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Redemption From Beyond II

A Three Part Novella

Jake was normally not the type to beat himself up. Steven’s letter left him with undeniable and painful guilt. He thought about all the times he hated Steven for his silence. Finding the owners of the jewelry pieces would at the very least give him something to focus on. Besides, this sort of sleuthing was right up his alley.

Tyler, Steven’s attorney, made two things clear: first, what Steven shared with him beyond what was in Jake’s letter was client/attorney privilege, and second, no matter who came around asking, Tyler knew nothing. Jake asked Tyler if he had any idea what the pieces were worth. Tyler said that the age, craftmanship, and size of the diamonds made them valuable; he estimated a few hundred grand. He suspected it wasn’t the monetary value Steven was thinking about when he reached out to Jake for help.

Jake cleared his schedule for the next few weeks. He didn’t think it would be wise to go straight to Germany. He’d start with some on-line research and see what came up. He had an alarm system installed at his apartment, just in case whomever was looking for the jewelry knew of his existence. Thieves stop at nothing and Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

Assuming Rachel Schwartz and/or Esther Roseman lived in Germany at some point in the last 50 years, finding them or their families would not be easy. Jake hoped that once he learned more about one of the two, finding the other or their family should not be that difficult.

Jake realized he was being cagey with friends; he trusted no one — not that anyone he knew would try to steal the jewelry, but that they might blab it to the wrong person.

Not knowing where to begin, he went to Facebook and entered the two women´s names. In fact, there were several of both with their names (also the same family name) living in or near Frankfurt. He didn’t see either woman in Rüdesheim.

It was time to reach out to Steven’s cousin Marie whom he hoped still lived in Berlin. Fortunately, Tyler was able to provide him with her contact information. When Marie got back to Jake, he found her to be very warm and personable. He was surprised to learn that Marie knew about him. She even relayed that Steven had hoped to someday marry Jake; obviously news to Jake. After speaking with her, he decided to take a trip to Berlin to learn more about Steven and his family. Hopefully, the information she would provide would help him in his search.

Marie picked Jake up from the airport and brought him to a hotel in the center of Berlin. She was fully aware of Jake’s motives for being there. She’d of course known Steven since he was a boy, but Steven and his parents did not visit Berlin often and Marie did not visit them in the States. Still, there were things spoken throughout the years that might be helpful to Jake. Marie was anxious to get to know someone who cared for her cousin.

They met over drinks later that evening. Marie found Jake to be personable and sincere. She told Jake that as children, Steven was always laughing and that he loved practical jokes. This was not the Steven he remembered. It made him smile to think that Steven was once lighthearted, even playful. Marie also shared that Steven’s father was not a likeable person. She said that most of the family stayed away from him. He was her father’s brother, but they were very different. Marie was aware of the war crimes and trials, but it all took place before she was born. Marie was 20 years older than Steven.

Jake wanted to tell Marie about the two pieces Steven’s father stole from the women in Germany. He was hesitant to jeopardize his goal of finding them or their relatives. Marie knew nothing of the town Steven’s father served in; in fact she didn’t seem to be aware that there were still people looking for survivors and relatives of victims. Jake didn’t understand how detached people could be; perhaps it was a survival tactic.

Being in Germany was very strange. He of course knew about the six million or more Jews who were murdered under Hitler’s orders during the Holocaust, but as a gay man, it was the knowledge of the thousands of homosexuals and suspected homosexuals who were tortured and killed. The idea that anyone could be murdered for their religious beliefs or sexuality was abhorrent to Jake. Beyond these groups, there were also people with disabilities, opposing political views, other religions (Jehovah’s Witness), and those labeled as Gypsies. More than one person marginalized or persecuted, was too many. For the first time in his life, Jake felt empowered to do something.

Jake thanked Marie for seeing him. He sincerely hoped that someday they’d have the opportunity to meet again. While in Berlin, Jake learned of the Arolsen Archives which is a mainly on-line organization that houses files and documents on individuals who were victims of Nazi persecution. The organization had a major presence in Berlin and Jake knew someone in the U.S. Department of State whom he hoped could make a connection. His hunch panned out.

Jake met with Eric Haverman at his office. Eric was one of Arolsen’s archivists and, as it turns out, someone who could be a big help in Jake’s search. Again, Jake was cautious about sharing too much information, however, considering Eric’s credentials, he was certain he could provide some background that might help him get to the two women or their relatives more quickly. It was clear that Eric could offer great guidance.

Jake decided to spend one more day in Berlin after meeting with Eric. Eric’s words were promising; any information could be helpful. Eric called Jake on his cell phone later the same day. He was fairly certain that Esther Roseman was alive and still living in Rüdesheim. Esther was 94 years old. She’d never been on Facebook and she had escaped from Auschwitz in 1944; she was 14 years old. Both of Esther’s parents died or were killed in the camps.

Jake asked Eric how he could contact Esther without invading her privacy. Eric told Jake that Esther had agreed to interviews in the past and that she might still be up for a conversation. Eric was willing to call her. Jake was impressed with how respectful Eric was; he didn’t pry or ask questions. Feeling hopeful and determined, Jake waited to hear back from Eric. He found himself thinking about Eric a lot. He seldom met men with such integrity and empathy.

The next morning Jake received a call that unbeknownst to him, would change his path for months to come. Esther’s daughter Tovah Schneider was currently living in Frankfurt. Fortunately, she spoke English and she was eager to learn about Jake’s reason for wanting to speak to her mother. Not knowing for certain that this Esther was the “right” Esther. He told Tovah that he was the friend of someone in the United States who might have some information about Esther’s parents and their home in Rüdesheim. It was not entirely true, but a rationale he was certain she’d later understand. He told Tovah that he was in Berlin and that he could be wherever she needed him to be as early as the next day.

Tovah told Jake that her mother was frail, but very sharp. She’d apparently spent her entire life educating people about the Holocaust: ensuring nothing of its kind would or could ever happen again. She would try her best to arrange a meeting within the next few days. She was also happy to accompany Jake as interpreter; Esther spoke very little English. That afternoon, Jake hopped a train to Frankfurt.

Tovah was able to arrange a meeting at Esther’s home the day after he arrived in Frankfurt. She told him that Rüdesheim was one hour outside of Frankfurt and that she’d be happy to drive him to her mother’s house and take him back to Berlin. Jake was certain she was concerned for her elderly mother, he would be too if he were her. She had also let Jake know he’d have one hour with Esther. At this point he wasn’t even 100% certain that she was the right woman he was looking for; one hour would be more than enough.

At 9:00 a.m. Tovah arrived at his hotel in Frankfurt. He was surprised to learn she was in her 70s. It made sense, but up until now, he hadn’t thought about it. She was very welcoming and she seemed eager to get to know him. They talked about Esther and her parents and their lives before she was born. She told Jake that her mother met her father at Auschwitz, but unfortunately, he didn’t survive the camp. Her mother escaped pregnant with Tovah, after learning that her husband had been killed. At the time, Esther did not know that he was more than likely killed in a gas chamber.

By the time they arrived at Esther’s home, he was certain she was the woman he was searching for. Esther was old and frail, but clear headed, she received Jake with open arms. After some tea and small talk, they began their conversation.

“Esther, it means a great deal to me that you were willing to meet with me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your life before and after Auschwitz. I know your life’s work has been to help others who went through WWII and to help all of us better understand what it was like to be sent to the camps. I’ve read several transcripts from talks you’ve given and I have to say I am humbled by what you have been through.”

Esther spoke slowly, with great care. Tovah was a good interpreter; she was happy to add details and clarify when necessary. About 15 minutes into the conversation, Jake asked the question that would give him the answer he was looking for.

“Esther, when you were a young girl living here in this town before you took the train to Auschwitz, was anything of yours taken from you?”

Esther’s eyes teared up. She looked down, composed herself, turned to Tovah and said,

“When I was 14 years old, my mother gave me a diamond and jade necklace that she had received from her parents as a wedding gift. My mother was fairly certain that she and my father would soon be taken away — several neighbors had already disappeared. She told me that the necklace was very valuable and that it might someday help her purchase a house. My mother told me to hide it in a safe place and to not tell a soul that she had it. I hid it in a box under my clothing. Two days later, my parents were taken away. The night they left home, I was alone in the house. In the middle of the night someone came into the house, covered my eyes and told me to stay quiet. Minutes later, the man left with whatever valuables were left in the house, including my necklace. After having said goodbye to my parents, losing the necklace sent me into a very deep depression. I couldn’t tell anyone about the stolen necklace. I knew that when I saw my mother, she would be very upset. The town was small, but I couldn’t imagine who would have known about it and taken it.”

Jake took a deep breath. His heart was beating quickly. He took Esther’s hands, realizing he was trembling, and looked at her and Tovah,

“Tovah, please tell your mother I have the necklace. It’s waiting for her in a safe place in New York.”

Tovah gasped, “Are you sure Jake. I don’t want to break my mother’s heart. She has spoken to me of this necklace, but she let go of the notion that she might never see it again, a long time ago.”

Jake nodded and Tovah relayed the message to Esther. Esther stopped breathing, then sobbed with her head in her hands for several minutes; finally looking up at Jake with immense joy. She reached over to take Jake’s face in her frail hands.

Tovah shared what her mother said to Jake.

“You have made an old woman happier than you could ever imagine. I have no other words.”

Esther sat in silence for a while. Jake used this opportunity to speak to Tovah about Rachel Schwartz and where she might be. Jake learned that the Schwartz family lived in the house next to the Roseman’s before they were all taken away. Esther and Rachel were inseparable, even in the camps. Esther told Tovah that Rachel was raped by a Nazi soldier; they were told she was moved to another camp after she started showing signs of pregnancy. Tovah thought it would be best not to bring up Rachel in front of her mother. The old woman deserved some time with the news that her stolen necklace would be returned after all these years.

Yes, there will be a Part III. Thank you for staying with me.

Why write a story with the Holocaust as a backdrop? My mother’s mother was a Russian Jew who migrated to the United States in 1906, converted to Catholicism when she met my Sicilian grandfather in Brooklyn. She was blind, which explains how a Russian and Sicilian ended up together. She lived in the U.S. during the Holocaust; oddly, she never spoke of it to anyone. I was nine years old when she died. Jewish history has always been a fascination and the realities of the Holocaust remains a part of history I will never fully grasp.

State of Mind

I am sensitive. I’m not embarrassed about it or ashamed of it; it’s who I am — took lots of therapy to get here. Sometimes friends or acquaintances make a comment to me about it, as if I’m either unaware or hearing it for the first time. If I confront you because you have failed to respond to me or you have shown no emotional or empathetic support when I’m in need, that’s not me being sensitive, it’s you not being accountable for your bad behavior. Most of you out there are smart enough to know the difference. It seems impossible to address these issues with individuals lately, people are either incapable of looking within or they dismiss the issue as your problem and not theirs. My tolerance for this sort of behavior from a “supposed” friend is waning. We all have problems and insecurities. There are a few things I need to tell myself as I consider this reality. First, I need to be patient and remind myself that I am not the center of the universe. Second, I can sound judgmental and impatient when I speak my truth, and lastly, forgiveness after sincerity is the caring and compassionate way to proceed. If you find a friendship becoming too difficult to sustain, address it or walk away. Ironically, the friends who will read this and nod their heads, are not the friends I am speaking to.

“It seems a lot of relationships fail, because when tough times come around … People want to give up too easily (sic). The fact of the matter is every relationship is going to experience difficult times sooner or later. Don’t throw away a potential good lasting relationship just because things got a little hard.” — Bryan Burden

I agree with this quote, but I believe there are red line values and situations. For example, if you believe (for whatever reason) that homosexuals are an abomination (def.: An abomination is a thing or action that inspires disgust, hatred, or loathing due to being vile, wicked, or offensive.), that’s a red line.

Posted on by CP · 10 Comments

Closure in Unexpected Places: A Martini Glass Story

I purchased a single martini glass for several hundred dollars this week. Before you judge me, let me explain. I was speaking with a friend of over thirty years about this; she pointed something out that I hadn’t thought much about, she said,

“You normally don’t attach yourself to things, so I know this martini glass means something to you, so the cost doesn’t matter.”

Yes it does; it means a great deal to me. The person who gifted me a set of four of these gorgeous Salviati Murano glasses is no longer with us. The two of us had the most complicated relationship of my life. It lasted 16 years and however twisted it was, it will reside in my memory for the rest of my life.

As with all relationships, both she and I had our own baggage. When I started working for her, I was young and naive. I did not report directly to her; therefore, there was a buffer between us — my immediate supervisor both protected me and shielded me from her darker side. Early on, I only got to experience the compelling and positive aspects of her narcissism — when the narcissist treats you as if you are the only one in the room. Praise, gifts, promises; all showered upon me whenever in her presence.

When anyone said that she was opportunistic or loved the spotlight, I would argue that it was difficult for women to stand out in a man’s world. I defended and deflected for a long time. As the years progressed, she and I became closer. I spent time with her at her country estate and she introduced me to celebrities, famous writers, and artists. If she needed something from me, it was always a gracious request. It took me years to realize that I had fallen in love with her. Not romantic love, but the love you might feel for someone you idolize.

People warned me not to get too close. I would either tell them they were wrong or I’d tell myself they were jealous. My supervisor had warned me as well, but he modeled similar behavior with her. I was promoted with salary increases several times; to the best of my knowledge, always merit based. In my 13th year of employment, my supervisor left his position and I found myself working directly for her. We had a honeymoon phase that lasted a few months. During this period, she pulled me off to the side at a party and told me that she loved me. I remained on a delusional cloud until the shit hit the fan. She had a personal situation in her life that made her angry and bitter. The softness faded and the edges became sharper. I started to see what others had warned me about.

I’d like to interject that she gifted the martini glasses to her executive team during a time of tremendous business success. We were at the height of profit and industry awards. I cherished those glasses; one because I’d felt I’d earned them and two, they were one of the most beautiful gifts I’d ever received. A few months after getting the glasses, I actually visited Murano in Venice where they were hand crafted. That trip made them even more special to me.

Returning to my final years working with this woman: I went back and forth between being blown away by her intelligence and power, to disgusted and bewildered. She started asking me to do things that I didn’t think were good for the business; nothing untoward or illegal, just not in our best interest.

I realize I’m being somewhat cryptic; I promise to explain why later. Life is not black and white and I have come to realize that living in the gray is not easy for me. I like things to be near perfect; neat and tidy and tied up in a bow.

When it became impossible for me to comply with her direction, I pushed back — not easy, she was a force and I was expendable. Of course I didn’t think so, but I knew from how she treated others, that I most certainly was. We traveled to Italy together for work. I didn’t need to be there, so I suspect I was being tested. Her loyalty test was beyond brutal and I failed. It was at that point that I realized if I didn’t resign, I would be terminated. I’d seen many before me go through similar trials. When we returned from Italy, I resigned. Sixteen years of passion for the work, compromise, falling in and out of love, and brutal disillusionment.

I’m fully aware that I was equally responsible for the disintegration of our relationship. I could have sucked it up, massaged her ego, acted as if all was honky-dory, but at the time, I was both in therapy and seeing a life coach. I felt as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I was finding it difficult to grin and bear it. I caved and my world shattered. That position defined me in every way. I withdrew, relocated, and reinvented myself. Survival mode can either break you or force you to see the world in a new way.

A couple of years after I left my position and my New York City life, this individual died in a tragic automobile accident. I took it harder than I imagined I would. No matter what my misgivings about my final months with her might have been, I would have never wished her to perish. That is why I chose not to name her in my story. I never had closure; therefore, I will never know what drove her to do the things she did and why she tossed me aside before I resigned. I couldn’t even bring myself to attend her memorial.

When I decided to relocate to Portugal, shedding 99% of my belongings was easy; I was seeking to start anew. One of the few gifts I could not walk away from was those martini glasses. They were the one part of that relationship I couldn’t let go of. I love these glasses, I love martinis, and I loved the former life they represent. Prior to leaving the United States, I shipped two boxes to my new address in Portugal. One of these boxes contained the four well wrapped martini glasses. Little did I know that they’d have to go through customers when entering Portugal. It took months and many telephone calls to finally locate the boxes. Because I did not have receipts for the contents, it cost me a small fortune to get the two boxes out of customs. When they were finally delivered to my home, one of the four martini glasses was broken. I wept openly and lost several nights of sleep.

I engaged in a failed search for a replacement glass. I contacted all of the other executive team members who had received the same gift; none of them still owned the glasses. I learned that Salviati only made a limited number, explaining why they were impossible to find. I gave up. I placed the three remaining glasses in a prominent spot in my new home. I have never used a single glass from the collection.

It’s been eight years since I placed those four glasses in that mailed box. I have checked eBay no less than a dozen times over the years. A few days ago, just for giggles and laughs. I looked on eBay. There it was, a single Salviati martini glass. The irony is that each of the four glasses has a different design and the one listed was the same glass that broke in the box that was shipped. I made an offer and after a bit of haggling, the glass was mine. It will arrive any day now and I will happily complete my collection. Early in my story I asked you not to judge me, I hope now you understand. I’m not sure why (and I may never know), but for me, this helps bring closure to an open wound. Sometimes an object can represent a time in your life, a person in your life, or a notion you’re hanging onto. These four glasses are all of those things for me. The challenge will be to keep them from breaking — they are extremely fragile. They mark a time in my life with tremendous growth and the ability to walk away when my integrity depended on it.

Is it true that everything happens for a reason? I would answer that sometimes it does seem so. The missing glass pictured above, will soon arrive.

State-of Mind

The story told here is non-fiction.

An individual I care about recently informed me that it was inappropriate for me to flaunt my lifestyle on social media. A part of me knows that I do not over-post. My intention has always been to stay in touch with people in my life that I do not see on a regular basis. When I moved to Portugal it seemed even more important to share my life experiences for the benefit of those in my circle of friends and acquaintances. But this comment shook me to my core. Perhaps a part of me thought I might be over-sharing or that people in my life that did not have the means to travel as I do, might feel that I am rubbing it in their faces.

I ran this by a few of my friends who told me to ignore the comment. They said that my travels inspire them and others. No one I spoke to seemed to believe that I over-post. But if I’m going to be honest, there are a few people in my orbit that I believe should pull back a bit on social media. Usually because they post on Facebook everyday and sometimes very superficial (i.e., I lost my keys and found them) posts. Or they post a different selfie daily. I feel very judgmental and that I might be a bit unfair about this subject, but still, it’s how I feel. And so, I have not posted about my travels or adventures in a long while. Last week a good friend said that I should go back to posting. He said that people like him missed seeing what I was up to. I heard him loud and clear, however, as I mentioned earlier, I was stung badly. I guess I’m searching for some middle ground. Perhaps I will use this platform for social sharing. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s very easy to be judgmental until you know someone’s truth.”

Kate Winslet

I hate proofreading, therefore, please excuse any grammatical or typographical errors.

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Luck or Earned Success

People have called me a lucky bastard my entire life. If I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure how to take it. My friend Mark was told he couldn’t board a Cessna to the Maldives last year because the plane had a weight limit and they had met the limit. The plane went down on route and everyone was killed; Mark is lucky. I ask people why they think I’m lucky and they tell me it’s because everything comes to me so easily.

I beg to differ. First and foremost, I was born black. I was born blacker than any other black person within 1000 miles of my town. Second, I was born poor. I’m talkin’ about the kind of poor you never shake; like third world poor. And lastly, I was a foster child. Do you still think I’m lucky? Do you think the shade of black you are doesn’t matter?

Yes, maybe I was lucky that I was born in the good old U.S. of A.; a country where your skin color only matters if you need a job, or you want to live anywhere, or you want to marry anyone. Needless to say I had my struggles growing up. I want to tell you about all of my foster homes, but a few stand out.

The Mississippi department of Social Services decided that my single mother was unfit to raise me. She worked at McDonald’s and left me home alone a lot. I guess our neighbors heard me crying and reported my mother to the police. I was only two years old when I went into my first foster home so there’s not much I can tell you about it. Subsequent foster parents told me that I was one of 12 fostered children in that home — Social Services had to lock those people up because they were trafficking the kids. Fortunately, I was too young to even be groomed.

When I was five years old I ended up with this older couple that took me to New Jersey. They were nice people, but they were too old to take care of me and I ended up with people who were younger, but they only took kids for the money. Social Services figured out their scheme and shipped me back to Mississippi. My dark skin made it difficult to find parents for me.

When I was 12 years old I was brought to a nice house Outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I could tell these people had money because they had five bedrooms in their house, wood floors, and a couple of nice cars. It was a Caucasian family of four — their two children were not adopted. I liked this family and this house a lot. I realized the only way they’d ever adopt me, was if I behaved well and showed them I was worth having around. They were kind people from the start, not allowing me to do more chores than their own children. There were rules, but they were fair and easy enough to follow. I was actually happy for the first time in my life. But, it wasn’t all good and easy.

People stared wherever we went. Bonnie and Everett made it clear that Anne and Mark were their parents and I was a social experiment. I was meant to make them feel better about their abundant lives. I was fully aware of my role and I was determined to play the part well.

The first thing I did was ask Anne and Mark if they would call me Scott and sign me up to junior high school as Scott. They said they’d do it with no questions asked. I mimicked Everett’s every move so that I wouldn’t stand out; blending in was the only way to survive. When Anne took me clothes shopping, I picked out clothes Everette would wear. Lastly, I pretended to enjoy every dish prepared for the family. No signs of the food I was familiar with and I certainly wasn’t going to ask for it.

What I did ask for was writing utensils and notebooks. Anne was happy to purchase them for me. I was quiet, studious, and I stayed out of trouble — never mentioning my past and keeping my eyes on the future.

About a year after I joined the family, Anne and Mark told me that I should dress for a nice restaurant because we were all going to dinner in the evening. It seemed like an ordinary family get together, therefore, I didn’t anticipate what was to take place that night.

We were all seated and two bottles of bubbles arrived, one had alcohol and the other didn’t. Glasses were filled and the waitstaff left the table. Mark asked us all to raise our glasses. I had no idea what was going on, having never seen this sort of ritual.

“This is to officially welcome Scott into the family. That is of course if Scott wants to be a part of this crazy crew. Do you Scott?”

I was thrown off-guard; shocked really.

“Scott, what do you say?”

“Umm, ummm, yes, I would like that.”

“Well, Scott says yes, after some surprising hesitation, he agrees.”

Anne gets up from her seat at the table and runs over to hug and kiss me. Bonnie and Everett were coaxed by Mark to join her. This is what I’d always wanted, why wasn’t I thrilled? It didn’t take long to find out why my intuition was right.

That was one wild rollercoaster of a year. My last name was changed to Stanton and my new parents had to figure out how to hide their regret. Some friends stopped calling, others made excuses. Invitations to parties and dinners became less frequent. My newly dubbed siblings were suddenly distant.

For me it was an old, familiar story. I knew exactly why the honeymoon was over; I was once again alone; fighting for my right to exist. Anne and Mark tried. They said nice things, bought me nice clothes, they talked to me about piano lessons, soccer camp, and a racing bike. I could tell they wanted this arrangement to work, but I was cautious and dubious. I stayed in the shadows. I kept my head in the books. I focused on the prize.

By the time I started Harvard, my parents had adjusted to the hate and Bonnie and Everett barely tolerated me. I did everything I could to stay out of everybody’s way. I got a full scholarship based on my SAT scores and academic record. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) was not a factor, but I’m certain everyone assumed that DEI got me in. So once again, I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself worthy.

I joined every club, competed in athletic programs, and I considered the things in life that were attainable. During my quiet moments I often thought about my birth mom: why did she give me up? Was she alive? Where did she live? I’m not sure why, but my biological father didn’t enter my thoughts; perhaps I was fed too much propaganda about black fathers.

I was sitting in Harvard’s main dining hall one day and a beautiful woman sat across from me. She said hi and asked me if I was enjoying Art History. I realized she must have been in the same class, but there were over a hundred students in that class and I had long ago taught myself not to look around or get distracted. She introduced herself as Claire.

“Nice to meet you Claire, I’m Scott.”

Claire noticed that I was socially awkward, but it didn’t stop her from talking. I listened, asked a couple of questions, and hoped she’d move on. Claire eventually stood up.

“Scott, it was nice meeting you, I’ll see you in class.”

I nodded and went back to finishing my sandwich.

For the next few weeks, Claire sat next to me in class. She was friendly, but not pushy; I remained somewhat distant. I was attracted to her, but the number of red flags made me very cautious. Claire was white, ambitious, outspoken, and attractive. Any sort of closeness was way too risky. I concentrated on Art History.

I noticed Claire’s absence for the next few lectures. At the start of her third absence, our professor asked if anyone had seen or heard from Claire. We all looked at one another and then I noticed everyone looking at me. Our professor asked me to stay after class; he once again asked if I’d see her. He told me that she had been reported missing a few days prior. I told him that I had not had any contact with her since the last lecture she’d attended.

That night the police came to my dorm room. They asked me if I would go with them to the Cambridge police station. They escorted me out of the dorm while several of my fellow students watched. At the station, they informed me that several students had reported seeing Claire and I together. I shared how we were acquainted, however, that did not seem to dissuade them. The media got hold of the story and I was vilified.

The police couldn’t actually charge me with a crime being that at that point Claire was only reported missing. Still, my photograph was all over social media and I was guilty in the eyes of a jury of my peers. In fact, the University was considering suspending me, I assume in order to show that they were being proactive about Claire’s case.

My birth mother read about the adoption story and figured out that I was her son. My mother was in a much better place, often wondering about me throughout the years. She did a bit of research and found me at Harvard. When I received her message, I was elated. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding her. My adoptive parents claimed that the records of my birth mother and birthplace were sealed.

We met at a coffee shop on campus the next morning. Her name is Cassandra. She’s smart and beautiful. She expressed no regret about her youth, having had a very difficult upbringing and very little opportunity early on in her life. She is currently an advocate for single mothers in Mississippi. Cassandra believed me when I told her I had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance.

A few days later, Claire returned to campus. She had apparently met a guy a couple of weeks prior. They decided to take his boat out to sea; she failed to tell anyone where she was going. Once she did think about it, she was already halfway to the Caribbean with no cell service. When she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered family, friends, and the authorities were looking for her. Claire immediately flew back to New Haven and apologized.

What I found disturbing was that no one contacted me to apologize. All that I had known and worked for was in jeopardy at that time. I had no support from anyone except for my birth mother. I truly believe my parents and siblings thought that I was somehow involved with Claire’s disappearance.

Years later Claire did manage to find me and apologize. She had some lame excuse about being caught up in her homecoming and not knowing I was questioned by the police. For a time I had considered suing Harvard and the New Haven police department, however, Cassandra advised me to move on. She said that I should channel my anger into graduating and finding the right professional position.

Today I am a U.S. Congressman for the state of Georgia. My parents have often reached out to me, but I am guarded. Turning my back on them would come to no good. My brother and sister have their own lives; they have never shown remorse or interest and that’s fine with me.

Cassandra and I visit often. I credit her with being elected to Congress. She is often by my side for official ceremonies. I consider her opinions and advice in everything I do. Someday soon, I hope to introduce her to my future wife.

As a Congressmen I have fought for DEI; not because I am a product of its practice, but because I know and believe that the world is a cruel place for anyone who is different. Creating ways to ensure some resemblance of equality and fairness, is my life’s work.

By the way, please call me by my given name, Jamal Jackson.

State-of Mind

You might be thinking, “How can he write in the first person, as a black American male?” Truth is, I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to be a black man in America. It’s all conjecture and creative writing, but isn’t that usually the case? Men writing female characters and vice versa. A straight writer writing gay characters; you get the picture. I’m angry about the current politicizing of DEI in the U.S.; politicians and citizens wishing to further divide the country along racial and ideological lines.

Being a minority in the U.S. is at a huge disadvantage on many levels. White men hold the power and they are afraid of losing it and they will do everything they can to keep it. Of course there are good white men and of course there are people of color who should never have been put in positions they weren’t skilled for; however, the numbers are disproportionate. Sadly, it has been this way since our forefathers won the revolution and wrote the constitution — all men are not created equal and they never have been. DEI is an woke attempt to level the playing field. As a woke white male, I support protecting the rights of individuals; further, I support any opportunity to ensure diversity, equity and inclusion in all aspects of life.

I’ve shared this before and I still believe it to be true. I applied for a position over thirty years ago, when affirmative action was the law in federally funded institutions. I lost out to a woman of color. At the time I was angry. I thought myself the better candidate. I soon after realized that I was not the best choice and that the administration at the university had done the right thing for many reasons. White men have had the advantage in the U.S. for centuries, why not ensure that everyone is given an equal opportunity to succeed.

I’m enjoying my stable life in Portugal; my home, Paco, my friends, and Portuguese/EU Politics (flawed, but progressive and working toward making life better for its residents). Dwelling on the rise of authoritarian rule in the U.S. is difficult, tragic and more than I choose to handle. Choose your platform and fight for what you believe in.

“One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.— Franklin Thomas

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When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

It started with an occasional glance over his shoulder. A crazy feeling, an odd sensation that someone was watching. Each time Peter would dismiss this notion, knowing that being paranoid is neither reasonable nor founded in truth. After all, he was a nobody, a non-entity.

Two weeks went by and his cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Peter looked down at his phone and saw that it was an unknown caller; he ignored it. It happened again the next night and the next. He’d tried blocking the number, the same ring at the same hour, the caller persisted. It got Peter thinking about several people he might have pissed off over the years; there have been a few. There was that car he sold to this guy on Facebook Marketplace. It was a Dodge Dart that looked pretty good on the outside, but had been a lemon from the start — let it be someone else’s lemon he thought. The buyer’s name was Steve; Steve wasn’t very happy. Then there was this woman Sharon he’d met on Tinder. Sharon was a bit too needy and Peter tended to be emotionally unavailable. Her free flowing tears became a problem and he forgot to leave a note. Then there was this cousin who couldn’t handle who Peter voted for in the most recent election. He told Peter that blood was everything and Peter told him to fuck off and search for his soul, being certain he’d lost it some time ago.

The ‘do not disturb button’ on Peter’s phone did not deter the caller. He became incredulous; refusing to consider how far this person would go. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should pick up the phone the next time. Later that evening, as predicted, Peter’s mobile phone rang and he answered, “Who is this?”

Beth said, “No need to be rude Peter.”

“It’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m being rude? What the fuck do you want Beth?”

“Just to say hello, it’s been a long time.”

Peter cut off the call and turned off his phone. He sat and mulled over what he had done to Beth to drive her to this point. She’d stalked him, annoyed him with middle of the night calls, what else had she done that he was unaware of? Peter couldn’t recall how their relationship had ended. He recalled meeting Beth in Art History at Uni. She was attractive, opinionated, and approachable. They’d gone out for a coffee after a lecture on Caravaggio. Beth found him to be provocative and progressive and Peter believed him to be subversive and propped-up by the far left of his day. They’d had a heated conversation that got him all worked-up and horny; he had to have her.

Peter hadn’t given her much thought lately, but come to think of it, Beth did seem a bit off; maybe that’s why he had run away so fast. There were moments he’d checked out, but to be fair, there was that intense passion; hard to resist and Beth knew it. When he did finally leave her, she wasn’t having it. They had a bit of a public screaming match and she finally got the message. Peter had been through similar break-ups before, so he shrugged it off. He knew he could be an asshole, but he was young and cocky.

A week after he’d hung up on Beth, there was an incident that had him confused. He was sitting at his desk at work and a DM popped up on his Mac. It was from a woman he had dated over five years ago; her name was Lisa. Lisa insisted they meet as soon as possible. Peter was half hoping she was interested in seeing him again and half hoping it was something completely unrelated to their romantic involvement. He had a drink with Lisa the following night. She told him that she’d been contacted by the FBI. She had agreed to talk to an agent who questioned her about Peter and their history. At the end of a 15 minute phone interview, the agent told her that Peter was being investigated for treason. Lisa said that since she never had a problem with Peter and because she was certain he wasn’t capable of treason, she´d decided to tell him. Peter was upset about what Lisa shared, but he considered it ridiculous and probably a mistake. They both agreed that he was a schmuck, however, not cut out for crimes against his country.

Then it happened again a few days later with Lauren, a girl he’d dated briefly in college. Lauren said the conversation with the FBI agent was brief, but concerning. It had gotten to the point where Peter thought he should contact the FBI to find out more about what they were investigating — thinking cooperation would help his case.

The D.C. FBI office had no record of these phone calls. They told him that this sort of thing happened all the time; scorned lovers and angry neighbors. Peter put two and two together and decided to speak to Beth. He didn’t think calling her would be very effective, so he went down to the bar in the Village where they’d met.

Sure enough, there she was having a drink at the bar. Peter casually walked over to say hello. Beth was unapproachable, in fact she behaved as if she’d never met him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He quickly realized she was playing games with him and he wasn’t interested in taking part. He told her to stay away from him.

“If you continue to harass me Beth, I’ll involve the police.”

Beth looked straight into his eyes, “I’ve never even met you, let alone harass you.”

Peter just walked away. Things were quiet for a few days, leading Peter to believe his threat worked. That Saturday, he decided to visit his mom at her home in Queens. He usually just showed up and let himself in. As he entered the house, he heard voices in his mother’s living room. Peter walked in and there was Beth just chatting with his mom.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Beth didn’t flinch, “I came to see your mom, is that not allowed?”

“Mom, can you come to the kitchen right now please.”

Peter’s mom followed him to the kitchen. She told him that Beth had shown up at the door saying she just happened to be in the neighborhood. Beth had only been at the house ten minutes before he arrived. When they walked back into the living room, Beth was gone. Peter told his mom what had been happening and insisted that she not let Beth in the next time she showed up.

Peter was out-of-his-mind with anger, having no idea how to handle the situation. After some thought he remembered that Beth had a small Lhasa Apso. He’d never been to Beth’s apartment, but he followed her home from the bar one night and found out where she lived. He watched her walk the dog from a few houses over. Beth seemed annoyed, practically dragging the dog down the sidewalk. Peter knew what to do and he had to do it sooner than later.

A friend once showed him how to pick-a-lock; a skill he knew would one day come in handy. Peter wore a hoodie and sunglasses and looked down, in case she had a camera at the door. Getting in was pretty easy. Peter thought Beth had said her dog’s name was Pippin, so Peter called out his name. Pippin came over to him wagging his tail — he scooped him up and carried him to his car. The neighborhood was quiet. Peter drove off with Pippin’s head out the window, enjoying the breeze. He figured he’d have to keep the whole affair on the downlow; Beth knew where he lived. Peter fortunately had a roof garden, making it easy enough to stay away from the streets. He was certain that two weeks of keeping Pippin would shake Beth up a bit.

Peter didn’t feel great about what he’d done, but clearly this woman needed to be taught a lesson. Pippin was a delight to have around the house. He was well-trained and a great companion, but after a week Peter’s guilt was too much to bear. He had searched social media to see if Beth had put out word that Pippin was missing, but he saw nothing. Still, he thought it best to return him to Beth. When he brought him back to her neighborhood, he didn’t see any street signs asking for help finding Pippin. It didn’t seem like Beth cared that he was gone.

Peter quietly returned Pippin to Beth’s house. The little guy was whimpering and giving him the saddest face he’d ever seen. It hurt Peter to leave him. The following morning Peter was leaving his building and there Pippin was sitting with his doorman Sal. Sal asked me if Pippin was his dog because he’d seen him carrying him out the day before. He said that he was and Peter took him upstairs to his apartment. He unblocked Beth’s phone number and texted her that he had Pippin and that she should come for him. An hour letter he received a text from her:

“Hey Peter, I know you took Pippin, but he seems to prefer you to me and to be frank, I don’t want him anymore anyway. So keep the little runt. I’ll stop bothering you, but you should know the gonorrhea you left me with was pretty shitty. I hope I never see you again . . . ever!”

Ironically, Peter was fairly positive she didn’t get the gonorrhea from him, seeing that he’d never had gonorrhea. He didn’t return Beth’s text or Pippin. Pippin turned out to be a great companion and Beth became a distant memory.

Side Note: My medical doctor ex read my story and wrote to tell me that he loved it, but that I should know that one could be a carrier of gonorrhea; however, not be aware of it. So then, Peter could have left Beth with that unwanted present. I thought it added a nice little twist and now I know all I needed to know about gonorrhea.

State-of-Mind

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

It’s been a while and I’m tempted to share why that is, but I’m thinking it’s boring and tedious and it might be best to just leave it behind.

I recently had the great pleasure of hosting two new friends who live in my neighborhood. Both women went to the high school across the street from my apartment. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I’ve shared for a long time. A reminder of the joy of getting to know new people, the pride in sharing your nest, and the warmth felt when realizing you are in the exact place where you should be. It’s quite an amazing feeling and I am grateful for recognizing it.

There has been a major shift in my life and my priorities. This new direction will inform me of my choices. I have come to realize I’ve been spending way too much precious time concerning myself with matters I cannot control. I have never been one to spend a great deal of time on regrets, but I also do not spend enough time on gratitude. My focus for now is taking stock of all that is good and satisfying and real in my life. After all, what else matters?

“Enough is a feast.” Buddhist proverb

Sometimes people write and tell me that I should either finish a story or expand on one; that’s fair. I will if the spirit moves me, until then, they will remain as they are.

Thank you for reading and have a great summer.

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Coping with Politics: Finding Peace Amid Chaos

Keep in mind: my thoughts, not gospel, not all based on fact, and not meant to persuade or dissuade. Merely suggestions for getting through the muck & mire.

First and foremost, no matter how bad it gets — and it will get worse, I cannot allow what is happening in the United States or the world, to drag me down. I honestly believe Trump and his sycophants are attempting to distract, exhaust, confuse, and lead us to helplessness. To the point where many will just give up or even worse give in.

Next, I realize as a childless, older adult living abroad, American politics has less impact on my life, then it does for others. Having said this, I would also add that the influence of American Politics is felt throughout the free world. Further, any discrimination, stripping of basic human rights, corruption, and/or abuse of power, directly impacts my life.

Some ways that I have learned to cope (in no particular order):

  • By filtering all that I read, see, and hear. There is currently a lot of noise, news, and opinions about the Trump era. Some of it is of course factual and has grave consequences. To be well informed, one must be certain to sort out what is hearsay or false. I feel empowered by standing with those that know what they are talking about.
  • I cannot control those members of my family that have decided to stand by and support this administration. I can, however, distance myself from them and/or insist that they not try to persuade me to join them.
  • When you are in pain or discomfort, the best thing you can do is find a healthy way to soothe the pain. Go to the gym, immerse yourself in your hobbies, watch mindless films, have a glass of good wine, a well-made cocktail, or a cold beer, read, go for a hike or walk alone or with a friend.
  • Keep a journal. Clear out your mind on paper; it helps keep things in perspective without sweeping your thoughts under the carpet or worse, denying they exist.
  • Speak your truth when questioned. Hiding your thoughts or your truth, can ruin a relationship and make you feel guilty or angry with yourself.
  • Always keep in mind that this too shall pass. There have been times in history when adversity led to more progressive change.
  • Get away. Nothing is better for clearing my head than a change of scenery.
  • Make a worst case scenario plan. Always better to be prepared.
  • Be a bit frugal, just in case you need funds in the future.
  • Pick your battles. You cannot take everyone and everything on. Write to your congressmen and senators, vote in every election, and campaign if you can — even if it’s on a grass roots level.
  • Celebrate the small victories.
  • Cook and/or eat comforting food.
  • Spend time with a friend or loved one that is like-minded and supports one another. Try to avoid a negative rabbit hole.
  • Having taken advantage of therapy for much of my life, I am a strong advocate of finding a professional you can trust and talk to. A psychiatrist may be more appropriate; especially if medication is to be prescribed. Medication can be a lifeline for those suffering from depression or mental illness. No shame in self-care.
  • Meditation is a very effective tool. I find sitting in a quiet space and concentrating on my breathing, works well for keeping outside influences in perspective.
  • I discovered gratitude not too long ago. Taking stock of all of the people you love who love you in return, and the gifts provided by the universe, is an excellent reminder of how good it is to be alive. And then there are pets to bring you joy.
  • Lastly, getting rid of toxic individuals in your life is essential for good mental health. People in your life who are broken, may attempt to bring you down with them — don’t allow it. If necessary and when necessary, walk away.

Whatever works for you, is the way to manage the chaos and strife; so long as you have tools.

What we have is worth fighting for

Oh How these words spoke to me

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

T.S. Elliot

I’m worried about a few people in my life that are feeling defeated and suffering from intense melancholy. I hope that they come to realize that there are ways to rise above the negativity. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough.

I’ve been enjoying listening to Mel Robbins on her podcast. The Let Them Theory makes a great deal of sense. https://www.melrobbins.com/podcasts/episode-70

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The Benefits of Staying Put

Travel Weary and Fat

I took this photo atop a volcanic island in Ha Long Bay, Vietnam. My thoughts while Jane and I enjoyed this magnificent view: this is why I travel . . . I can’t wait to go home . . . when do we eat?

This was going to be a blog outlining my impressions of Asia, but I’ve changed my mind. Not because I didn’t enjoy my trip or that Asia didn’t leave an impression, it most certainly did. However, aside from travel to Cuba a couple of years ago that nearly did me in, my travels to Dubai and four Asian countries took more out of me physically than I care to admit. This blog is about the benefits of staying home.

Before you castrate me for whining about travel to exotic places, allow me to acknowledge that what I have is a first world problem. I am fully aware that many people cannot afford to travel anywhere, let alone across the world. This moral dilemma is an internal personal struggle that I grapple with on a regular basis. Trust me, no amount of charitable donations rectifies the problem.

Why I Have Always Felt the Need to Travel

When I was a little boy, my father took a trip back to his birthplace in Puglia, Italy. I remember begging him to take me with him. Dad was a blue collar working man with eight other children; I wasn’t going anywhere. When he returned from Italy, he painted a picture I thought about for years and years. It was decades before I was able to visit Italy to see it for myself. That travel bug has been alive and well inside of me; forever causing conflict in my heart and mind. Yes, I want to travel and yes, I want to be home.

Why I Want to Be Home

I have become a spoiled brat in my old age. I like what I like; removing myself from my comfort zone is anxiety producing. Cramming this 6 ft., 200 lb. body into an economy seat is no picnic. Two hours is uncomfortable, however, tolerable. Four to twelve hours is nearly impossible. By the time I reach my destination, I am achy, irritable, and suffering from permanent physical damage. I cannot help but ask myself why I do it.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the body has a short memory. That feeling of being lost on the outskirts of Istanbul with no Wifi, the exhaustion of 24 hours without sleep and multiple delays, paying $18 for a bad sandwich at the airport, having one of the wheels of your new suitcase break-off on the first day of a three week trip, starting a cruise with no luggage, waiting on a 90 minute passport control line when your flight leaves in 45 minutes. I’m not jaded, these are all facts.

Weighing the Pros and Cons

Random thoughts: these days, many of the people I love and enjoy spending time with, live elsewhere. I love food from places other than where I live. I have a very difficult time being away from Paco for so long. I need change constantly. I may be addicted to Hotels.com.

“Returning to my dreams was like returning to home after a long time of being away – everything was exactly the same as you left it, except infinitely better.”
― Aishabella Sheikh, Entwined

Returning Home from Hong Kong a Few Days Ago

The reason for my collapse when I walked through my apartment door in Faro:

A twenty minute walk through massively crowded streets to the train that links Hong Kong Central to the airport. Soaked in sweat, searching for a ticket machine that did not take debit or credit cards. Six hours at the airport waiting for the first leg of a three legged flight. Waiting for zone F to board the plane. Sitting on an empty plane for two hours in Bangkok while staff disinfected the area around me. Muscles cramping in the air for another eight hours. Wait hours to make a connection in Dubai. Make your way to the gate in an airport shopping mall the size of Wisconsin. Throw down a $23 cocktail. Wait until they announce zone F. Board an eight hour flight to LIsbon. Wait for what seems like forever to leave the plane. Pray for a short line at passport control. Wait in line for the 14th time. Take a train to the bus station. Search your bag for the phone you are certain you left at the airport in Dubai. Find your phone and nearly shit your pants. A jet lagged search for your Flix bus in Lisbon. Be told you’re not on the bus driver’s list even though you have a digital ticket. Wait off to the side until he sorts it out. Sit on a packed bus next to sixteen people all on speaker phone simultaneously. Too much cologne on scruffy men, horrible music piped into static filled speakers, vile food odors everywhere, three babies crying in unison, pull over a bus filled with 43 people so one guy can pee, finally reach Faro 32 hours later. Having Paco greet me at my door and thinking, I am never leaving home again . . . until the next time.

email address to subcribe, thank you.

Future Travel

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. The United States in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Portland, Maine, Maryland, North Carolina and perhaps the west coast. I’ve done the east coast by train and bus in the past; this may be the best way to travel more comfortably.

My Current State of Mind

The best thing about being away from home for a long period of time, is coming home. Seeing Paco, sleeping in my own bed, returning to a reasonable amount of eating and drinking; all equate to bliss. Too much of a good thing is just that. I want the comforts of my little nest, in my little city, and on my own terms.

“I regarded home as a place I left behind in order to come back to it afterward.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Blogging

I blog for two reasons: first, and most importantly, to share aspects of my life that help reveal who I am, where I think I may be going, and where I want to be (psychologically and emotionally). Secondly, I enjoy writing more than just about anything. It is an opportunity to express myself and purge the clatter in my head.

Complaining is one of my favorite pastimes, but you should know, I am happier than I have ever been. Thank you for joining me on this magnificent journey.

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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.

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The Sweet Sound of Children’s Voices

A poem illustrating my state of mind

Guns kill, children giggle and hide
Bullets wound, children inspire
Rounds of ammunition in their still growing ears
Laughter, hope and lives shattered

How dare we righteously protect the right to own a gun
Disregard souls alive with innocence
How dare we ignore the pain of the unimaginable
Powerful gun owners; sanctimonious and pious

Do you hear the children's voices
Do you hear their cries of pain
Are you so broken that you cannot hear them
Can your head rest so easily on their tiny coffins

Stop and listen to the silence
What you cannot hear is a life cut short
If numbness and the absence of empathy prevail
We will weep tears of blood forevermore

Gun laws, politics and righteous indignation:
Gun lobbyists, bought politicians and second amendment rights demonstrators; all evil forces at work as we mourn innocent lives lost. I am so angry at humankind; I wretch and squeeze my fists with rage. Tell me what to do and I will do it.

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The Four Year Mark

In Faro, Portugal

[Pics from home and travel]

The Past, Present & Future

Much of the blog below was written at my one year milestone in Portugal. I thought after three years, a pandemic, a great deal of reflection, and trips to many places, I should provide new insights.

A Brief Overview (I’ll note updates)

I have pondered living outside of the United States my entire adult life. Until a couple of years ago, the opportunity had not presented itself. I moved to Maine, but it never felt like the right fit. When I’m unhappy I usually consider something I might do to change things up; leaving the country was my best option. I love America and will never give-up my citizenship. You just never know what the future has in store for you. Update: If anything, my decision to keep my U.S. citizenship is even stronger, without any doubt.

The Highs

I think the best part of leaving the States has been the ability to gain some perspective. A big move, such as the one I made, forces you to take inventory of your life. I left most of my material belongings behind. I didn’t put my things in storage, I got rid of them. I brought five suitcases full of memories I did not want to part with and clothing I hoped would fit for a long time. The purging of most of my material belongings was a good exercise for me. It made me realize that I can live without so much of what I have accumulated. It was also nice to start fresh. Update: I’ve always enjoyed buying new clothing as the seasons changed and my wardrobe wore out; not sure why, but when I left the U.S. I imagined myself wearing the same thing and buying very few new articles of clothing. After a short period of time I started feeling better about myself and I decided it would be good to wear comfortable, but stylish clothing. I came to Portugal and I found a style that I’m completely comfortable with: casual, smart and mostly cotton. The warmer climate is perfect for cotton fabric and I find the brighter colors and comfortable fit perfect for travel and local outings.

Having my little Paco (see photo above) in my life has been a wonderful and pleasant surprise. Giorgio is forever in my heart and I am forever grateful that he got me to Portugal and stayed with me until I was all tucked in.

The people in Portugal are gracious and welcoming. I have never felt like an outsider. I had dinner in a restaurant last week and when the owner learned that I was living in Faro, she gave me her cell number and said that I should call her if I ever needed anything. That’s just one example of the reception I have received. Update: I only went back to that restaurant once. I loved the coconut milk Thai soup and they took it off the menu — damn! It’s still true that Portuguese people are by and large, gracious and warm. I’ve made several close Portuguese friends (Swedish, British, Canadian, Brazilian, French, and German as well).

Taxes on property are much lower in Portugal. Condo maintenance is one-fourth the cost in Maine and one-tenth of what I paid in New York. Groceries are about 30% less. Insurance costs are a lot lower. There are bargain airlines that allow you to fly for less than 30 euros each way (if you carry a small bag onto the plane — I’ve learned how to pack more efficiently). Sometimes I wonder why things cost so much more in the States.

I know this is odd, but I had no idea that I would be only a little over two hours away from Seville, Spain and that it was an easy bus ride. It’s been a huge bonus to take two or three-day trips to one of my favorite cities. I love everything about Seville. Spanish culture is very different from Portuguese culture and there’s a whole lot to discover. Update: I actually spend a lot of time in Monte Gordo/Vila Real de Santo Antonio (VRSO)on the Portuguese side of the Spanish border. From there I can take a quick ferry over to Ayamonte, Spain. It’s about an hour by train, very reasonable, and a nice, easy respite. I have also been able to see parts of Spain I had not visited when I travelled with Alejandro.

The weather in the Algarve is amazing all year-round. With an average 300 days of sunshine, no humidity most of the year, and the temperature never dipping below 45 degrees, I have to say it’s hard to beat. There is often a beautiful breeze in Faro during the summer months because of where we are on the south side of the Atlantic. The beautiful and diverse beaches here are also more than I could have hoped for. Update: I rarely go to the beach, but it sure is nice to have it nearby. My skin doesn’t like the sun anymore.

The Little things that make a big difference:

  • Because there is very little humidity here, things like sponges and clothes never get that damp, musty odor.
  • No snow . . . ever! I loved snow until I couldn’t ski anymore (knee issues).
  • The Portuguese government has regulations prohibiting the use of pesticides in farming, no hormones, no food additives, etc. Eggs are bright orange and delicious and do not have to be labeled organic — all food is grown naturally.
  • Very little crime. I feel very safe. Update: a bit more since COVID.
  • Public transportation is cheap and efficient. City buses are less than a euro a ride and run frequently. Going outside the city is also easy and only a few euros. Buses and trains are never overcrowded. Not owning a car has been freeing and has saved me a good deal of money. My commitment to lessen my carbon footprint has been rewarding. It took me a while to figure out the system, but once I did, it was fairly easy. Update: I take the train rather than fly when possible. It’s that balance between doing what you love and doing what’s right.
  • Because we have an abundance of sunshine and great weather, I can cycle all year-round.
  • I have discovered many European healthcare products that are inexpensive and work well (i.e., face cream, toothpaste, pimple cream). I have a French grocery store a few blocks away and a fresh food market right above it. The outdoor farmer’s market travels from town to town and it’s in Faro on Sundays.
  • Labor is inexpensive. I have been able to do some very nice renovations to my apartment that did not cost me a fortune (i.e., french doors in my kitchen, tile work, painting).
  • Furniture is well-made here.
  • Update: Restaurants are increasing in number and quality in Faro. More ethnic food and close to home.
  • Incredible new friends
  • I love my gym and I try to get there six days a week. Annual membership, 245 Euros!
  • I have joined a croquet club: The Pink Flamingos. I usually play on Wednesdays; sometimes on Sunday as well. I also play Mah Jongg on Fridays and Mexican Train on occasion on Tuesday. My official retirement schedule and activities. I do all of this outside of a retirement community.

The Lows

Losing Giorgio to heart disease has been the worst thing that has happened in Portugal thus far. In truth, he would have had to be put down in the U.S. at some point; however, knowing that the climate change adversely affected his heart, made his death more difficult. The wide sidewalks were great because I could walk him without a leash. He loved our new home (parks and beaches) and that gives me great comfort.

I indeed miss my friends and family and that can be tough at times. I fortunately chose a place people want to visit and so, I’ve had more friends and family come to see me than I ever anticipated. It’s been quite a treat to show the people I love, my new home.

I’ve gained some weight and I’m not happy about that. Delicious pastries are everywhere and they’re so cheap. I think the novelty will soon wear off; either that or I’ll get tired of buying new pants. I’ve always had to work hard to keep the weight off, but aging makes this even more difficult. Update: I’ve been the same weight for a few years now. I keep active and I have accepted the fact that I will always be a bit overweight. I refuse to give up the food and drink that bring me happiness. All things in moderation.

Also, I hate my condo association and I will not go into why.

Flying back to the States is expensive. Currently, airfare back to the U.S. is 900 euros during the high season, April to July. I won’t be returning very often. There are bargain fares; however, you have to accept long layovers and not-so-great airlines. I like TAP — Air Portugal.

Update: A Canadian airline has a new route to Toronto from Faro. I will not recommend them until I’ve tried them. It looks like I can get there and back for 650 Euros. I’ll probably fly to a U.S. city from Toronto. I hate flying into Newark, JFK or Miami.

Did I Make the Right Choice?

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I chose the right country at the right time. Portugal is becoming more attractive to expats because real estate prices are reasonable; however, in the year since I purchased my condo, the value has risen by 20 percent. It will soon be just as expensive as everywhere else. I saw this happening with Spain 20 years ago. More importantly, I love it here. I love the people, I love the food, I love the weather, the quality of life, my location in Faro, my healthcare, and I love how it all makes me feel. I’ve mentioned this before, but I am 45 minutes to Spain by car and I can fly or take a train to several other European countries very easily. The time difference in other countries is only an hour or two and that’s manageable.

Update: I believe that I found my place.

Access to Travel

Faro is not a very large city; however, it is the capital of the Algarve and the airport is a fairly large hub. Multiple airlines fly direct to many cities throughout Europe. The rail system in Europe is also quite extensive and efficient. I can see the world more easily from my new home. I know that as I get older I will want to stay closer to home where I get to enjoy all the creature comforts. I sleep better in my own bed than anywhere else. Still I know it’s best to travel as much as possible; while I still can. Update: I have fully embraced the notion that I will someday (soon) be an old fuddy duddy that likes to stay home.

From Original Blog. Photos:  I took these photos in Sagres, Portugal, a couple of days ago. Sagres is the furthest south and west you can go on the Iberian continent. It’s difficult to capture how truly peaceful and spectacular this part of the world is. It was an easy two and a half hour drive from my home. Update: I’ve returned numerous times. I have also fallen in love with Alvor (off-season).

Sagres Guide

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What Lies Ahead?

The best is yet to come . . .

I have decided to stop thinking long-term. I am open to possibilities I might not have ever considered before. I have two big trips coming up in 2019. After I return, perhaps a rescue dog? A pet would probably force me to stay put for a while, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m going to go the organic route on this decision and see where the future takes me. Getting older means aches and pains I did not anticipate and other small medical issues that I have to be dealt with. Staying on top of these things is important for long-term good health. When you get older, health becomes a priority. Update: all remains true. I did rescue Paco and I’m still “fairly” healthy. I thought I’d stop planning way ahead, however, I’ve given up trying, it’s what I do.

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
― Soren Kierkegaard

“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.”
― Beryl Markham, West with the Night

“We don’t have to be defined by the things we did or didn’t do in our past. Some people allow themselves to be controlled by regret. Maybe it’s a regret, maybe it’s not. It’s merely something that happened. Get over it.”
― Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four

Liverpool at the end of this coming week. Other travel will be mentioned in my Liverpool post. I’ve cancelled Asia in 2023. Due to COVID-19, there are too many considerations and changes to worry about. It will happen someday. The long flight to and from Cuba did me in, keeping me closer to Europe for a while.

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A Question With Good Intentions

Innocence Quotes. QuotesGram

Humanity

We’re funny creatures aren’t we? We do so many things naturally, but keep them to ourselves or judge that discussing them is taboo. I’ll name a few:

  • Our true feelings — deep, dark, sincere feelings
  • Our bathroom habits (e.g., a majority of older men have trouble urinating due to prostate issues); we don’t talk about it.
  • Our fear of death and failure
  • Our sexual habits and desires
  • Thoughts of suicide when feeling alone or desperate
  • Our true nature

Let’s face it, we are a repressed people. And, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

A Funny Story (names will be withheld to protect the innocent and humble)

I recently attended an extremely satisfying dinner party. I say satisfying because I’m normally uncomfortable and apprehensive about even attending them in the first place. I get all anxious and threaten cancellation at the last minute. But this one was different. There were eight of us: three Americans, two Canadians, one Swede, one Finnish and a Brit. Probably all left leaning, although I cannot be 100% certain. What I do know is that all eight of us were there to have a good time and a good time is what we had.

I’ve been out-of-the-closet for a long time; therefore, discussing my sexuality is not usually an issue or concern. My current attitude is simply, take me as I am or don’t take me at all. What seems to be more of an issue for others, is that I’m single. When I’m in a group situation and my status comes up, I usually state that I am “happily single.” I say this because so many people, gay, straight, and undefined, seem to believe that I am in some way unhappy or unfulfilled and that this state of being is directly correlated with being single.

The party host was unfortunately recently widowed. Since it has been a little more than a year, I can see that people who care about her, are interested or secretly hopeful, in seeing her paired-up. Why do we do this to one another?

With all of the not-so-subtle comments or questions that surface during a gathering such as this one, it was refreshing and poignant to be on the receiving end of a genuinely sweet and innocent question. I should be clear about two things: first, the individual asking the question is an ordained minister, and second, the question was directed at the two single individuals in the group; the host and myself.

It is true that the host and I have an outwardly symbiotic relationship. We laugh a lot, touch a lot, and although we only know one another for a couple of years, it is clear that there is a lasting bond between us. I knew her husband, in addition, I had the pleasure and good fortune of knowing them together. They had one of those rare and touching partnerships that makes you believe in love. Although I felt her loss deeply when her husband passed, what I feel today is hopeful. I see an individual who has embraced the notion that life goes on. She seems to know that although nothing will or can, ever be the same, living with the memory of a joyful and loving life partner, can be a force in experiencing current and future happiness. I’m not an expert on these matters, but nothing speaks louder than a real life example — she is my litmus test, my proof.

Back to the question posed: the minister, female, late fifties, early sixties, appropriate at all times and allow me to guess, a role model for most; looked at the host and I with an unassuming smile, slightly raised eyebrows, and an empathic tilt of her head (adorned with a gorgeous fedora), and asked: “Couldn’t you two get together and fulfill your sexual urges?“

Honestly, I’ve been exposed to open minded people my entire life, I have had innocent children ask me questions about my bald head, I have been asked about my favorite sexual position, but I have never been asked a question quite as pure and loving; bold and judgment free.

The space the eight of us filled became notably silent for about two seconds — two blaring seconds. Seven of the eight of us needed to replay the question asked — to process and ponder. The golden silence was followed by tremendously loud and raucous laughter. Did we hear the minister correctly? When we all realized that we had heard the same thing and that what we heard was clearly a serious question, years of taught appropriate behavior and political correctness, shook us all to our collective core. Did someone innocently and politely address the unspoken truth? Yes, we have sexual urges, yes we had the body parts that biblically match, and yes, we genuinely care for one another.

The idea that all of that would be enough to sexually join together a fairly recent widow and one very out homosexual, was cause for true unbridled joy. At that moment, I fell in love with the minister. The zero judgment attached to the question, the caring way in which she asked, and the reaction she unknowingly provoked, informed me that this moment was one for the “this only happens once in a lifetime, this is your life,” living journals. I will hold onto it until I can no longer remember my name and I suspect our host will as well.

Finally, allow me to add, at a time when we have been forced and advised to isolate ourselves from others, it is moments such as this, where social interaction and human kindness collide, that I personally realize, why it is essential that we come together. To be human is to be with one another; to laugh, to cry and to love. No judgment, just good intentions.

Travel

As long as I test negative for COVID-19 on Sunday, Cuba is finally happening. You’ll read all about it in my next blog.

Be well, and be with the people you adore and admire and those who feel the same way about you.

[I tested yesterday so that I could pack and prepare with some degree of confidence. Negative results were not a given. Having achieved negative results, I will be isolating for the remainder of this week.]