Those paying attention will note that I
BLOG less in the new world than the old. Not exactly sure of the rationale
here, but it is certain that Paris offers more street theatre from which to
draw inspiration. The mountains offer introspection, which combined with
fermented liquid refreshment, leads to long naps and periods of diminished
lucidity.
##########
When I was young we blamed crazy
weather on the Russians. Now it’s the political persuasion to which you don’t subscribe.
Last Wednesday in Montana it passed 90F while Northern Virginia was under a
freeze warning. But lest we smirk, there was a call for snow showers here
yesterday.
##########
Twisting a tagline from Garrison
Keilor, it was NOT a quiet week in Washington, DC, my (former) home town. I
make full use of the recessive male gene that induces obsessive cable-channel-changing
which in turn insures access to the full panoply of fringe opinion. On a recent
excursion several talking heads noted the “back and forth” of discourse among those
of varying political persuasion. It occurred to be that one must sally “forth” before
venturing “back.” But then again, perhaps not in politics.
##########
Kenya has a new President. Recalls a
story (as do most events these days). My first trip to Nairobi (eons ago) via
an overnight flight from London landed on a sunny spring morning. I navigated
the official taxi rank and my female driver immediately departed at a frightful
pace down Airport Road, nick-named (I later learned) “suicide alley,” evidenced
by the burned-out hulks of vehicles strewn along the way.
I dozed off and awoke to a surreal scene
of flowers, chanting, huge murals, and universal anguish. My driver sat
motionless, tears flowing down her ebony cheeks. I sat terrified, or would have
been had I not been amply fortified by strong drink dispensed in the
first-class cabin of the Kenya Airways 707 (See note below).
I sat frozen in the rear of the taxi
for what seemed like hours, and eventually learned, through the taxi radio
tuned to the BBC, that Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the beloved father of modern Kenya
had passed away in the night, and I was in attendance at one of the many
makeshift mourning sites hastily assembled throughout the city.
This was long before cell phones,
beepers, and pagers, so I set the alarm on my watch to ring two minutes hence,
held it close to the driver’s ear, and upon execution whispered, as piously as
I knew how, that I had an important meeting at my hotel. She slowly gathered
composure and deposited me at the Nairobi Hilton. I left a nice tip.
As the hotel staff had entered an
extended period of mourning, I languished in the lobby until a helpful Indian
porter logged me into a suite, which three days later caused a bit of a ruckus
when it was determined that I had paid only for a small single.
NOTE: Lest I be tagged as a closet
oligarch, note than in a previous life I toiled for an organization that had an
air freight division entitling it to 2 (almost) free annual first class tickets
on each IATA airline. As the company grosses
legumes (lit: large vegetables; French slang for “big shots”) took for the
most part the best carriers (Singapore, Cathay Pacific, Lufthansa, et al), I
was often relegated to travel from A to C (or M or X) to get to B.
This led to some memorable
journeys, such as my 6 hour layover (11pm – 5am) in the Islamabad airport (a
truly unforgettable experience) and the subsequent flight to Singapore on Pakistan
Airlines, where, as the only occupant of first class I was invited into the
cockpit (this was a VERY long time ago) as we traversed the snow-covered
Himalayas. The pilot snored loudly and the First Officer regaled me with lurid
accounts of the many conquests afforded him as the result of his uniform and
position. After several years, the truly frightening sounds from the rear of
the plane departed my conscious, though occasionally reappearing in nightmares.
The view will remain forever.
##########
Within the week I will
be the newest resident of Santa Fe, apartment hunting and preparing for my new métier.
As an artist retreat made famous by the likes of Georgia O’Keefe, the housing market
features a plethora of ateliers advertising zen accommodation, holistic
furniture, and mesmerizing auras, the meanings of which I have no clue.
Hopefully if you visit you won’t find me in a feather boa and love beads.
bientot
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