The Joy of Making Travel Arrangements

Traveling is fun.  Traveling is interesting. 

But making travel arrangements is a tedious drag.

For the past few weeks, I've been working on my travel arrangements for a January trip to the U.S.  I've been checking different sites, on different days and at different times, looking for the best options.  I've felt wedded to United Airlines because, since they consumed Continental Airlines, that’s where all my award miles are.  But I don’t like United Airlines.  I think they've become too cheap and passenger-unfriendly… like a flying bus service.

Continental was better, and it seems that the new, merged operation has inherited precious little that was better about Continental.  One of the things I miss the most is the ability to fly on KLM as a partner airline.  Sure, United has a relationship with Lufthansa, which is a pretty fair airline, but I like KLM better.

But when you have a large investment of miles in a particular mileage program, it is a strong motivator to keep using that airline.  You have to admit that the whole concept of mileage plans is one of the cleverest marketing ploys ever.

When you fly a lot, you realize there are a lot of things to take into consideration to have the best experience (as much as possible, at least) and avoid those little things that can make it go badly.  You look closely at departure and arrival times, which airports they want to route you through, how much time they give you for connections, what planes you'll fly on, and what opportunities you'll have to select decent seats.  That's a lot to process.

To get a halfway decent price, United wanted me to spend 19 hours sitting on my hands in Frankfort (an airport I don't particularly like), then rush through immigration, customs, security recheck, etc. in two hours or less at my first U.S. stop.  How on Earth can the airline systems suggest an itinerary with only an hour or an hour and a half connection time at a busy major airport when you have to go through all of that?  They’re insane!

To get more convenient arrangements, the prices skyrocketed.  And when I compared these results to what I might find on the "cheapo" sites, where they offer all airlines, the prices were not substantially better for similar arrangements.  And also, there was the matter of those award miles!

So, after countless checking and comparison, taking all factors into consideration, and running the numbers, I finally made a decision.  I decided to just cash in all my United miles and do my flights as business-class award flights.  I wound up buying two separate itineraries: one between Kiev and Boston, and the second between Boston and Denver.  This will pretty much clear out my balance with United, leaving just a few thousand miles in the pot.  

I feel relieved.  With my divorce from United, I'll be free to look around at better-looking alternatives, without feeling the guilt of "cheating" on my airline.  Next time I fly long-distance, I’ll start a new relationship directly with KLM.  I've already applied for a mileage program marriage.  I mean, what the heck… I’m more or less a European now anyway.

So now I can spend a weekend with family in Taunton and then go on to Colorado to visit family and friends and enjoy the big celebration on January 11^th.  I haven’t booked my rental cars yet, but the prices, both in Boston and Denver, seem pretty reasonable.  But that's more time on the computer, checking and comparing, before finally making the bookings.

The only downside to my itinerary is that I’ll have to book an overnight hotel stay near the Kiev airport before my 05:55 flight out (yes, that is early in the dark morning).  And I’ll have to book another overnighter in Boston between my arrival from Denver and departure back to Europe.  Yikes!  More checking and booking.

As I said, it can get complicated.

And I’m still trying to decide the best way to get between Kharkov and Kiev.  I’ll probably fly – which will create yet a third flight itinerary – but my return baggage weight has me a little leery about this.  But I’d sure like to avoid taking the train.

Sometimes I think making the travel arrangements is more tiring than actually taking the trip.

Oh well… at least it’s all coming together, and I can look forward to my next visit to the USSA… in January… cold… snow… driving.  Oh, what fun that will be.

Beware of the Dance Floor Hazard

The other day, to appease the continual urging of a friend, I dragged my ponderous carcass out to a tango dance class.  There were forwards and backwards and lefts and rights, but mostly there were ups and downs.

Those who know me are aware that I used to be a fairly good dancer.  I spent several years (and a lot of green) at an Arthur Murray studio in Denver perfecting my style in swing dances (triple-time, West-Coast, hustle), Latin dances (rumba, cha-cha, samba, bolero) and waltz.  Occasionally we dabbled in things like foxtrot, American tango, salsa and country two-step. 

We had amateur competitions – Showcases – where we competed in the standard dances and where many of us did special “show dances” that we had choreographed and practiced for months.  I raked in quite a collection of blue ribbons (first place).  I was pretty good.

But that was a long time ago.  A lot has changed.  And that was made abundantly clear to me this week.

Age has caught up with me and injected nasty little aches into many of my moving parts.  And this has been exacerbated by my own penchant the past few years to eat a lot of crap and then let it settle into the most unseemly places while I spend hours in front of this very computer becoming one with my chair.  The extra pounds (or kilos, if you prefer) do not seem to help with anything at all.

Now, Argentine tango is pretty different from the Latin dances I used to do.  It consists of graceful, flowing motions, as opposed to the active movements of cha-cha, samba, salsa, etc.  In a lot of ways, rumba comes close, but it still has a lot of differences.  But tango IS a dance, so there are some things that are constant: you need rhythm, you need to stay on the balls and toes of your feet, you need to keep your weight shifting from foot to foot and not be “planted” on both feet, and you need balance.

I had problems with all of those things.  It was not a pretty sight.

My lack of balance was particularly upsetting, and I attribute this mainly to the weight I am carrying.  I remember my balance being quite good in the old days of dancing.  Balancing on one leg in certain positions and steps was never a problem.  I remember of my choreographed show routines in which I came up from a dip on just one leg while supporting the weight of my partner as well.  It was perfect.

Can’t do anything like that now.  Even with just my own weight, I’d topple over.

I can tell that my leg strength has really diminished, which also has to be contributing to the balance problem.  I've had lower-back, knee and ankle problems in recent years, which certainly don’t help.  It makes it hard to be on my toes and support myself on one leg at a time, and this throws off my balance.  When I am firmly planted on both feet (with at least 18 inches between them), I feel reasonably confident that I can stay upright – even on a marshrutka (local bus).  But anything less than that can be hazardous.

To make matters even worse, it was warm in the studio and I was sweating like a nervous pig in the hot sun… after eating green chili.  That was pretty embarrassing.

And worse still – it’s a dance studio, so there were big mirrors around the place.  Nowhere to hide.

So, what to do?  For a while, I had a feeling that I had made a huge mistake going to the class, that I was just making a fool of myself and should accept that the mojo is gone.  But I don’t think I am going to give up so easily.  I’ve been doing a lot of that for the past four or five years, and I’m rather tired of it.

This is not going to be easy.  But maybe that’s why I really need to stay with it.  PerhapsI can use this as a kind of turning point.  Maybe it will help me to turn around some other things as well.  If nothing else, it can’t hurt… unless I fall and break something.

I am going to work on this and give it a chance.  It seems like it might be good medicine.  Stay tuned!

Survival of the Worthless

The place: a cave somewhere in a land that will someday be known as the Islamic Republic of France.

The year and month: 29,485 B.C., month of the first melting.

The day and time: day of the tree god, approximately 22 minutes after the daily death of the sun.

The situation: a suburban Cro-Magnon couple, Fredron and his wife Wilmamakh, are discussing their child’s future.

Wilmamakh:  Freddie, I am very worried about our son, Moron.

Fredron:       Arrgghhh… Moron is not my son.  I still think you shared the blanket with that Neanderthal-faced idiot, Bidenak, that time when I was gone hunting for two weeks.

Wilmamakh: I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face that nothing happened with Bidenak.  It was very, very cold and he just kept me warm.  Clintonakh was under the same blanket, and he has told you also that nothing happened.

Fredron:       You expect me to believe Clintonakh?  He would do it with a dead pig.  Maybe they’re both responsible for Moron.

Wilmamakh:  You have no room to talk.  I know that when you go out on those long hunting trips, you and your friends sometimes slip into one of the Neanderthal camps for a little recreation.  So how many hairy little hybrids are carrying around some of your genes, huh?  That’s even more disgusting than dead pigs!

Fredron:       All right, all right… enough!  I thought you wanted to talk about our, I mean your worthless kid.

Wilmamakh:  Yes.  I am worried.  I mean, Moron is past the age to become a man, find a purpose in life, and start his own family, but he still lives with us.  I am 32 summers old, and I still have no grandchildren.  It’s embarrassing.  What are we going to do about him?

Fredron:       Do?  We should have left him out for the wolves when we first realized how worthless he is.  He HAS no purpose, and he never will.  The kid is the worst hunter the tribe has ever seen. 

                   I was never as embarrassed with the guys as when we took him out on the hunt with us.  The first time he saw a mammoth, he screamed and ran.  And the kid would not shut up.  I mean just as we were sneaking up on some horses, Moron would start jabbering about how his feet hurt, and the horses would hear him and run away.  And he can’t throw a spear more than 10 arm lengths, even with a spear thrower.

                   So I thought that if he can’t hunt, maybe there was something else he could do.  I sent him to Grummonon the spear-maker to teach him how to make spear points, but he was a failure at that.  Grummy said that Moron ruined all the flint rocks and had no talent for making points.  And he complained about cutting his hands on the rocks.

Wilmamakh:  Yes, this is what I mean.  And remember when we sent him to Dalaila the shaman to learn how to speak with the spirits and heal the sick?  I never saw Dali so angry.

Fredron:       Of course he was angry, he discovered that your son was stealing the secret meditation herbs, sharing some of it with the local girls and selling the rest to the Neanderthals.  To the Neanderthals!

Wilmamakh:  Oh, that was embarrassing.  At the sacrifice ritual, Dalaila told everyone what a bad son we had and demanded that we pay two extra rhino roasts to appease the mountain god.

Fredron:       Exactly!  And then there was the time we asked Normonakh the rock painter to teach Moron how to paint pictures on the cave walls.  You remember how that turned out!

Wilmamakh:  Yes, I know.  He just has no talent for art.  The only animal he can draw is a rabbit, and his people all look like a combination of sticks.  Not everyone can be a cave painter.

Fredron:       He has no talent for anything.  And the worst thing was hearing that he became terrified when Normonakh tried to take him down to the deep rooms of the cave.  Our… I mean your son, crying!

Wilmamakh:  Well… he’s just more in touch with his feminine side than most boys.

Fredron:       Arrgghhh!  Feminine side... yeah, like when we tried to get him an apprenticeship with Carvakh, the best butcher in the tribe.  I thought that maybe if he became good at butchering the animals we kill, he would at least have some useful purpose.  But he faints at the sight of blood.

Wilmamakh:  There must be something he can do.

Fredron:       Like what?  He can’t hunt, he can’t make weapons, he can’t butcher meat, he can’t paint, he steals from the shaman and the spirits won’t communicate with him.  He is even too lazy to go with the women to gather plants and dig for roots.  You try to show him where to look, but he constantly says he can’t find any.

Wilmamakh:  I know.  Even our girls can do that.  There has to be something he can do?

Fredron:       Maybe he should become a cave checker.

Wilmamakh:  A cave checker? 

Fredron:       Yes, you know.  When we find a new cave, we send him in first to check it out and make sure there are no problems… like bears or lions.  It’s a short career, but at least he would have a purpose.

Wilmamakh:  No!  I won’t let my son be sent into a cave to be eaten.  There must be something else for him.  He must have some unique talent.

Fredron:       The only thing he knows how to do well is to avoid real work and to lie.  I have never seen anyone who can lie like him.  And he seems to know how to make people believe him, especially the young girls.  But that’s partly due to teaching them how to smoke the shaman’s herbs.  He is worthless!  He has nothing productive to offer the tribe.

Wilmamakh:  Wait a minute… that’s it!  He DOES have a talent.

Fredron:       What talent?

Wilmamakh:  Lying.  He is a great at telling untruths and making people believe they are true.  So there IS a career path for him!  In fact, there are two paths

Fredron:       You don’t mean…

Wilmamakh: Yes!  Public relations... or politics!

Fredron:       Noooooooo!

(to be continued)

Why Does October Hate Me?

October and I don’t get along very well.  In fact, this evil month seems to have it in for me big time.

October just sits there on the calendar, 10 months distant from the beginning of the year, where you don't even think about it, hoping that I’ll forget its prior dastardly ways and stumble yet again into its trap.  And usually, this fiendish month is right.  I go through the delights of spring, summer and early autumn, and never see that punch in the nose coming until its too late.

It’s like walking along in a meadow on a crisp, yet sunny fall day, admiring the beautiful gold, red and orange of the leaves on the trees, and suddenly stepping on the upturned business end of a rake and snapping the handle against your forehead.  Ouch!

So what’s the problem with October?  Well, every October since I started living in Ukraine, I have gotten sick.  Flu, bad cold, viral infection in my chest, sinuses… you name it, I've had it in October.  Usually, I’m not sure exactly what it is.  All I know is that I get knocked on my back for a while with a fever, coughing, awful muck in my throat... nice stuff like that. 

I hate this month!

As I write this, I am sitting at my desk in my sweats.  I have been wearing my sweats since Sunday.  These sweats need washing, but I need to wear them.  Fortunately, I did manage to make my way to the shower today and then put on a clean T-shirt.  I haven’t shaved since Friday (today is Tuesday).  If I was out on the street, I’d look like a homeless alcoholic (almost).

I've had an on-again, off-again fever since Sunday, and I've been suffering from that kind of chronic, deep-in-the-lungs coughing that seems certain to result in my spleen working its way into my handkerchief (which also needs to be cleaned… yuck!).  Add to that the obligatory hot and tired eyes, reduced equilibrium (remember the homeless alkie look?), and serious lack of sleep, and you get the whole picture.  And did I mention that I have about as much energy as an apathetic, overweight tortoise... with nothing special to do... on Monday morning... with no coffee?

Fortunately, this is not the worse punch October has thrown at me since 2008, but it sucks nevertheless.  When October first got me, in 2008, it was for about a week or so.  I was living in my old apartment, and I remember that I decided to just sleep – and live – on my living room sofa.  I was a sad sight, and I was lucky to have a couple of friends to play the role of Florence Nightingale for me.

But the next year was even worse.  In October 2009, I was knocked out for about two weeks or more, and I had one night when I seriously thought I would not see the next morning.  I felt completely weak and had massive sweating attacks (pardon the less-than-appealing image) that led me to believe I was having a silent heart attack.  Again, my local amateur nurses came to my rescue, but in this instance I actually had to go to a doctor.

The next two Octobers were not as severe as that one, but still I was knocked out of action for a week or so.  That is not especially advantageous when you need to work each day to earn a living.  No work, no pay!

But I thought that maybe I was developing a stronger resistance to the dreaded Kharkov version of the “October Surprise.”  It appears not.  There is just something about this month that gets me every time.

I don’t know why I seem more prone to viral or bacterial infections in October.  Maybe they come from sharing crowded marshrutkas (route buses) with a bunch of people who could be carrying anything from common colds to superbubonic-swine-foul-fish flu/plague.  But I ride the marshrutkas at other times of the year and don’t get the same effect.

Oh well, on the plus side, at least I do get a bit of, “how can I help” attention from the girls when these things happen.  That’s always nice.

Maybe next year, I should plan to be out of the country in October.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Additional Note: Relating to a previous post, it occurred to me this evening that when you live alone, you never feel as alone as when you are sick.

Origins of Dance -- The Foxtrot

Note:  This is a humor piece I first wrote about 12 years ago when I was dancing.  I liked to combine my two favorite activities at the time - dancing and writing - to create some little articles to amuse my dance colleagues.  I've tweaked it a bit since then.  Any resemblance to fact is purely coincidental.

Popular myth has held that the Foxtrot was invented early in the 20^th century by a washed-up, alcoholic vaudevillian by the name of Fox.  In fact, Fox had merely plagiarized an ancient dance in a last-ditch effort to rescue his sinking entertainment career and keep from winding up on the street.  The basic concept behind the real origins of the Foxtrot can be traced to the very dawn of human civilization, though its more practical design and practice date to more recent times: the late Middle Ages.

The Thrill of the Hunt

Since humans first dropped out of the trees, we have hunted.  And like today, men have always bragged and waxed artistic about their hunting feats.  Early Cro-Magnon hunters frequently went into dank caves to paint exaggerated stories about their hunting exploits on the rock walls.  No doubt they danced the “Buffalo Boogie” or the “Mammoth Mash” in front of their finished creations. 

Later, the great hunters of human tribes would create masks and costumes depicting the animals they had defeated, then they would consume high-quality, mind-altering herbs (which were totally legal at the time) and dance wildly around campfires.  It was considered a great way to impress the cave chicks, and although the practice has changed a bit since then, the basic concept has remained with us.

European Origins

We now fast forward through centuries of hunting, dancing and impressing chicks to medieval Europe.  By the late middle ages, the waltz had already been invented (by the Irish, of course) and had swept the continent.  It enjoyed a period of immense popularity, owing mostly to the fact that people did not have to know how to count past three, which was well within the range of almost all the aristocracy and even many of the peasants. 

But people were becoming bored with the waltz because it seemed frivolous; it didn’t really “symbolize” anything significant in their lives.  Grudgingly, however, they waltzed at elaborate castle parties since there was not yet electricity to power the discos.

At about this same time, another diversion had developed: the Fox Hunt.  Aristocratic types all over Europe, bowing to the male need to hunt live prey, had joined in the fun of gathering large groups of men on horses to chase little foxes across the countryside, aided, of course, by immense packs of vicious dogs.  What grand sport it was!  No place was this sport more popular than in England where amassing overpowering forces against essentially helpless foes was always considered “good sport.”  Just ask the Irish or the Scots. 

After the hunt, the men would all retire to the Hunt Club to eat, drink, smoke and recount their daring deeds of hunting bravery in subduing the always-dangerous fox.  But something was missing; there was no way to artistically express or recount the thrill of the hunt, nor were ladies allowed in the club to be impressed. 

This is when the concept of the Fox Hunt Ball was invented.  Essentially, the lord of the manor would throw a grand party to celebrate the successful hunt.  Men would invite their ladies, and just to ensure good sport, plenty of unattached ladies would also be invited.  Once gathered, they would eat, drink, and, of course, dance (ho hum) the waltz.  The parties often ended early due to boredom.

We CAN Count Past Three!

One evening during a Fox Hunt Ball in lower east Essex-on-the-Bottomly, a lady asked a lord how the hunt had gone, and he proceeded to describe it to her in detail.  This was between waltzes, and the man not only described the hunt verbally, but even acted it out for the lady (remember, he’s trying to impress chicks here). 

He described how the fox had been strutting along in the sun, then suddenly dashed for cover when it heard the hounds.  He and the other hunters pursued the prey, leaping their steeds over logs and streams, and turning suddenly, to and fro, in reaction to the scurrying canine. 

As the lady watched the fine gentleman act out the various movements, the boredom caused her mind to wander, and suddenly a thought occurred to her and she quickly embraced him in a waltz-like dance position (this was the only one they knew, you understand). 

“Keep going,” she encouraged excitedly.  And she moved with him as he again described the hunt.  Taking two steps forward, he described how the fox would strut so confidently, but then, upon hearing the hounds, it would take two quick side steps toward the cover of the bushes.  Thrusting his left hand to the side and turning to his left, they would “promenade” in that direction, depicting how the hunters would stalk their prey. 

Other movements followed: turns and intricate new variations.  Watching the couple moving about the floor, the minstrels began playing in – get this – 4/4 time, creating new music all the while.  Other couples watched incredulously, then joined on the floor and copied the movements. 

Smiles were on everyone’s faces for having discovered not only an alternative to that boring old waltz, but the realization that they could indeed count past three.  Before long, they had created a new dance that swept the land: the Fox Hunt Dance.

A Fox by Any Other Name

The Fox Hunt Dance had become the rage of England and soon found its way to the continent (the Irish, of course, refused to dance it - a trend that continues with some stubborn Irishmen to this day). 

Someone conjured a rumor that in the dance, the lady’s role symbolized the wily, hunted fox, while the man symbolized the daring hunter.  Naturally, this view, which also became widespread across Europe, circulated only among the men.  As this perception of the dance became accepted – and of course, men being men – it was most common to hear ladies at the Fox Hunt Balls being secretly referred to as “foxes” (gentlemen never called them vixens).   

Frequently, two “gentlemen” off to the side, taking a break from the dancing and enjoying a glass of brandy, would eye the ladies lasciviously as they danced and remark, “Look there, William.  Now that fox certainly can trot!”  Over time, this not only gave rise to the use of the word “fox” to describe an attractive lady, but men began referring to the dance as the Trot of the Foxes, soon shortened to the Foxtrot.  Ladies also accepted the name, never fully understanding its origins… until the late 20^th century.

Modern Times

The dance lost its luster after the Americas were discovered and earthy native dances were brought back to Europe, along with tobacco, corn, potatoes and parrots.  Surprisingly, the attraction of the native dances, complete with animal masks and costumes, did not last long in Europe, except in the Iberian Peninsula where they formed the basis for all sorts of Latin dances (but that’s another story).  And when the Europeans returned to tradition, they fell back to the boring old waltz, completely forgetting about the Fox Hunt Dance (this is often blamed on the French).

It wasn't until this century that the old Fox Hunt Dance was revitalized when that washed-up vaudevillian, Fox, found old accounts of the Foxtrot and figured he could reinvent the dance under his own name.  He now rests in his grave, smug in the belief that he successfully scammed the world; but, of course, thanks to us, you now know better.  

So as you dance today’s Foxtrot, remember the unknown lady whose sudden inspiration while being told a boring hunting story created the actual movements, think of the snickering lords whose crude banter about the ladies helped shape the terminology, pay homage to those poor foxes that gave their lives for your dancing pleasure, and – most important – remember to count past three.

------------------------------------------------------

Spirit of the Mountains

As some of you might know, my favorite animal is the mountain lion.  Of course, it’s not really a lion.  It’s not related to lions at all, beyond the obvious fact that they are both cats.  Mountain lions are more closely related to your fluffy little tabby at home than to the shaggy-maned beasts of Africa.  Mountain lions cannot roar, but they can purr.

In Colorado and much of the American West, we often call them cougars.  In Central and South America, they are called pumas.  Mountain lions live as far north as the Yukon territory in Canada and as far south as the very tip of South America.  They used to be common across North America, from coast to coast, but European settlers killed them off and usurped most of their habitat east of the Rocky Mountains. 

On average, the mountain lion is the fourth largest of all the cats, right behind the jaguar and barely ahead of the leopard.

Some facts about mountain lions:

Mountain lions do not actually hunt – because the word hunt suggests the possibility of failure. A mountain lion does not go hunting… it goes killing.

If you can see a mountain lion, he can see you.  If you can't see a mountain lion you may be only seconds away from death.

A rattlesnake once bit a mountain lion on the leg.  After five days of excruciating pain, the snake died.

A mountain lion can drown a fish.

The chief export of a mountain lion is pain.

Mountain lions can slam revolving doors.

When the boogeyman goes to sleep every night he checks his closet for mountain lions.

Oh, wait a minute… those are Chuck Norris facts.  But they’re pretty close.

The mountain lion is my spirit animal.  I learned this from a Ute Indian who claimed to be a shaman.  In a special ceremony, inside a tee-pee, complete with a fire, sage smoke and, I suspect, some other kinds of smoke – and for the low, low price of only $25 – he looked into my soul and saw a mountain lion.  I hope that’s all he saw.

When he was finished, I think he went off to his night job spinning roulette at the tribal casino. 

Sure, it sounds pretty hokey, but I actually do believe there is some legitimacy to Native American and other nature-based spiritual beliefs.  Maybe I was a druid in a previous life.  But I think this guy was on to something, because I did some checking about the attributes of the mountain lion as a spirit animal and, thus, the attributes of the person who takes on the cougar spirit.  Here’s what I found:

According to the Zunis of the American Southwest, the mountain lion is known for its high intelligence, knowledge of other animals, physical strength, and its intuitive ability.  That sounds like me so far!  The Shawnee of the American Southeast apparently saw the cougar as having the gift of prophecy.  I’m usually about half-right on predictions, so that’s not terribly encouraging.

To the Quecheua people of the Andes, the puma was synonymous with power.  A number of native peoples saw the mountain lion as a symbol of leadership and right use of power.  They say that cougar brings lessons and messages about leadership, self-confidence, about believing in yourself and your dreams, and about letting your heart lead the way.  Among all the animal totems, the mountain lion is one of the most spiritual.

Well… that is just plain cool!  If the mountain lion is truly my spirit animal, it’s a lot to live up to.  But there’s more to my association with the cougar than just a touristy ceremony in a tee-pee.  There are the dreams.

Cougars have been in my dreams many times over the years.  The most vivid was a dream I had in the late 1990s.  I was sitting alone at night on the lower part of a tall hill.  I had a campfire burning in front of me.  At the top of the hill was some sort of building with people inside, talking and having a good time.  In front of me was a forest.

Suddenly, a cougar came out of the forest, walked up the hill and sat down beside me.  We knew each other well, and we talked about out “old days” together in the forest, adventures we shared, trouble we got into, and the joy of living free.  Then we grew quiet.  The lion looked at the building, then looked at me and said, “You don’t belong there.”  I agreed, and then the lion asked me to come back into the forest.  “I don’t belong there anymore either,” I replied.

We were quiet for a long time, then I looked over and saw that this mountain lion had changed into a beautiful woman.  It was someone I did not know at that time, but who I believe I met much later.  There was more to the dream, but that is better left to the imagination.

Mountain lions have appeared in other dreams, always as a friend, partner and advice-giver.  So this animal clearly has some deep importance to me.

I used to camp and hike a lot in Colorado’s beautiful mountain forests.  Always, I hoped for a glimpse of the big cat (and to not be bothered by bears).  I saw tracks occasionally, but mountain lions are masters of elusiveness and never graced me with their view.

But one of the amazing moments of my life occurred when I lived in the mountains southwest of Denver.  One day, I spotted three cougars behind my house: a mother with two almost-grown cubs.  They were just standing there, looking around.  My first thought was, “where is Tia?”  But my little black attack cat was sleeping on my bed; the lions were in no danger from her.

My good camera had a dead battery, but I managed to get off a poor-quality shot with another one.  Then I just watched them, in amazement.  After a few minutes, they heard something that seemed to startle them, and they walked off into the forest, dignified as one might expect. 

It was a short visit, but it made my day, week and whatever else.  Finally, the spirits had appeared to me.

------------------------------------------------------

Headphones

Occasionally, you see some trend in society, in the culture, and you think, “If only I had seen that coming, I could have made a fortune!”  Well, someone clearly is getting rich selling…

… headphones!

Everywhere I go in Kharkov, I see people walking, riding and sitting with headphones on.  I see them walking on the streets.  I see them on buses and on the metro.  I see them in cafes and parks.  I see them on bicycles and roller blades (it’s not smart, but they do it).   

People who drive nice cars don’t need headphones; they can just turn up the volume on their 25-speaker car audio systems.  But those in Ladas or Zhigulis probably use headphones to feel like they have a 25-speaker system (and to feel like they are not driving a Lada or Zhiguli).

I am convinced that no one under the age of 22 can go out in public without wearing headphones.  It’s like going out without pants.  And probably 90 percent of those between 22 and 25 feel incomplete without something electronic in or covering their ears.  My extensive personal research indicates that 80 percent of all people under 30 are compelled to sport headphones in public, and a great many under 40 do the same.  I wish I had just one Swiss franc for every set of headphones in this city.

Editorial comment: I prefer the Swiss franc because of its relative stability - and because the name sounds cool.  I mean "Swiss franc"!  It sounds like the kind of money Mitt Romney would have in his wallet.  The Ukrainian hryvnia has been losing value of late, and most people here are worried that after the election, it will take a big drop.  There is no way I would take a chance on the euro right now, and the way the U.S. Federal Reserve is printing dollars, it may soon be worth less than the hryvnia, especially if the current administration remains in the White House while the rest of the country falls off that famous "financial cliff."  So sign me up for those cool Swiss francs.

But I digress.

Headphones allow people to feel alone and isolated while navigating the swarms of people in the city.  They let you shut out the world while you are out in the world.  It gives the users an excuse to ignore what goes on around them – not a good excuse, but an excuse nonetheless.  This is especially useful for young guys who don’t want to give up their seats on crowded buses to women or old people. 

In a time and place where personal privacy is hard to find, headphones give people a false sense of that privacy. 

Sometimes headphones are the “earbud” variety: tiny little speakers that you stick into your ear canals.  I don’t like these because they always fall out.  I guess this means I have the wrong sized ears or too much wax for the buds to stay in place.  An alternative is a “sport” headset, which is like earbuds attached to a thin frame that goes over your head or around the back and over your ears.  That’s what I have: the behind-the-head thingy.  No matter how much wax I produce, the little speakers don’t fall out.

Of course there are those who prefer to carry some heavy-duty, eardrum-busting megaheadphones.  These are the kind that look like they are for professional music producers or helicopter pilots.  I don’t mind these when I fly, but for just walking around town, they take up too much space in my bag.  Besides, I don’t really feel like I need to have concert-hall-quality sound when I’m just going for a short bus ride or walk.

Most people listen to music, of course.  And some people who are averse to real music listen to “rap” instead.  The proliferation of digital music devices the size of a matchbox that can hold a million songs makes it easy.  But there are others who listen to pod casts, audio books or foreign language lessons.  So in this way, they can be quite useful.

I don’t object to this trend, really.  Sometimes I do the same.  I carry a tiny iPod Nano with 16 gigs of memory, and there are occasions when I feel like shutting out the world too.  But more often, the bus trip is too short to enjoy the music, and when I walk, I prefer the safety of being able to hear what is going on around me.  Call me old fashioned, but I like to take advantage of my good hearing and give myself plenty of advanced warning that I’m about to be run over by a garbage truck.

That would be an awful way to go out… with the garbage.

Aside from the fact that I didn’t see the trend coming and get in early to make gobs of money, there is only one problem I see with all these headphones everywhere: not only can I see them, but too often I can HEAR them too!

This is where I part company with roughly half the headphone users around here.  The point of wearing headphones is so that you can listen to your sound without inflicting it on others around you.  But more and more, I find that I have no choice but to hear some insidious “rap” or other vile crap that some moron is serenading himself with in the seat behind me on a bus.

Perhaps these are just poor quality headphones that don’t seal well around the ears.  Or maybe – just maybe – the user has the volume up so loud that the sound has no choice but to migrate out the top of his head.  In that case, I can take some solace from the knowledge that he will be deaf in five years and his brain will turn to jelly within 10. 

Perhaps soon, someone will invent the next phase of personal listening, which would bypass actual sound all together and transmit the audio directly into the person’s brain cells.  That would be great, because while the “listener” is slowly destroying his noggin, I can relax in peace to the soothing sounds of car horns, poorly tuned engines, screeching brakes and screaming babushkas.

So… I wonder how I can get in on this direct audio-to-brain thing? 

A Lucky Guy!

I am a lucky guy.

No, really… I am! 

Sometimes it is beneficial to take a few minutes to look back at your life and think about what you have learned. I’ve learned a lot – I mean, really, A LOT! I’m still in the process, and I’ll always feel that I haven’t learned nearly as much as I should have. But I have come to realize a lot of things, and one of these is that I have been very, very lucky in my life.

Of course, we can always look at our lives and focus on what has gone wrong, where we fell short, situations that didn’t go as we had hoped, ways in which we felt shortchanged, etc. But for most of us, this amounts to just some silly, selfish, “poor me” tantrums with no real basis in fact. It just fulfills the need so many of us have to complain about things and look elsewhere for the blame.

Maybe your situation is different and you really do have some valid reasons to complain or to say that life sucks. But I don’t. When I really look at it, the only possible verdict is that my life has been pretty good except in those areas where I let myself down. I’ve been very lucky that my experience of life has been mostly good, and when there have been problems, they’ve usually been self-inflicted. If I am honest about it, I can only cite a few instances where someone else, or life in general, really screwed me over.

To start off, I was incredibly lucky to have been born where and when I was. Considering a lot of the alternatives, those of us born in America and Canada are pretty lucky people. We were born in a place where – until recently – there was very little standing in your way toward success. If you have the talent, skill, desire and willingness to work hard, you can accomplish almost anything. In America and Canada, even a person from the poorest and humblest levels of society can rise up to the top. 

Now the government is increasingly trying to get in the way and control who can rise and how far you can go, but we do still have a system that gives us the power to fight back against that kind of government control. So there is always hope that balance can be restored and liberty kept alive.

But being born an American gave me great opportunities that, unfortunately, don’t exist for everyone. I got a good education at a time when public schools still excelled, and I was able to put myself through a great university before costs became prohibitive. As an American, I can travel pretty easily to just about anyplace I want in the world. This is not the same for many of my friends in other countries who have to deal with strict visa limitations, control by their own governments, higher travel costs, etc.

I was very lucky to have been born in a period of relative peace and prosperity.  When I was a kid, middle-class Americans were able to afford homes, cars and other things that made life safer and more comfortable. I definitely had it better than my parents and a LOT better than my grandparents.

When I was a kid, we had a lot of new technology that made our lives better than it had been for earlier generations. I was lucky to have been born at that point in time when we had such technology, but before the swell of technology virtually took over kids’ lives. We still played outdoors almost all the time, instead of sitting like lumps in front of a computer or video game. Technology is a wonderful thing, but sometimes we are a lot more free without it: free to be kids, free to be natural, free to be human.

We felt safe and didn’t worry about perverted child molesters and such. We could walk alone to and from school, ride our bikes all over town, play outside at night, and we felt safe. 

North America was not a place ravaged by war, or drought, or disease. In my childhood, we didn’t fear for our homes or our lives. As a kid, we did have some fear that the Soviet Union wanted to drop nuclear bombs on us, but we didn’t dwell on that. Really, we didn’t think much about it at all. 

I was too young for Vietnam and by the time the first Iraq war came along, I was past the prime for active military service. I did join the Navy during the later stages of the Cold War, and sometimes things were not really so cold, but I was lucky a few more times, and I’m here now.

So I was pretty lucky.

I had issues with my parents, but, really, I was pretty lucky to have been born to the parents I had. They were solid, steady people who worked hard and did the best they could for their family. They didn’t drink, do drugs, waste money on frivolous things, or anything like that. My father believed in saving for something before buying it, and not just running up credit bills. Sometimes that meant that neighbors had nicer cars or TVs than we did, but we were better off for his common-sense approach.

From my parents, I learned some good basic values. In my youth, I sometimes went against those values, as we all do, but at least I HAD those values to fall back on when it mattered.

Often we learn more from the hard times, especially our own mistakes, than from anything else.  In this, I’ve also been lucky. I have had some hard times, but they’ve been mostly of my own making. And I’ve had the good fortune to have learned some valuable lessons. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes hurt others. Those times I've hurt others is the only thing in my life that I truly regret... and I regret that a lot! But as I realized the pain of others and felt my own suffering, I also learned and came to understand life better. It’s what I’ve been on this Earth to do, and I’ve been lucky to have the lessons.

Life has given me the opportunity to travel to so many different countries and to experience so much of the world.  I’ve seen almost every part of the U.S. and much of Canada. I’ve swum in the South China Sea; sailed on the tropical Pacific, run into a shark while snorkeling over a reef at the edge of the Marianas Trench, climbed to the top of Mount Fuji (twice), and rode a motorcycle around the island of Hokkaido. 

I’ve hiked on the steppe of Kazakhstan, the windswept expanses of southern Patagonia, the gentle pastures of southwestern Ireland, and the high valleys of the Peruvian Andes. I’ve tasted wonderful cuisine in cities like Tokyo, Sapporo, Lima, Cusco, Cajamarca, Buenos Aires, Comodoro Rivadavia, Santiago, Almaty, Dublin, Galway, Honolulu, Vancouver, Montreal, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Kyiv and Kharkiv, and countless towns and villages on four continents.

More than just visiting so many places, I’ve had the opportunity to live in a variety of places around the world. I’ve lived in a number of places in the U.S., including New England (where I grew up), New Jersey, Maryland, coastal California (Monterey), West Texas, just outside of Chicago, and of course beautiful Colorado, which is still and probably always will be my home. Outside of the U.S., I’ve lived on the island of Guam, in two different regions of Japan, in Lima, Peru, and now in Kharkiv, Ukraine.

I’m really a lucky guy.

I’ve been lucky to have two incredible daughters who have grown to be amazing individuals in their own rights. When I see what they are doing and accomplishing in their own lives, I am immensely proud of who they have become. They are better than me, and this is how it should be.

I’ve been lucky to have had many fantastic friends throughout my life, especially in recent years. Some of the best have been in my life for 20 years or more, and they are still there for me. I have many, many acquaintances here in Kharkiv – wonderful people, all. And I have a core of special friends here in Kharkiv who really are among the best a person could have.

Lucky!

I have known love, really known love at a deep, soul level. I don’t think most people really find that. But I have.  It was brief and didn’t stay, didn’t persevere, and it’s still hard to know why.  But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I had it, so I know what it is, how it feels, what it means. I am lucky to have had that experience, that knowledge. And since I am a lucky guy, it certainly can happen again.

I know that I am lucky in many other ways too. So perhaps there will be a “part two” to this post.

Perhaps in some small way this will get you to thinking about your own life. You are probably pretty lucky too. Don’t you agree?

--------------------------------------------------

Living Alone

I live alone.

This is how I have lived for a very long time.  For the entirety of my time in Ukraine, which started with my first apartment in September 2007 and has been nearly continuous (no lengthy stays in the U.S.) since May of 2008, I have lived alone in a modest, two-room apartment. 

Before that I lived alone for three years in a cabin in the Colorado mountains, where I could not see my nearest neighbors’ homes and where my most frequent visitors were deer, elk, raccoons, foxes and an occasional bear.  And before that I lived alone in a house that was much too big for one person in the south Denver suburbs for four and a half years.  There I had neighbors so close we could almost peer into each other’s windows, and my most frequent visitors were solicitors.

And even before that, I lived mostly alone or with one or two roommates for longer than I care to admit.  Living with a roommate or two is not exactly the same as living alone, of course, but it is also not at all the same as living in a relationship or marriage.  Even with a roommate, you can have a lot of aloneness.  Although you do have someone to talk with or do things with occasionally, you pretty much live your own lives and do your own things.  You give as much privacy to the other and keep as much to yourself as possible.

For many of us, at various stages of life, the idea of living alone sounds great.  This is especially true in our late teen years when we are dreadfully tired of living according to the rules and regulations of a family.  You can do what you want and not have to answer to anyone else.  You can go where you want, stay out as long as you want, make as much of a mess as you want, be as stupid as you want... it's great.  

If you want to use the bathroom with the door open, it's never a problem.  And no one uses your stuff or messes with the arrangement of your bathroom supplies.  You can make all the disgusting noises you want and never think twice about it. 

You can have privacy and quiet.  There is no one to stick his or her nose in your business, take offense that you didn’t clean up immediately after you made pancakes (three days earlier), or yell at you to pick up your room.  No one criticizes you for your choices of TV programs or for eating whipped cream straight out of the can… on the sofa… in your underwear.

If you want to play loud music, you can do it (unless you are in a flimsy Krushchevko-style apartment).  And if you want quiet so that you can concentrate or sleep, you don’t have to worry about anyone else interrupting your peace (unless you live in a flimsy Krushchevko-style apartment.

Yeah, it’s a great way to live!  Right?

Well, I wouldn’t recommend it… at least not for any long periods of time.  It can breed bad habits.

I have noticed certain things I do that I don’t think I’d be doing if I had a bunkie here with me.  For example, I talk to myself a lot more often than I used to.  I have some great conversations with myself sometimes, but those conversations often devolve into bitter arguments, which I always lose.

It used to concern me that I talked too much with my cats, when I had cats.  This was especially true in my mountain house when Tia the Attack Cat lived with me.  When she wasn’t outside terrorizing the local deer population (it was my dream, not hers), we used to converse a lot. 

I would try to talk about philosophy, spirituality, why she wasn't bringing home any fresh deer meat, or why I was living alone with a cat.  She, on the other hand, would just respond by yawning, standing by her food dish, or meowing to go back outdoors to terrorize the local rabbit and chipmunk populations (some of which she DID bring home).

So, it was a lot like talking to myself.  Now it’s sort of the same, but I don’t have buy cat food or clean smelly litter boxes.  So I guess it’s an improvement.

Talking to yourself is just one concern; there are others.

When you live by yourself, you don’t change your bed sheets as often as you probably should, you use the same shower towel for too long, and you don’t keep the place as clean as you would if there was at least one other person around.  Contrary to some popular beliefs, those are NOT good things.  

I am fortunate that I have students here almost every morning.  That forces me to keep the place picked up, looking good, and not smelling like a New York City dumpster.  To this extent, at least, I have retained some good habits.

And living alone is not conducive to maintaining personal discipline.  When you are responsible to and for no one but yourself, it's easy to be, well, irresponsible.  Not only does having another person around give you that extra voice of conscience (even if it sometimes seems like nagging), but if it is someone you care about - or love - it gives you extra motivation to do and be better.  Sometimes we really need that kind of motivation to reach our higher potentials.

But the worst thing about living alone is that you spend most of your time alone.  And this is not good for the soul.  The soul needs companionship: the warmth of a smile, the pleasure of long and sometimes intimate conversations, the joy of playing tricks on each other and laughing about it, the challenge of disagreeing and occasionally arguing without fighting or hurting each other, and that special, secure feeling of holding someone close or being held.

There is a quote I ran across once that went something like, “A life shared is a life well-lived.”  That always struck me as very true.  And at the same time, it struck me as a little sad because it suggested that my own life has not been particularly well-lived.

My most joyous moments have been the ones I’ve been able to share with others: thoughts, feelings, experiences, and especially love.  But those have come in short, fleeting moments lost in an enormous ocean of aloneness.  The sharing should have been the ocean and the aloneness the short, fleeting moments, but it hasn’t worked out that way.   

Why?  I really don’t know.  Maybe it was being too caught up in work and travel for too long.  Maybe it was not being grounded long enough to "build" something lasting.  After the terrible pain of some things that didn't work out, maybe it was fear.  Maybe I was waiting for something that never happened or perhaps didn't even exist.  The "why" doesn't really matter.

Aloneness is not a good thing.  For all the benefits you might think you can gain from this ultimate independence, you really gain nothing.  Years rush by in the blink of an eye, and you wake up one day shocked by the realization that you've seen many more years pass by than you have yet to come.  And it is not pleasant to realize that you've lived most of those years in a most empty and unsatisfying way.  I would not wish that on my worst enemy.

I still hold out some hope that I might enjoy a few years living well a shared life, but time is growing shorter, and prospects are dim.  Perhaps, sometimes, certain things are just meant to be.