Papagni Pages

Category: Stories to Share

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

    Enter email address for a free subscription — dropped in your inbox whenever blog is published.

    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.

  • 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.

  • 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

  • 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.

  • 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.

    _________________________________________________________

    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.

  • One Dog’s POV

    Author: Paco Papagni

    I want to be clear that I’m writing this to set the record straight; not for recognition or because I have nothing better to do. Dogs have historically contributed more to humankind than we are given credit for; we all have a story. My name is Paco and I belong to Chris. I don’t like the “belong” verb, but it’s better than “owned by” or “property of.”

    More than three years ago I was abandoned and left for dead in a wooded area in Estoi, Portugal. There is not much I can say about my former owners, except that they are pond scum who had no business taking me into their home in the first place. I had a chip that was never registered. I suspect my mother was a stray who either lived on the derelict property or wandered close to it by mistake when she was pregnant with me and my siblings. Some of this is me filling in the gaps — it was a difficult introduction to the world and I’ve blocked the bad bits out.

    I’m four years old (that’s a guess) and I’ve survived a lifetime of trauma already. After being left to fend for myself in a place where rats, wild dogs, poisonous insects, and who knows what else, thrive; I kept myself alive and I’m ready to tell you how it all went down. Please don’t feel sorry for me, I’m a dog, having a survival instinct is my secret weapon. It’s a world where humans rule and some of us pets get to help make their lives more livable — our sole purpose. Where, how and when this pairing-up situation plays out, is purely random. We know this at birth, even before we learn to speak.

    There are things about me that made it somewhat easier to be paired with a human: I am blond, my hair is as soft as cotton, I am tiny, and my eyes are soulful. I only know these things about myself because others have told me. I’ve heard stories of ugly dogs being put down because nobody wanted them. I knew I was not of that variety very early on — this explains why I prance when I walk. I know who I am.

    Still, I was literally thrown into a dire situation and before I could even try to find my person, I had to survive despicable humans and the wrath of nature. I awoke before the sun one morning not long after I was cast out into the wild. Small parasites discovered I was a host without protection. They attached themselves to my body and left me defenseless against their harmful pathogens. As a result, I became weak and unable to hunt for food. I feared my mother and siblings were far away and the wooded brush was my only blanket. Days and weeks passed and I became quite delirious — a state I was grateful for . . . for obvious reasons.

    Weeks after the start of my affliction, I wandered onto a dirt road; a shipping container used as a house in the distance. Although it was a cold and rainy December day, I could smell a dog who may have been guarding the property. I approached the container hoping I would be seen or smelled. Hours passed as I shivered in the storm, breathing what I was fairly certain were my final breaths. Nearby voices woke me from my stupor and warm hands scooped me up from the side of the road. Two humans gently lifted me up and carried me to their home. The dog I’d smelled earlier kept trying to attack, although he did not know I was not a threat. I was weak, wet, and tired, and these humans thankfully kept this dog away from me. They tried to feed me, but eating was impossible. My instincts told me that this illness had made it certain that I would perish. All I wanted was to sleep.

    A night passed and the humans took me to a place they thought might help. I was starving, thin, weak, and my breathing was labored. A gentle woman examined me and told the couple that there were tests she could do to determine why I was dying. The kind humans had no money, therefore, the best they could do was take me home and hope for the best. In the meantime, they spread the word that they had found me hoping to locate my owner — that would never happen. Some humans view us as expendable.

    It must have been difficult to keep that other dog away from me because the humans seemed anxious all the time. They also mentioned taking me to the doctor, but they didn’t have the means. Someone who lived nearby told them that there was a local American man on Facebook looking for a dog in need of a home. This person said that he couldn’t come to meet me for two weeks, but she seemed to think that he would want me and that he’d be able to take me to the doctor. Knowing that I might soon have a forever home made me feel a little better. I started to eat a little and I know that I slept most of the time. The Scots, I believe they were Scots, had named me Whisper and I thought that sounded sort of lame. Still, I knew that I should be grateful.

    Time passed slowly and I started to believe that I might die before this man came to meet me. One day one of the Scots answered the phone and it was Chris, the American they’d heard about. They told me that he’d be there to meet me later that day. At least I think that’s what they said.

    Indeed, a car pulled into the driveway and two tall men and a woman got out. They seemed excited to see me and each of them held me in their arms. They were nice humans. I knew which one was Chris right away, because when he held me tears ran down his face and he kissed me about twenty times. I was pretty grungy from living in the woods, so I was a bit embarrassed. Before they left me, Chris said he would be back for me and I believed him. The Scots seemed relieved and happy, so was I.

    I’m not 100% certain this part is true, but I seem to recall that my first owners (the scum) spoke Portuguese. When I was rescued by the Scots on the road by their house, they spoke funny; it might have been English. I was grateful that they’d found me, but I couldn’t understand anything they said. Then when Chris came to get me, I was pretty certain he spoke English. His words in the beginning made him sound angry, but I later learned that he was from Brooklyn and I’ve overheard his friends tease him about that; apparently Italian Brooklyn men sometimes come off as gruff. He’s a big guy so he can be intimidating. It doesn’t really matter, I understand everything now.

    Chris took me to a doctor the day he brought me home. Maria (vet) told him I had a serious viral infection and that because I was so weak and my red blood count low, I might not make it. She said I was about 11 months old. Maria said she would do what she could to make me well. Chris’ friend Michele removed all the matted parts of my coat and gave me a bath. Being that I was matted everywhere, she had to remove most of it, but I didn’t mind. I already knew I was one of the fortunate ones.

    My dad is a good human for the most part. I think he travels way too much and he often seems to get upset about how slow things move in Portugal. I know that no human or animal for that matter, is perfect, so I forgive him. The other thing he does that I wish he wouldn’t do, is fool with this little cellular thing. He’s constantly pushing on it and is talking to it and it mumbles back to him. I think he may be more in love with that thing than he is me, but again, nobody’s perfect.

    It’s been three years now. Early on we had this government enforced stay at home restriction called a lockdown and it was just Chris and I, all day every day, for a long time — this happened twice. I liked that time with Chris. We would go outside and the streets would be empty. There is a dog park near our apartment and we would go there to run around. Everything was still and it was peaceful. I hoped it would last forever, but it didn’t.

    I’ve been deathly ill several times. Aside from that killer virus I had when they found me, I’ve had an operable tumor on my paw, bronchitis I caught from a stray that came close to ending me, and one time we even had to go to a hospital in the middle of the night because I was having trouble breathing. Chris cries whenever I’m very sick. I wish that I could tell him that I’ll be okay and that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever leave our home; it’s warm, quiet, and has a lot of soft surfaces. I have a bowl full of toys I play with everyday. I eat really well and apparently the doctor says that even though I could have died from that tick bite in the woods, I am now 100% healthy.

    This was during lockdown. Chris talks to with a silly voice sometimes.

    Things can get a bit crazy on our street. Two weeks ago a dog that I used to play with, Loki, was attacked by a big dog who got loose from his owner. The dog broke Loki’s spine in several places and he died; the owner was bitten as well. Some dog’s instincts tell them to attack, I was born to comfort. I’m sad about Loki because I know his owner would have prevented the attack if he could. I know Chris would be very sad if that had happened to me; we’re both extra careful now. All animals, including humans, are unpredictable.

    I have a friend, Patricia, who stays with me whenever Chris leaves town. She has a dog named Petucha; she’s like a sister (see photo below). Petucha lives across the street, so I get to see her a lot. I’m glad she doesn’t live with us, I like things just the way they are.

    I think I might be the happiest dog alive. There are only two things I truly need in my life: treats and Chris, in that order. My dad tells me he loves me a lot; even though I can’t say the words, I let him know, in my own way, that I love him too. Blond and tiny or not, I know that I’m a pretty lucky dog. Lastly, Chris renamed me Paco the day he brought me home; my new name suits me just fine.

    Patucha and me on my terrace

  • Three Friends, Three Cities, Three Very Different Experiences

    Friendships are a true gift, but they aren’t always easy and they should never be taken for granted. As with all relationships, you have to nurture them. I have three male friends I have known for a combined total of close to 100 years. These men are different in many ways; they do not know one another; I love all three for different reasons. When I spend time with each of them, I have a totally different experience.

    I spoke with them separately about spending some bro time together; in two cases without their female spouses. They all three agreed to see me for quality time we may not have shared otherwise. All three have agreed to my public blog. My goal is to illustrate in words and pictures, how each person in our lives provides us with something unique and necessary — as necessary as the air we breathe.

    No Two Friendships are Alike

    I learned early in life, that friendship cannot be easily explained. A person may appear one day as if placed down by a divine hand and the next thing you know, you are the best of friends. What makes this connection different? Everything. Trust, security, loyalty, companionship, confidant, active listener, great dining partner, a shoulder to cry on, understanding, a history, strength, support, and so on. My friendships with these three men consist of all of the above and more. I thank them for sticking with me and by me; I congratulate myself for doing the work necessary to cultivate good friendships. I have other men and women in my life that I love and adore, but I limited this piece to Adam, David, and Don because they are the three I planned various parts of this trip with.

    Men

    All three are exceptional men. I have never had more than a friendship with any of them. They have seen me through the best of times and the worst of times; I hope they feel the same way about me, I’m fairly certain they do. What I think makes this situation somewhat unique is several things: first, only one of them is gay, but our sexual orientation is not what binds us; second, the three only know of one another through me, and lastly, they each provide support and love in very different ways. I know how fortunate I am; however, laying it out helps me to understand why the work we put into relationships is worth the effort. I’m a firm believer that most of us take way too much for granted (including me).

    I believe that most people would agree that men are vastly different from women in many ways. I’m being cautious here as to not offend either sex. For the purpose of this piece, I’d like to note my observations (not absolutes):

    • Men leave a great deal unsaid.
    • Men are a bit uneasy when discussing how they feel.
    • Men are fairly competitive with one another.
    • Men believe they are physically stronger than women, but there are times I would have to disagree.
    • When men are into a sports event, very few things can/do distract them.
    • Straight men are stubborn about asking for directions when lost.
    • Gay men are particularly nostalgic.
    • Gay men and straight men usually enjoy very different types of music.
    • When a straight man is forced to be with someone or do something they’d rather not do, you will live to regret it in one way or another.
    • Gay men talk about being gay, straight men do not talk about being straight.
    • Men, gay or straight, prefer to be behind the wheel, as opposed to sitting in the passenger seat.
    • I have never heard a straight man utter the words, “thread count.”
    • Gay men tend to care more about fabric, wall color, and furniture.
    • Straight men do not moisturize.

    Don’t beat me up over my impressions and experiences.

    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    —Robert Jordan

    All over the world when you test men and women for facial cue recognition, women test…better. It’s a negotiation tool.
    —Michael Gurian

    Adam

    Adam and Toronto were my first stop. I didn’t really give Adam a city choice; I was trying out a new direct flight from Faro to Toronto. I had only been to Toronto once and I have always wanted to return. I proposed a few days with me in Toronto and Adam said yes. I wasn’t surprised, we’ve been close friends for a long time.

    I met Adam at the James Beard House in New York City in the 90s. We sat next to one another at a table of foodies; Adam was by far the foodiest. When he talks about food and wine his eyes sparkle and he becomes charmingly animated. I knew I could learn a lot from him. I invited him to L’Ecole at the French Culinary Institute and we became fast friends. He eventually asked me to be his Best Man. His wife is one of my favorite people and his children are two of the finest humans I know. Adam considers me part of his family and I am thrilled to have that distinguished place in his life. He is smart, worldly, empathetic, and he accepts me for who I am.

    Adam is a planner. Being like minded about researching a place before you travel there is something we delight in. He sent me a long list of possible eateries and told me that each of them was negotiable save one. There was a restaurant he decided was a must and getting in during our time in Toronto was going to be challenging. I must confess that I never doubted his abilities for even a nano of a second. He got us in. Knowing it was a bit more than I would usually spend on a meal, he offered to treat. Adam is one of my most generous friends.

    Rather than name specific places we visited or talk about dishes we ate, I’d rather share the dynamics of my relationship with this very special man.

    I feel fortunate because not all straight men can get close to gay men. We all know why these limitations and challenges exist; therefore, I will spare you the psychology of all that. I will also point out that I am not easy to be friends with. I am demanding; I can be selfish; I often run my mouth endlessly and expect you to listen to every word I say; I can be controlling, fussy, and I sometimes lack empathy. So when someone (Adam) decides despite all of those obstacles and challenges, they still desire my company, I’m game.

    Adam is a practicing Jew. I have had the pleasure of Passover meals with him and his family. I also attended his daughters Bar mitzvah (Bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah refer to the Jewish coming of age ritual. The plural is b’nei mitzvah for both boys and mixed gender groups, or b’not mitzvah for girls. Wikipedia). Sharing Adams faith with him is something he may not know is very special for me. Although, I am not Jewish, I love how strong his faith is and how happy it makes him. In some way it probably shapes my trust in him as a human.

    We share a love of food, art, theatre, travel, making memories, and life itself. If I’m going to be honest, I wasn’t sure about my friendship with Adam at first. God knows he was persistent and laser focused on forming a friendship. I’m pleased that neither of us gave up. Adam is a mensch.

    Adam’s advice is always thoughtful and sound. I picked his brain a lot this trip. Someone I have known and loved for many years passed while I was in Toronto with Adam. The support and love he showed me as I grieved was much appreciated and a tribute to the friend and man he is.

    I might also add that his wife is very special to me. It is not always the case that you love a friend’s partner; both Adam’s wife and Don’s wife give their husbands the space to be with me.

    David

    David and I met while sharing a house in The Pines on Fire Island. We ended up with bedrooms on the same floor with a shared bedroom inbetween. There were something like 11 other men involved in the share. David wasn’t anything like any of them. David was easy to talk with and real. Early on in our friendship we went for long walks on Fire Island and shared some of what frustrated us about our boyfriends at the time.

    We participated in the share for several summers and spend time together during the other three seasons. We shared a very close friendship with a third man from the house who eventually died of complications from AIDS. David helped take care of Roger at the end of his life (he’s a saint) and always kept me in the loop. He called me shortly before Roger died to let me know it was time to say goodbye to him.

    In many ways, David has taught me how to a gay man. It was David who instructed me on how to party safely. He accompanied me to many club events; he always made sure I was enjoying myself and made it home safely.

    In addition to the many things we love doing together, we have one thing that we are polar opposites about; David loves opera and I hate it. He always had very expensive seats to the Met and once, I’m still not sure why, I accompanied him to see an opera. Once was more than enough. I love how passionate he is about opera, music, theatre and art. I asked in if he ever dreamed about being someone else or doing something else and he told me that he would have loved to have been a famous opera singer. You think you know someone.

    David is a magnificent and talented artist. Several of his pieces have been shown in prestigious galleries and institutes. He is humble and creates in order to move people in some way — not in order to get rich from the sale of his work. He is a weaver; not shocking that the loom in his studio was larger than the bed I slept in. He is also painting these days. He’s his worst critic, but no doubt, he is good at everything he does.

    Everything David owns in his beautiful apartment has been carefully curated. His taste is impeccable. I cannot say this about everyone I love, but David is someone whose home I could live in comfortably. It is surrounded by beautiful things; however, it remains cozy and comfortable. Oh and he is a wonderful cook; especially his Swedish dishes which come from several years of living and studying weaving there. He speaks Swedish too. I’m so pleased to have stayed with him. Now I can picture him in his studio. Now I can say that I have been to the homes of all three of these friends; they are all magnificent in different ways.

    My conversations with David are usually very intense. We share just about everything and we share without judgment. As with most friendships, being friends doesn’t mean we are the same people. We are passionate about different things. What I think is unique about us, compared to Adam and Don, is our own stories of fighting to be ourselves as gay men. Our stories are different and similar, but they are ours to share with one another. Our conversations on these trip were no different. However, this time we talked more about quality of life, future plans, and end of life.

    David visited me in Portugal and trusted me to plan his time with me. Except for insisting we spend no more than three hours in a car at a time, I did the same with him. He took me to Hanging Lake, Glenwood Springs, Maroon Bells, Aspen, and several excellent restaurants. I won’t lie, one of the hikes was quick challenging, but I have no regrets and I will remember the experience forever. He also threw a party for me and allowed me to invites other friends who live in Denver. I was also able to meet people in his life I have not met in the past.

    Don

    I’ve known Don longer than my other two friends; we were roommates at The University of North Carolina at Charlotte (44 years ago). Don is a very successful architect. When we were roommates he promised to design an underground house for me. While in Detroit, I asked him if he is still committed to design that house for me and he said he is. That’s all I needed to hear.

    We chose Detroit because of its rich architecture and outstanding restaurants. Neither Don nor the reason for meeting there were disappointments. The city has rebounded from despair to beauty and culture at every turn — we were impressed. Cranbrook House & Gardens were a real trip. We took a side trip to Ann Arbor which was also fruitful.

    Don was my best man when I married 40 years ago. He arrived at the church missing a sock and someone else from my wedding party had to run to a store to buy him socks. This is probably one of the things I love about Don. He is about as easy going as a human can be. I checked this fact with him on this trip:

    Don, have we ever had words?

    No, I’m pretty sure we haven’t.

    That’s pretty crazy considering how difficult I can be.

    No Chris, you’re easy.

    ___________________________________________________________

    Me easy? Perhaps Don makes it easy?

    Don and I have long periods of silence when we are together, no matter where we might be. The silence is about respect and comfort. There is no concern about what might be unsaid. When Don says he wants to see a building, I want to see that building. When I say I want to eat Italian, Don is fine with Italian. The ease of our choices is delightful.

    I learned something shocking about Don on this trip: he has never been to a nightclub. This blows me away on so many levels. He believes in God and doesn’t shove religion down my throat. He speaks fondly and respectfully of his incredible wife and two amazing daughters. I listen with awe and delight, having been in his life for all of the milestones and disappointments.

    I cannot say that I got closer to these three men on this trip, because I’m not sure we can be any closer. I feel privileged and blessed to have had the time to be with them and I’m pleased that they made the time to be with me. True friendship is a gift that keeps on giving and these three friendships are more than I could ever hope for.

    The three cities we spent time in matched our personalities in a way. Toronto is intelligent as is Adam. Denver is filled with natural beauty and light, not unlike David. Detroit offered a rich history; Don as my oldest friend knows a whole lot about that.

    I realized on this trip that all three men love to walk, love to eat, love film, love to talk, love their friends and family, love to read, and truly love life. These are the things that bind us together.

    An Old Friend I Haven’t Seen

    I met Gina over 15 years ago at an accreditation conference. We hit it off instantly and we’ve never lost touch. I had breakfast with her and in Denver. It was as if no time at all had gone by.

    Future Travel

    My three times cancelled cruise (COVID) to northern Europe is coming up in just a week. I’m sad about just getting home to see and spend time with Paco and then having to leave him again. I know he loves his sitter, but I like to think he’d prefer to have me at home. When I return from the cruise I intend to stay put for a few weeks. The timing of the cruise is not ideal, however, there is nothing I can do to change NCL dates.

    Lyon, France with friends in November and a few trips planned for 2023.

    My Paco (right) and his best friend Petucha, while I was away

    Disclaimer:

    I apologize for spelling or grammar mistakes. I’m not in the mood to reread this blog.

  • If it Were My Last 24 Hours on Earth

    “No one here gets out alive.” — Jim Morrison

    Reblog Nov. 2019 (with additions)

    Not to worry, not checking out anytime soon, just reminding myself how fragile life can be. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone; therefore, I think it’s best for me to respond in the abstract and not name names.What if you knew that you were going to die and you had 24 hours or less left to live? Would you want to be surrounded by those you love? Would you run away and hide from everyone? Would you tell people you cared about? Would you share things you have been holding back? Would you look back at memories? Would you end your life sooner in order to control the situation?These are the kinds of questions I ask myself when considering just how finite life is.  And by the way, the questions come up occasionally, not every day. There are statistics that guide us when we consider our lifespan. There are formulas based on how long your parents lived. Then there are calculations based on lifestyle. Genetics sometimes come into play. However, an accident may make all of those theories insignificant and irrelevant.I had a pretty bad accident a couple of years ago that made me question life, death, and how I feel about both. Up until the accident I was fairly certain that I would grow old and cranky. If I’m going to be honest, I have to say I’m well on my way.I attended a dinner party a few days ago and raised my blog topic for this week. It’s interesting to hear what people have to say in a relaxed social setting. I don’t usually share my own thoughts until after I’ve heard from others. As with any difficult subject, some people prefer to avoid the matter altogether and this time was no different. One of the things I love about people is how very unique we all are. It’s for this reason that I try my best not to judge. Our prospective can be polar opposite based on things like upbringing, religious beliefs, the truth we hold on to, and so forth. I would be untruthful if I didn’t admit to feeling strongly about my own beliefs; the power of personal conviction is essential for many reasons. Keeping that in mind, I don’t claim to be right, but I do think that what I am espousing is true for me; sometimes, that’s all that truly matters.I posed the question to a small group of people sitting at the table after lunch:If you knew you had 24 hours or less to live, what would you do? The answers I got were interesting and understandable:”I wouldn’t change anything; I’d want it to be a normal day.””I wouldn’t tell anyone because all they would do is cry and pity me.””I would be with a very small group of people I love very much.””I wouldn’t do very much because I would want time to slow down. When you do a lot of things, time speeds up.””I might consider ending my life sooner — when I decided it should end.””I would have a couple of conversations I have been avoiding.””Why, do you know something I don’t know?”The thing is, do we truly know how we would behave until we are actually in a particular life altering situation? I could easily say I wouldn’t tell anyone that I was going to die, but in truth, if I knew it was the end and I became extremely emotional or scared, I might need to tell or want to tell someone.What follows are some thoughts on why we live our lives as if there is no expiration date:I love this poignant comic included in Brian Lee’s piece on living life as if we’re never going to die at Lifehack. Check out www.zenpencils.com.

    • We are complex creatures with hopes, fears, frailties and misgivings. Our highly developed brains allow us to tuck away thoughts and focus on things that make us feel good; I should note that some of us are better at this than others. We often behave as if our daily actions do not have consequences for the future. Vices and health related toxins are often imbibed or eaten without concern for longevity. It’s a curious human occurrence considering that most of us would like to grow old. So what drives us to recklessness? It’s as if there is a little switch in our brains that we choose to turn off when desire overpowers restraint.It is no accident that the precise timing of our death is unknown. Imagine the chaos and emotional instability that would ensue. I think that animals have a better sense of death and what it means than we do and, therefore, have better dying coping skills. I’ve been with several dogs at the end of their lives and the sense of peace and acceptance I felt from these animals was both life affirming and beautiful. We live and we die and that is the true miracle of life.As I consider complicated mechanisms for denial and delusion, it once again brings me to how I might deal with knowing when my own demise is just around the corner. Here are some thoughts that come to mind (not necessarily in order of importance):

      1. There is no doubt in my mind that I would want to truly enjoy the wonders of the earth. The sunrise and sunset continue to amaze me and I take both in as often as possible. The smell of flowers and the feel of earth between my fingers, gives me great pleasure. I can only imagine that knowing these wonders would no longer be accessible would heighten my desire to experience them.The people in my life who have shown me love and devotion would be on my mind at the end; I would hope that these cherished few would be nearby. I would want to let them know how much I love and appreciate them. I still do not know that I would share the inevitability of my passing. We all know that we should be showing our love and appreciation often, not waiting until we are sick or dying.I have loved food since I could smell my dad’s pizza in the oven when I was a wee toddler. My relationship with good food has never waivered and I hope I remain true to my passion until the day I die. I have been reading research about taste buds and how our sense of taste diminishes with age. I refuse to believe that this applies to me. My father and aunts and uncles on my father’s side, all enjoyed savory dishes well into their 80s. If I knew that my death was near, I would want to devour my favorite foods:  shellfish, pasta and cake and a nice red of course. I know that knowing it was almost over would probably have an effect on my appetite; however, knowing how I sometimes eat and drink to feel better, I imagine I’d be hungry and thirsty. A very expensive armagnac would be a must have. Being present and cherishing every moment of what life I have left, would likely be my mode of thinking and feeling. I have never feared death, therefore, I’m fairly certain I would be at peace with it.I would want to be comfortable; the right temperature, the right place, and the right people around me. I would probably want to be on a good dose of xanax.

      2. I have had many people in my life pass:  my grandparents (three before I was even born), my parents, several siblings, close friends, teachers, co-workers and acquaintances. My mother’s brother died of a massive heart attack in his 50’s; how could I not consider the possibility of dying at anytime? Personally, I don’t find this morbid or sad.

      3. Long ago I decided that if I had a fatal illness, I would travel (if I could) to a place where you could choose to die with dignity. If this were to happen, I would have an opportunity to decide how I would spend my final hours; all of this provides great comfort. I am not obsessed with dying, I am focused on living and making sure my quality of life is the best it can be.

        The purpose of this blog is twofold. First, it is my hope that it will get you thinking about how you live your daily life; what are your priorities and do you consider and cherish the people and things that bring you the greatest happiness. Second, it is my belief that we as individuals have the power to change the course and direction of our lives. I felt stuck, misguided and unhappy in Maine. It wasn’t so much the place or the people, but an environment that was too comfortable and unchallenging. I moved to Europe in order to reboot, recharge, and start afresh. It’s not right for everyone, but it has taught me more about myself than I anticipated. Self-discovery and change can be as exciting as a new relationship; driving gleefully into the future with renewed hopes and dreams. Fear is what usually holds us back. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of death. Put all of your fears aside and go for it. The unknown can be a wonderful and rewarding future. Focus on the image of a door opening to a paradise you never imagined existed; more often than not, we have the ability to manifest our dreams. I choose to manifest those dreams while I am still alive.

    Travel Update

    Going to Nantes, France Wednesday. There is a heatwave in this part of the world and the Airbnb I booked way back is not air conditioned. The owner claims it stays cool in the apartment, but I’m not convinced. I have booked a hotel room just in case. Pornic will be cooler (second half of trip) by the time I arrive there, so I think I’ll be okay. Fact is I don’t sleep well in extreme temperatures.

    More travel after this trip — my next blog will include an update.