Signs

A lot has been happening during this visit to the USSA, and much of it has not been as good as I had hoped.  The events and situations that have arisen have had me looking very seriously at whether they are signs that I need to pay attention to, signs with messages about what I should or shouldn't do in the future.  Specifically, I've been thinking about my future in Ukraine.  It’s something I've been considering a lot the past days.

I believe strongly that the universe (or God, if you prefer) sends us signs and messages to help us find and navigate the right paths for ourselves.  I was not always so aware of this, but in the mid-1990s, I started to understand that what we often take as odd “coincidences” are almost always signs intended to help us know which way to go.

Similarly, people come into our lives with messages for us.  Sometimes, these are people who play a significant role, teaching us something we need to learn, helping us discover something important about ourselves, or just being a necessary source of support and confidence.  More often, however, it is the people who just sort of pass through our lives who have some of the most important messages for us.  But we rarely notice – unless we've learned to be more observant and aware.

Signs can come in the form of situations that either work out or don’t.  Signs can be songs on the radio that express a certain sentiment or idea that relates to what’s happening in your life.  A sign can be a book that happens to come into your hands at the right time to tell you something you need to know or consider.  It can be an animal that appears to you, either in real life or in a dream, and represents some knowledge, idea or value.  Signs can come to us in many ways in many forms.

This presents two problems.  On the one hand, a person might just not pay attention, not be aware, and not take advantage of the help that the universe tries to give.  But on the other hand, a person might go a little crazy trying to figure out which things are really relevant signs and which don’t apply.  Sometimes, if we don’t keep things in perspective, we can miss the real signs and let something less take us off on a tangent.

I think I am going through this now.  I've generally been pretty good at seeing the real signs and not falling for the bad actors.  But I know that I've made mistakes.  The path that led me to Ukraine was unmistakable: it has been extremely clear in retrospect but was also pretty easy to see as things were unfolding.

Often, you start to feel sort of "stale" in a situation and find yourself looking for signs to tell you whether it is time to end the situation and move on.  But the signs could be trying to suggest how to liven up the situation and make it better – not to move on.  A problem is that we often decide ahead of time which path we think we really want, and so we only acknowledge things we think are signs that support that choice. 

This often happens in relationships: the signs might be strong that you should go one way – perhaps try to initiate a new relationship or end an unfulfilling one – but even though you know intuitively that the signs are right, you are – for any of a variety of reasons – afraid to take the action they suggest.

Anyway, I have been finding myself looking much more closely at things lately and trying to decide if the universe is trying to tell me something. 

Frankly, in the latter half of 2012, I was really looking seriously at whether my time in Ukraine was coming to an end.  I enjoyed my teaching work, of course, but not a lot else was giving me much enjoyment.  Life was becoming stale, and maybe even a little frustrating.  Some things that I felt I really need in life just were not happening, and it started to feel like I was probably coming to the end of the Ukraine period of my life.

Then one of my client companies suggested working in a more official way.  Things came together on the idea of getting official residency and work permits, and it all seemed to make sense.  It seemed like a pretty clear sign to make at least another year's commitment to Ukraine.  But one thing bothered me: it was going to cost at least $1,000 to go through the process.  Sort of a bad sign.

I left on my trip for some family events and to apply for the visa I need for the residency/work permits.  That’s when it all started to go downhill.  First, my flight to Kiev was two hours late, which was not a big deal in and of itself, but in retrospect, it fit with everything else.  It was the first little bad sign of the trip.

I had to stand out in the cold wind at Borispol waiting for a car to take me to the overnight hotel near the airport.  It was supposed to be there to meet me, but was more than 30 minutes late.  I was freezing when it finally showed up.  The hotel was terrible, and I never slept at all before it was time to shower and head back to the airport for an early flight.  Another early sign?

That’s when it really started getting bad.

At passport control, the agent did not like something in my passport and took me to an “interview” room where he and another agent asked me a bunch of questions about the stamps in my passport.  They told me I had illegal stamps and that it was “very bad” for me.  I told them I was going back to apply for a new visa and obtain the residency permit.  Eventually, they let me go (without paying anything), but it was an ominous sign.

In Boston, my rental car turned out to be almost twice the cost as advertised.  The money hemorrhaging was beginning.  It was a bad dollar sign.

I had sent an email to the Ukrainian consulate in San Francisco a week earlier, but had never received a response.  I needed some additional information that was not on their Web site.  On Friday, my first full day in Massachusetts, I called the consulate to try to get an answer.  No one answered.  I called other consulates as well as the embassy in Washington.  No one answered.  But I HAD to get my application package – with my passport – off to the consulate that day.  So I did, but my biggest concern was getting my passport back in time for my return trip to Ukraine.  The fact that I had to send the package off without the information I needed was a troublesome sign.

That evening, I started getting more severe pain in my lower back and hip than usual.  Saturday morning, I could hardly walk at all.  I spent the weekend on a sofa, barely able to walk.  I’ll write another post about the pain, but it was the worst and most prolonged I can remember.  A painful sign.

On Monday, I had to fly to Denver.  The fact that I was in severe pain didn't matter, I had to fly.  I had to make my way through three different airports before I finally got my rental car in Denver and drove to a hotel in Boulder.  At times, it was agony.

In Denver, my rental car turned out to be almost twice the cost as advertised.  The money hemorrhaging was continuing.  More bad dollar signs.

I needed to find some important documents for apostille, necessary for my residency permit application in Ukraine.  They were not in my stored things.  This meant that I was going to have to go to several different cities to get the official documents, and then take them to a state office in Denver for the apostille.  But I had no time to do it until the next week.  It seemed like more and more signs were popping up to tell me that I should quit Ukraine.

Meanwhile, several days had gone by, and I was still suffering from the back and hip pain.  It turned out to be sciatica: a pinched sciatic nerve.

On Friday, I received a return package from the consulate in San Francisco.  They did not process my visa application because a particular document was missing.  This was a document that my client company was supposed to get from a Ukrainian government office.  I can only get it in Ukraine.  It was good to get my passport back, but the fact I didn't have the visa seemed like a strong sign that perhaps I am not supposed to go for the residency/work permit.

Over the weekend, the Denver Broncos – the number one team in the American Football Conference – were upset in their playoff game by the team from Baltimore.  That was a bad sign, and it would have been worse if I cared about football the way I used to.

Next, I discovered that the most important document I needed to get – my university diploma – would take three weeks to process.  I needed it done within three days.  It seemed like I had run out of luck.  There was no way I’d be able to get the document in time and no way I’d be able to get the permit. It seemed like a stop sign. 

But I tried anyway.  I called the university records office, and the woman there could not have been nicer.  She made the necessary arrangements to get me the document the same day.  So yesterday I drove two hours up to Fort Collins to get the document.  Not only was I successful at the university, but I was also successful at a county office where I needed another document.  What’s more, I was able to make a bank deposit, renew my Colorado driver’s license and buy some “Yaktrax” devices to help me avoid slipping on icy sidewalks.

So, Monday seemed like a day of positive signs. 

Of course, I will be returning to Ukraine at the end of the week.  Even if I had made a choice to move on from my life there – which I have not – I would have to return to take care of affairs there.  But there are still things coming up that may have some bearing on everything.  You never know what may happen during a series of flights, and the biggest hurdle will be going through passport control again in Kiev.  I hope there won’t be any problems getting back into the country.

If all goes well, I’ll continue the process of getting the residency/work permits.  If it goes smoothly, then I guess all these things that have been happening will not have been such big signs.  But the thing about signs is that they often come up to prevent you from making a mistake. 

But signs are not something that you can itemize, quantify, analyze and then make some kind of logic-based choice.  They affect you at an intuitive or emotional level, not in a logical way.  So, as always, my decisions will have to come from my gut… from how I feel about everything.  And at the moment, I really don’t know.

It would be nice to have something happen that would make everything perfectly clear.  But it never seems to work that easily.

Odds and Ends -- 13 December 2012

Odds and ends.  A little of this and a little of that.  A nice way to say, “I don’t have a good, single idea to write about, but I have a lot of various little thoughts, so I’ll just put them together and call it a blog post.” 

Maybe it’s a lazy way to keep the blog current, but I haven’t been able to coalesce one of my bigger ideas into a cogent piece of writing that actually makes sense, so here it is.  Besides, I wanted to be sure I got at least one more post published before the world ends next week.

The Spirit is Willing, but the Body?  Well, not so much.

I wrote a little while back about going to a tango class and about how dreadful I felt about it.  Still, I was determined to keep trying.  Well, that determination still lives inside; however, my body has not been cooperative.  For a number of weeks now, I’ve been dealing with some really severe back pain, so dancing is just not in the equation at the present. 

On the plus side, I’ve hardly noticed any aching at all in my ankles or knees.  Oh, I’m sure it’s still there, but the signals get blocked on their way to my brain by the heavy traffic emanating from my lower back.  It seems the sciatic nerve and lower vertebrae have priority in the pain communication system.

I visited a doctor here about a month or more ago, and he was dreadful.  I was anticipating a master chiropractor, but instead he just looked at my feet, told me to walk straighter, then proceeded to pummel my legs and butt.  The bruises lasted for a week, but that’s about all the results I received.  Maybe I’ll find a good chiro when I visit the U.S. next month.

Getting back to dance in 2013 is still a strong intention.  Once I fix a few ancillary issues, I’m going to give it another try.

The Trip is Set

I’ve finalized all the details of my U.S. trip in January.  The last parts were to book a couple of hotel overnights and get past the inadequacies of United Airlines’ Web site to make seat selections on my Lufthansa flights.  A quick call to Lufthansa took care of that.

I’ll certainly be glad to say goodbye to United Airlines.  The only downside is that when I fly again, I’ll be starting from scratch with regard to miles on a new airline: KLM.  But, you have to start somewhere.

The one thing I am NOT looking forward to is driving rental cars in Massachusetts and Colorado in January.  I just hope they'll have he sense to put winter tires on those things.

A bigger question I've been considering lately is whether the Ukrainian immigration authorities will let me back into the country.  They've been tightening the laws, and I am not sure the way I've been doing things will continue to work.  So...

Getting Legal

My immigration status in Ukraine has become a major concern lately.  I have been intending to adjust my status for some time now so that I can have the kind of temporary residence status that won’t require me to leave the country every 90 days or pay some money for passport stamps when the time is up.  I’ve been worrying that sooner or later the immigration authorities here might deny me reentry into the country.  Then I’d really be in deep do-do.

Recently, one of my client companies upped the ante by telling me that, starting in January, they will only be able to pay me if I have full official working status in the country.  So I've been digging into the immigration law, trying to understand all the recent changes and see just what the best path is for me to follow. 

National laws are never easy to understand (politicians do this deliberately), but the immigration laws of Ukraine are especially difficult.  It’s like whoever wrote them had drunk a whole bottle of vodka and then been punched in the head by Vitaliy Klitchko before they started writing.  It’s a pain to try and understand it all.  But I’m making progress.

To be honest, however, I have to say that this exercise has made me really pause to think harder about whether I should stay here, or whether the time has come to go back and figure out how to make a go of it in the USSA.  Overall, I’d have to say that Ukraine still wins – I mean I do have a niche here, doing something I really enjoy and am good at, that I would never have back in America – but I do have my doubts, and I don't have any strong relationship ties here. 

Most Ukrainians I know can’t understand why anyone from America or Europe would actually WANT to stay here.  And that sentiment often makes me question my motives too.  I have a lot of thinking to do, and not much time to do it.  Perhaps some great opportunity will reveal itself to me during my January trip and answer my questions.  But, that didn't happen during my 2011 trip, so I’m not holding my breath.

Stay tuned!

Oh, Those Silly Politicians!

The part of America that sits between Canada and Mexico was recently subjected to a bruising election.  The Obamsheviks squeaked by, and the Republicants basically held serve in the House.  Libertarians did a lot better than usual, meaning their presidential candidate, Gary Johnson, actually garnered more than a million votes nationwide.  Of course, that’s a drop in the bucket and doesn't mean much. 

Now the federal government has settled back into its usual game of rewarding all its favored constituencies: big labor, big business and themselves, while giving everyone else the shaft.  We hear the usual divisive, idiotic, over-the-top rhetoric from the same lame party leaders, while the debt piles up and the country careens toward fiscal calamity.  It’s all so boring.

Perhaps the USSA government should try the Ukrainian model: fistfights and nude protesters!

As we've seen countless times before, the opening session of the Ukrainian parliament, called the Verkhovna Rada, erupted into a pandemonium of pushing, shoving and punches.  It’s become so normal here that people just expect it.  But, believe me, no one I know is proud of it at all – it’s an embarrassment. 

And to complete the sideshow, the opening session was also greeted with protests from Ukraine’s Femen protest group.  These are women who go bare breasted to draw attention to their grievances.  They DO get attention, so it apparently works.

Frankly, I think a little fisticuffs in the USSA Congress would really liven things up.  I’d love to see Alan West go at it with any of his counterparts on the socialist side.  And how about a no-holds-barred cat fight between Nancy Pelosi and, perhaps, Kristi Noem?  And over on the Senate side, I’d love to see anyone take a shot at Chuck Schumer. 

Oh well… while American politics will probably never be as entertaining as in Ukraine, the results of the politicians’ “work” will certainly be just about as worthless.

So… that’s enough “Odds and Ends” for now.  The glass and a half of wine I had a while ago gave me a creativity spurt, but now it’s just made me tired.

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.

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