if he ordered more than one bottle, he’d drink it all. I’m not judging, but that’s a lot of vodka. I worked at the liquor store for several years and Mr. Taylor seldom if ever, missed a delivery. Then there was Miss Greene. Miss Greene opened the door wide enough to stick her hand out, grab the vodka, pass me two dimes and then close the door. The stench from her apartment always made me a bit dizzy. After a year of delivering to Miss Greene on a regular basis, she offered me money to do her a monumental favor. More about that later.

There were these two very friendly men who lived in the same apartment, but they were never there at the same time. One of the two flirted with me quite a bit and once even answered the door wrapped in a bath towel. I looked up, but avoided direct eye contact. He was a big tipper, his partner was not. I always hoped the flirty one would be there to accept the delivery, unfortunately it was mostly the bad tipper who usually showed up at the door. There was clearly either trouble in paradise or they had an open relationship, I’ll never know the truth.

I had dozens of regulars, but I think it was the Flannagan’s I most enjoyed. Very few customers invited me in. With most, niceties and a quick handoff was the norm. The Flanagan’s were different. This Irish couple considered me part of the family. There was usually a snack offered up and always a sweet kiss from Mrs. Flanagan. They were in their sixties, frequently laughing and carrying on and genuinely interested in my day. I knew they drank a lot because I kept inventory. They loved scotch, but oddly only Mr. Flanagan smelled of alcohol; Mrs. Flanagan smelled sweet (over 40 years ago and I can almost recall her scent). Mrs. Flanagan always answered the door. Mr. Flanagan was usually in his Easyboy. I remember seeing him fairly bruised-up a few times; he’d clearly fallen, inebriated and broken most of the time. Sometimes there was a third person, usually a man, always drunk. I would be introduced as “the son.” Keep in mind this all took place in the matter of minutes, I always had other deliveries to make. I knew when they’d cashed their social security check because my tip was always doubled.

As months went by it became clear to me that Mrs. Flanagan was developing quite a crush; her lips often lingered on my cheek and her hands sometimes wandered to my chest. I would squirm away from her clutches thinking it was all very innocent; however, there was one time when she went too far. On this particular delivery, Mrs. Flanagan was more pissed than usual. It might have been during the Christmas holidays, as if she needed an excuse to imbibe. She came around her kitchen table and moved toward me. I backed myself up against the wall and put my hands up in front of me. She pushed herself on me quickly and before I could stop her, her tongue worked its way down my throat and she started grinding her hips into my groin area. Mr. Flanagan warned her to back off, but she persisted. I did not say a word, pushed her off of me and ran out, this time without a tip.

I waited days for the Flanagan’s to place an order. I didn’t feel threatened by Mrs. Flanagan because I was clearly stronger and I knew I could resist her advances. I did feel guilty. I thought that perhaps I had led her to believe that I wanted her affection. When the door opened, it was Mr. Flanagan standing there with cash in hand. He said hello and quickly passed the money to me. I started to reach into my pocket to give him change and he replied, “Keep it,” he then closed the door in my face. I didn’t see or hear Mrs. Flanagan that day. The tip was five and change; way larger than usual. Future deliveries to the Flanagan’s were mostly transactional. Mrs. Flanagan usually came to the door; kisses and invitations to enter were a thing of the past. I was both relieved and saddened by the state of affairs. I guess that $5 tip was guilt money.

I would often return from a delivery later than usual and the Parks would want to know why it took so long. Mrs. Park especially loved gossip and she’d try to squeeze information about our customers out of me. I made it a game. I’d be cagey at first, tease her a bit, let some time go by, perhaps a couple of deliveries, and then when I’d see she was about to explode from anticipation, I’d share a bit; perhaps what a customer’s apartment was like or who answered the door, Mrs. Park was jealous that I got to see a small part of their customers’ lives. I never did tell the Parks about Mrs. Flanagan, that was my secret, never to be told — until now that is.

I never did learn the first names of most of my customers. I guess an invisible wall existed between them and me. I supplied them their poison and they were grateful, but protective; grateful for my service, but protective of their privacy. So I rode my delivery bicycle through pounding rain, freezing wind, and heavy snow and they rewarded me handsomely. I made enough money part-time to pay rent and utilities, buy groceries, and save for tuition. Of all the events that shaped my experience for those couple of years, the time I spent with Miss Greene outside of her apartment was the most memorable.

Miss Greene suffered from severe agoraphobia. The idea of leaving her apartment terrified her and made her a prisoner in her own home. When she asked me to take her to the bank I had no idea that she was struggling with this affliction; nor did I know what I was in for. She offered me $20 which was surprising because she was a terrible tipper. I picked her up after school, eager to get the deed done.

I must admit I was pretty cavalier about the whole thing. I honestly thought it would all be over in 30 minutes and I’d be picking out a new sweatshirt at Korvettes (department store now out-of-business). When I got to her door it was slightly ajar, which was never the case. She had on make-up which I found shocking, and a long heavy overcoat; it was early June and fairly warm. She asked for my arm and told me that she had called car service. When she grabbed my arm, I noticed her nails were long and dirty. I had to remind myself that I had a good tip coming. Miss Greene was shaking from head to toe, her lips quivered, and her nails were tearing at my skin. The walk down the two flights of stairs took over 20 minutes and at times, I was fairly certain she was going to collapse. I was strong, but I feared she’d fall and I wouldn’t be able to pick her up. When we got to the front door of the building she began to gently weep. I offered words of encouragement. I honestly wasn’t sure we could pull this off, in fact, I was certain we would not.

The car service driver noticed our struggle and came toward us to offer a hand. Miss Greene clutched onto me even harder and wouldn’t look at the driver. I winked at him and he seemed to understand. He asked me if Miss Greene was my grandmother and I told him that she was — I believe at that moment, she could have been my grandmother. We made it into the car. Miss Greene remained quiet and stared down at her feet. I cannot describe my feelings as all this was going down. I was filled with dread, fear, and pride. I worried for her; her fear was visceral and she seemed so tiny. The pride I was feeling had to do with the trust she had in me. I was only 18 years old, but on that day I was a man.

From start to finish, it took two hours to get the task done. The bank manager agreed to allow us to remain in the bank after closing. Everyone around us seemed to understand her pain. Up until that point in my life, I’m not sure I had witnessed that kind of empathy. The day did not get easier for Miss Greene. When we got to her door she was drenched in sweat and clearly spent. I lowered her onto her sofa, repulsed by the horrible smell in her apartment. Her sister peeked out of the bedroom door and retreated when I saw her. Miss Greene thanked me and gave me $40. It was the largest tip I ever received from one of my customers. I tried to refuse it, but it was important to her that I take it. I knew that I would never be the same. My arm remained black and blue for a week, but my pity for Miss Greene stayed with me a good deal longer. I kept my deed secret for a long time, never sharing what I had done with the Parks. When I arrived late for work that afternoon, I lied and said that I was held up at school. I felt no guilt, only sadness. Miss Greene continued to order vodka and increased her tip from 20 cents to a quarter. Her demeanor never changed and she never mentioned our afternoon at the bank. I have thought of her often since that day. I imagine her liver must have failed her at some point. I wondered which one of them went first, her or her sister, perhaps mercifully they died at the same time. I also wonder how many Miss Greenes wake up a prisoner in their own homes each day. My problems seem so small in comparison.

When I see a young person working, I imagine they might be learning the kind of life lessons I learned working for the Parks. I think, good for them, and I’m grateful for having had the experience.

Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Several grammatical errors were corrected.

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 “Summer is the annual permission slip to be lazy. To do nothing and have it count for something. To lie in the grass and count the stars. To sit on a branch and study the clouds.”  ~ Regina Brett

Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. My sister Debbie and her husband Lynn, will be joining me on a visit to our father’s birthplace in the Puglia region of Italy in 2025.

Current State-of Mind

Refreshed, grateful and hopeful. That which doesn’t kill you . . .

Reposts for new readers and when I’ve had a busy week. With well over 200 posts, I have lots to choose from. Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

Posted on by CP · 4 Comments

Saying Goodbye to Mom (repost)

I held my mother’s icy cold hand and I whispered, “You can go now mom.”

Mom and me. I know, I’m working that stache
I apologize for the blurry photo. My non-digital photos are all in storage. I’m reposting this blog because it’s therapeutic for me to revisit the end of my mother’s life. It was extremely difficult and I’m only now beginning to forgive myself.

“Why don’t you feel good about this? Wasn’t it the kindest thing to do?” If my intention was to have my mother pass in order to end her suffering, that would have been kind; however, that was not my intention. In truth, I thought it was wrong to keep her hooked up to a respirator and I knew she’d try to hang on for as long as she could; mom was fiercely stubborn. We had a complicated relationship and I was tired of the drama; I was done. Before you start hating me, I’d like you to consider a few facts. For one, my mother had been in and out of hospital for several years and near death numerous times. She was resuscitated and even though she told my stepfather that she did not want to be, he went ahead and ordered it anyway. She had not completed the paperwork in hospital, no surprise to me or my siblings. When I say that my relationship with my mother was complicated, I believe an explanation is warranted. In many ways, throughout my youth and twenties, I was the parent. My mother was a heavy smoker (even during her pregnancies), a gambler, cheated on my father, a thief (insurance fraud and groceries to name two), and she did psychological damage to all four of her daughters. Three out of four of my sisters had eating disorders due to my mother’s unhealthy weight obsession. I was constantly reminding her about the hazards of smoking, begging her to cut back; also to slow down the gambling, and to see a therapist in order to deal with her self-inflicted pain. So when I said, You can go now mom, it was after many years of shame and disappointment, as well as a strong belief that modern medicine was prolonging the inevitable. Some people will say that I judged her harshly; others will say that it does not matter how awful she was, I should not speak ill of her. You can be certain that my living siblings would attest to my account of our upbringing and the chaos she rained upon us as adults.

How I handle my grief and remorse is my choice.

When she was alive she would actually say, “I know you’re going to write a book about me when I die.” That was her way of telling me to wait. The irony is that I loved her. When family members would scorn her, I would jump to her defense. But deep down I believed that she was selfish, disingenuous, and should probably not have given birth to children. True, she had an abusive father and she got pregnant when she was 16 years old, but that does not excuse the poor mothering; she knew better. I’m certain she knew better.

Future Travel

Scotland very soon — Glasgow, Oban and several islands off the coast; a brief September trip to Basel Switzerland, followed by Dubai, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and Hong Kong in late September and October; South Africa in early 2024.

Current State of Mind

Mellow, very mellow. It was sweltering hot and then we had the most glorious, cool, breezy day on Friday. It felt good to be alive.

Mom always made Christmas special
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What If?

What if we could truly believe in ourselves?

Spring Equals Renewal and Change

Our mind is a glorious thing; tricky, complicated, and untapped. We are born thinking that everything and anything is possible, but as we grow older, the world and people around us teach us to limit our hopes and dreams to the just barely attainable. Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we do this to one another? Why do parents tell their children that their dreams are unrealistic and/or silly? Is it jealousy? Resentment? If I can’t have it you can’t have it? Can we who are highly motivated overcome it?

Human beings are extremely complex creatures, making answering these questions near impossible. However, that’s not a bad thing; mystery, questioning, wondering — it’s all good. And the short answer to the last question, is a resounding yes.

The desires for oneself that I’m talking about here can be dreams, but they might also be what you are expecting to accomplish in your life; normal everyday expectations or big longterm plans.

To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go, to right the unrightable wrong, to love pure and chaste from afar, to try when your arms are too weary, to reach the unreachable star. This is my quest, to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause. And I know if I’ll only be true to this glorious quest that my heart will be peaceful and calm when I’m laid to my rest.
Joe Darion

Stretching Your Imagination

I’ve been working on this for a long time. I don’t have all the answers, but I thought it might be helpful to share some of the tools from my toolbox with you; oversimplified psychobabble, but an effective metaphor.

  • Write down what you hope to accomplish. When you put it on paper, you’re one step closer to reality.
  • Picture what you hope for in your mind. Repeat, rinse, repeat.
  • Tell people about your wishes. Be careful not to be pretentious or lofty.
  • Be inspired by what others have to say about goals and objectives.
  • Set goals and objections with no limitations. Add specific details for “how” and “when” later.
  • If you are a parent, tell your children that they can achieve anything they work hard to achieve.
  • Climb to the highest peak you can find (be alone or with someone who won’t mind your behavior). When you’ve reached the top scream what you want out loud several times. Listen to your own words and follow your heart.
  • Ignore the noise all around you — the “I wouldn’t do that if I were you nonsense.”
  • Staying power is everything, don’t let go no matter the obstacles.
  • Celebrate every hurdle.
  • Success in achieving your goals is a healthy elixir. Let it become a welcome habit.

I refuse to use the word manifest. We sometimes latch onto a word or phrase and allow it to become cliché.

I am aware that nothing that I share is new or something you haven’t heard before; however, I am also aware that a reminder is never a bad thing. Also, sometimes the same thing said differently, sticks.

Upcoming Travel

I will be returning to Manchester & Liverpool, England April 5. Following that, a brief return to Nantes and Pornic, France. Then Marseilles in June, and Glasgow/Oban, Scotland in July. Dubai and four countries in Asia this October/November. Land and sea tour of South Africa, February 2024.

People sometimes ask me why I visit the places I travel to:

  1. I have never been and have always wanted to go.
  2. I have been and I enjoyed it so much I want to return. It’s usually the food that draws me in.
  3. I am visiting a friend or family member(s).

I Had a Dream Last Night

Last night I had a dream that Paco (my pooch) and I went on vacation. The place we visited was dog friendly and they were in every household; most ran loose in the streets. There were many dogs who looked just like Paco. Briefly after arriving wherever it was that I was visiting, Paco somehow got loose and wandered off. Another dog that looked like Paco ended up at my door. I was extremely upset, but people kept telling me that I shouldn’t be upset because I had a small blond dog and that’s all that mattered. I wouldn’t and couldn’t let it go. I walked the streets shouting his name (Ruffino in my dream). I spotted a large pack of dogs running in another direction; Paco’s red harness stood out. I called out: “Ruffino come to daddy (I think his name was Ruffino because I’d been longing for good pizza all week).” He stopped and looked at me and then kept going. I managed to nab him. It was a bittersweet ending, I’m afraid. I woke up feeling that I was keeping Paco locked up in our home, when what he really wants is to be free with other dogs. That guilt only lasted a few minutes. Oh how the mind works.

Thank you for reading my ramblings.

Let’s Get Started!

I took this photo on a hike in Colorado recently. There were too many people around for me to scream out my hopes and dreams for the future; I did the next best thing, I screamed it in my head and you know what, it worked just as well. Limitations are made-up roadblocks we tear down or ignore.

Post Publishing:

A wise friend wrote to me about fear after I published my blog yesterday. Fear is probably the number one reason that people abandon their goals/dreams. I write about fear in an earlier blog. I also omitted money as a consideration. I’ve had some time to think about both of these obstacles and I like where I have rested on this. Anyone who knows me can tell you that fear is not usually a concern for me. Right or wrong, I often charge into situations without much consideration for whether or not I will fail or be hurt in the process of pursuit. As for the other, I was born in poverty. My family didn’t have much money and we didn’t talk about money as an obstacle to fulfilling life goals. I guess in retrospect that is a testament to both my parents. They instilled the, “If you want it, you should go for it attitude.” I still feel that way. Why not try and see what happens.

Positive intentions and thoughts equals positive outcomes; yes please.

Posted on by CP · 2 Comments

My Baby Sister

My sister Debbie 2nd to last on the right

I consider myself quite the fortunate one in many ways, but I got especially lucky when my baby sister Debbie came into the world.

Debbie at a year old, I was two

If you currently do not have a baby sister, I suggest you go and find one.

Debs as I affectionately call her, was born one year and 10 days after me. I can’t say I remember the day she was brought home, but I know for certain I was happy. I had two older sisters who were taking good care of me, but I needed a playmate and Debs fit the bill. I know most brothers and sisters have a unique bond, however, what made ours different was the hostile environment we were raised in and how we supported one another . . . and still do. Having one another as an anchor has served us well throughout our lives.

As a toddler, I enjoyed dolls and cooktop toys more than baseballs and bats; Debs had no problem sharing. She was easy going and doughy eyed. I think the thumb sucking calmed her down. She was teased a lot for it, especially by our mom. That part still makes me angry.

Our elementary school classrooms were next to one another for several years. I witnessed her teacher verbally abusing her and I told my mom about it. My mother was a lot of things I did not appreciate, but she was fiercely protective of her children. She went down to the school and reported the teacher and had my sister’s classroom changed. I was proud of her for that.

We were so close growing up that people would mistake us for fraternal twins. As her older brother, it was my responsibility to keep the boys away. Debs never resented me for it; she knew I wanted the best for her. She was shy during her teenage years and sensitive about all things personal. I loved the way she looked up to me.

I was in a very bad car accident when I was 18 years old. When my mom brought me home from hospital, Debbie walked into the house, saw me and wept hysterically. I believe she was imagining what it might have been like if she’d lost me. I sometimes wake up in a bad state from nightmares where something terrible happens to her; I guess we have similar fears of loss. Allow me to stress the happy times.

When she met her husband Lynn, she struck gold. The guy (pictured with sunglasses below) is a gosh darned saint. Together they had two beautiful children: Nicole and James. They’ve been nurturing and loving parents and they have always included Uncle Chris in all of their kids’ milestones. Nicole now has twins, Stella and Ben, and it’s been a joy to watch them grow. As a gay single man, having a family that I consider my own, is a true gift. It’s been fun observing my sister with her grandchildren; she’s affectionate and sweet. And her best quality, she’s always laughing.

Debbie, Lynn and my nephew James are very close. James is a career officer in the Air Force. James is also a talented musician; I suspect this is where his passion lies. Being an uncle is a privileged position in a family. It allows you to experience all the good bits without the inner family drama. I love my sister and her family dearly; however, this is often drama. My guess is that all of the trials and tribulations and relationship dynamics, add up to a very deep bond. As an outsider, that’s the part I don’t get to be a part of. That reality has it’s upside.

One Beautiful Memory

Debbie had just given birth to Nicole. It was her first and the whole family was excited. I had returned home from University to meet my new niece. I walked into my mother’s house and Debbie handed Nicole to me without saying a word. She was only days old and wrapped in a snuggly blanket. I brought her into another room to privately marvel at her beauty. I thought, this magnificent child is a part of me and she will be until I die. I must have had some insight into the roles Nicole and James would play in my life; how family is the most important thing we have and how the intimacy of family is everything.

[Subscribing is free folks! And not all of my blogs are sappy.]

Debbie and her husband Lynn came to see me in Portugal a few months ago; we had a blast. Appropriate “spicy” sign to her left.

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Upcoming Travel

Fort Lauderdale (Deerfield Beach) next week, then Nantes and Pornic, France, Liverpool, England, and Marseilles — Nantes and Pornic are happening on the same trip, over a four day period. Other holidays planned later in the year. Biggest trip of 2023 will be Dubai, Singapore, Vietnam, Thailand, and Hong Kong — end of October to mid-November.