Category Archives: Uncategorized

Day Eight: Saturday Notes

I sat in the lobby last night with many other folks, listening to Cuban musicians of the lovely guitar solos and sublime blendings of the voice.  It was the tender songs that moved me the most.  Those voices wafted over the couches and chairs, blessing us all.  I sat opposite a young family – mom, dad, and two kids.  During one of the fast numbers, mom stretched her arm out to ten-year-old daughter.  They found a clear space and proceeded to boogie, hand in hand.  Oh, the smiles!  Including a big one from dad, who was sending love from his seat.  I imagined him visualizing his daughter in a wedding dress, the two of them walking down the aisle.

***

Elisabeth is a young waitress in the lobby bar.  We laugh and she bubbles.  “All right, Bruce?”  As in “Do you want another drink?”  Always with a smile.  Yesterday she showed me her wedding pictures on her iPhone.  Hubby and wifer just glowed.  Elisabeth says she loves him the most because he’s kind.  A good way to be, young man.  She joys in her marriage and sorrows with me as I miss Jody.  Elisabeth knows very little about golf but looks thrilled when I talk about The Masters or the beauty of the swing.  She’s very smart … it’s just that golf isn’t part of her world.  I’m glad she’s part of mine, even if briefly.

***

I sat next to a skink yesterday, as least that’s what I’d call him if he was skittering across the boardwalk at Point Pelee in Ontario.  He’s a tiny lizard: body two inches and tail the same.  He clung to a nearby branch for at least fifteen minutes, making eye contact.  When he breathed, his throat expanded into a flag of orange.  Just Skinkie and Brudie hanging out.  Thanks, short one, for slowing me down.

***

It’s such a meditation to let the body do what it feels like doing, especially when the result is pain.  And a mystery.  I’m trying to take care of the physical form, with good nutrition and exercise as my energy allows, but well-being isn’t following at the moment.  “Let it be, Bruce.  You’re not going to die.  It’s just another square on the patchwork quilt of your life.”  Well said, whoever it is that’s talking.

***

I was sitting in a restaurant, minding my nutritional business, when a fellow approaches and asks “Are you Canadian?”  I didn’t answer him.  Instead, I sang “O Canada” as he gaped, I think amusedly.  How lovely to have my strategic brain turn off once in awhile and let the melody flow.  He laughed and applauded at the end.  I just laughed.

Day Seven: The Masters

As my body was saying no to me yesterday, I retreated to something I love … golf.  Specifically to the pro tournament I love the best – The Masters – at the Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Georgia.  For decades, I’ve wanted to be there, but tickets only seem available to the privileged few.

So it’s been me and my TV.  And I’ve become friends with some of the holes I’ve gazed upon over the years.  Friends with the greenest of fairways, the vibrant azalea bushes, the par 3 12th over Rae’s Creek, the par 5 15th with its second shot offering the invitation to fly your ball onto the green from far away.  I don’t know how it can feel like home, but it does.  The spirits of long gone golfers still walk the fairways … Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen and Byron Nelson, as do the heroes I grew up with, thankfully still with us … Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player.

Yesterday I pulled up a chair in front of the lobby bar TV and watched the drama for three hours.  I was happy.  Yes, the beach is out there somewhere but I was in my spot, reliving the joys of yesteryear, except now it’s Jordan Spieth, Rory McIlroy and Jason Day addressing the ball.

On this vacation, I’ve not only reread my favourite golf novel – Golf In The Kingdom – I’m now re-rereading it.  Such an obsessed young man.  Here’s a passage:

One day he shot a ninety, yes a ninety, my friends, and laughed and complimented me all the way.  Had a grand time, he did, never looking back at par, never panickin’ or cursin’, just steady through it a’, the same as he always is.  And that I say is the mark o’ a brave and holy man, that he can retreat like that from par without a whimper.

I don’t know if I saw any holy men on TV yesterday.  I did notice a lot of angst, wild gesturing and talking to oneself.  No one broke 70, the first time that’s happened since 2007.  Sterling golfers such as Phil Mickelson missed the cut.  He double bogeyed both the 15th and 16th holes, including a wayward launch into the pond guarding the par 3.

Golf is such a seductive and oft punishing game, mixed in with the moments where club and ball unite on the sweet spot.  To regularly bring forth sweetness during a round on the links is truly the gift of a great spirit.  I want to be a man like that.

I found myself cheering for par while watching the action unfold, hoping that nobody would end the day with a sub-par score.  Let the huge obstacles wash over you and may you revel in walking the fine earth.  It turned out that seven players finished round two under par, with the total number of strokes they were under adding up to only 14.  Today, I hope this number diminishes to zero.  The game is bigger than all of us.  May the lessons inherent in stumbling, hooking, slicing and missing three-foot putts flow into the rest of our lives.

At 3:00 today, I’ll be back in the lobby, continuing my unusual vacation.  Following my bliss.  Watching life.

Day Six: Saying Yes To It All

I slept for ten hours last night.  The body is not behaving nicely.  I look at yesterday with wonder, at all the ailments (real and imagined?) that came my way:

1.  Exhausted

2.  Dizzy in the heat, head achy

3.  Nose stuffed up here and there

4.  Coughing up yellow phlegm

5.  Constipated

6.  Sand flea bites on my feet and lower legs, itchy on and off

7.  Certain unmentionable body parts are now four times their original size

The lack of wind meant that flies were my frequent visitors.  I was open to a rarified air of consciousness but I guess it wasn’t open to me.  So I retreated to my air conditioning and my book.

I read about Birdie, a Canadian aboriginal woman who was sexually abused by her uncle but hadn’t lost her spirituality.  Her love for the women in her life was immense.  There was so much anguish in the book but Bernice poked her head above it all, time and again.  As I read about the violence and her depression, my body was doing its thing.  Her pain mixed with mine.

Her home was “twisted with heat”.  Physical and emotional, like me right now.

One night, Bernice slept in a dumpster, holding thrown away flowers to her breast.  I too cling to the symbols of hope, such as this blog, knowing that as for my current malaise, this too must pass.

As Bernice’s aunt said, “The Kid looks like she’s melting.  Dimming.  Half gone … But.  She also looks lovely.  Like her body fits her spirit.”  Yes, it feels like I’ve dimmed on this vacation but the essence of Bruce is here.  Untarnished.  Still shining.

[Interlude:  My waiter friend has just brought me a coffee.  Milk is foaming above the rim of the cup.  I realize that I need to stir very slowly to prevent it from slopping over.  And so I do.  I’m pretty slow right now.  It’s what’s needed.]

***

I walked behind two men this morning on the way to breakfast.  They were strolling.  I was strolling a bit slower.  They both had grey hair, blue shirts and grey shorts.  (We’re all the same.)  One fellow had brown legs, the other perfectly white.  (We’re all so different.)  I made no judgments … exterior or interior.  We share the path.

***

I’m alone here.  I’ve been friendly to folks I’ve met, those from Cuba and elsewhere.  Our conversations are brief and then they’re off to visit with their friends.  I wish there was a special someone to share experiences, thoughts and emotions with me.  It wasn’t to be this time.

Writing to you is essential, even if “you” only represents ten people.  I get a fair number of likes but hardly any comments.  That’s okay.  I know I’m reaching a few folks.  Another type of contact for me is to post on “Toronto Golf Nuts”, a website about the best sport in the world.  I love what Brooke Henderson from Canada is doing on the LPGA Tour, and here’s what I said on Wednesday:

“What I most enjoyed about Brooke at the ANA was her willingness to do an interview after her opening round 73.  She kept answering reporters’ questions, despite no doubt feeling down.  She didn’t make much eye contact with them but hung in there and gave honest answers.  It says so much about her as a person.  I respect her humanity as much as I respect her golf, more actually.”

Yesterday, some kind person responded with “Well said.”  I cried.  Just those two tiny words of appreciation and I was gone.  Good for me.  Good for us.

Day Five: Wrong, Strong And Speedy

I woke up bleary-eyed this morning and recalled a horrible story I’d heard a few days ago.  A man was found dead in his Cuba hotel room, cause unknown.  His sister flew down from Canada, and was taking a light plane to her final destination when it crashed, killing everyone onboard.  So sad.  I had thought yesterday I’d write about this tragedy but then I became enthralled with a triangle.  Now we’re one more day removed from the accident and I don’t want to break my rule about having my writing stay in the present.

All these muddled thoughts came out of me as I rolled in bed.  I imagined writing the story.  But I couldn’t remember it.  Confused, I realized that I couldn’t even remember the death and plane crash happening.  I tried to bring forth my cognitive capacities in the shower … but nothing came.  My brain made it up!  Nobody died.

What a fascinating organ of the body.  Tricking me like that.  Creating a dream that felt so real.  I’m going to have a good talk with this brain of mine.

***

After lunch yesterday, I looked at myself and saw that some energy had returned.  Maybe I could strength train.  It had been a week since I’d lifted weights.  So off I went to the gym in the village beside my hotel.  A hot walk.  But such ecstasy when I opened the door to a flood of air conditioning.  I sat a bit and let it flow over me.  Guess I’m just not a tropical flower.

Since food was a very recent memory, I decided to do yoga first.  What a marvel to stretch slow and easy, sometimes feeling my vertebrae settle in.  My left hip has been tight for as long as I can remember and my work with it felt just right.  What sacrilege that I ignored stretching until well into my thirties.  (And strength training until well into my sixties!)  Now I was lying on my back with my arms out to the sides.  My head goes left and my legs right.  Oh sweet twisting motion.  A transcendent human being would no doubt just be revelling in the present, but I have to admit I was thinking golf swing.

Now for the machines and free weights.  I’ve memorized the terms so I can sound authoritative: leg press, leg extension, torso twist (golf again!), tricep extension, bicep curl, pectoral, omni raise and hammer curl.  What a hunk of muscle I am.

I had to figure out the subtleties of the machines since there were differences from home.  Let’s see … one kilogram equals 2.2 pounds.  It was all a part of the process and I enjoyed being “on the mat”, a martial arts phrase praising the virtues of simple participation in the act, with no performance thoughts intruding (except for sometimes).

[Interlude:  It is so hot today with virtually no breeze.  I’m exercising my digits in the shade, fortified with coffee, but I’m sinking slowly in the west.  I thought part of my title was “Strong”.  Oh well, Bruce.  Keep going.]

Aided by my superstar headband, I was giving ‘er.  Not quite the weights I was using at home but close.  On some machines, the last few reps were tough but I turned on the fierceness to get the job done.  Waydago, guy!  Air conditioned sweat was pouring off me and I knew I was pretty much the king of the world.

Today, the heat-filled weakness has returned but my path is clear.  I want to be strong for the present and the future: climbing stairs, walking eighteen holes, making love.

***

Two hours before sunset, I was on the beach, without my Speedo.  No, I’m not talking nudity here.  Just happy to be in the shade wearing t-shirt and shorts.  Small thoughts percolated in my head.  “You’re here for a beach vacation, Bruce.  Get tanning.”  “Real men are brown.”  “Dance down the shoreline.”  In the here and now of yesterday, I said no to them all.

I was under a thatched roof that had to stretch a hundred yards, affording a clear view of the water and wildlife.  Animals fitted out in skimpy bikinis drew my immediate attention.  Some local species, no doubt.  But soon my gaze lifted to the gulls flying by.  Heading to the right, my elevated friends were bucking a hurricanal headwind.  They were staying close to my structure to cut the breeze some.  I wondered at the wings and muscles working furiously.  The birds had their own gym, with no membership fees.

The coolest, though, was right to left.  Gulls blasted by at warp speed, their wings folded back.  Oh my goodness … one of the wonders of the world.  They took turns doing a sprint in front of me and I was the better for it.  I celebrated the joy of the world.

Right now I’m withering in the shade.  But the fronds of the palm trees across the garden from my writing spot have just started to stir.  Yesterday the dance was rich and full, arms waving in a glorious flow.  If that’s not to be today, maybe I’ll retreat to my air-conditioned room after I upload this blog post in the lobby.  Hey … sometimes retreat is just what the doctor ordered.

Day Four: Triangle

I was looking for a quiet spot yesterday and I found one.  On the other side of a walkway beside the lobby bar is a little sitting area, shaded by a canopy of big green leaves over a trellis.  It was full of wicker chairs, with comfy cushions for the back and bum.  No waiters coming by with an offer of drinks.  Just peace.  As well as exploring the pages of Birdie, I watched the flow of humanity across the way.  Since I was well to the side of their field of vision, nobody seemed to detect me.  But I detected them.  Couples holding hands, young kids scampering ahead of their parents.  Folks with canes.  Most of the guys had facial hair, unlike a certain observer I know.

Twelve wooden posts supported the trellis.  The hard branches of the plants wound their way around half of them.  On the ceiling’s edges, green leaves waved in the wind.  And such a sublime breeze.  The fairies tickling my face.

I needed this.  To be alone, without conversation.  To reflect on life, on my love of golf, on what it means to be an aboriginal woman in Canada.  Some of me was here and now, watching the high-pitched black birds hop from chair to chair and then hoist themselves into the nest of branches above.  Another part was there and then, imagining myself on the practice tee at Tarandowah, actually hitting shots high in the air.  I’m fine with both ways of being.

I have a favourite spot in the lobby bar.  I’m sitting here right now.  It’s where I tap on my laptop and go on the Internet to obsess about Brooke Henderson.  From my chair under the birdie trellis, I could just see my place in the bar.  That felt good.  Bruce saying hi to Bruce.  I was also looking at the tall windows of the Italiano à la carte restaurant.  Later in the day, I would be enjoying a meal in there.  The exterior was decorated in white and pale green.  It looked very Mediterranean.  I saw my future me and wondered if I’d get a window table, so I could look back at my chair under the trellis.  Bar, trellis, restaurant … all Bruce.  I don’t have words for the peace I felt, for the love I felt for me.

At 6:00 pm, a smiling waiter ushered me to a window table in Italiano.  And there was my wicker chair, with the cushion supporting the back of an earlier visitor.  And over yonder was my blogging spot in the lobby bar.  Bruce hangs out there too.

All is right with the world.

Day Three: Sunny

A tan’s the thing, is it not?  I figured my strategy was good … show up at the beach at 4:00 and stay a couple of hours, avoiding the most damaging rays of the sun.  Plus I slathered on SPF 30 and reapplied it halfway through.

My history of wanting a good tan goes way back to the teen years when I was sorely afraid of anyone seeing my white body.  But now I’m 67.  Does it really matter that I’m brown all over, that I return to friends in Canada with a bodily badge of honour?  I think not.

Still there I was yesterday on a sublime white sand beach, hauling a lounger out of its thatched shade so I could get the full meal deal.  I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts to reveal a sparkling lime green Speedo.  Last time here, I had little hesitation about prancing around in such skimpiness but this time I was afraid.

Maybe thirty posts ago, I talked about a physical problem I’ve developed.  I was sure scared to press “Enter” after that writing was done, but I did it, and then hoped that time would erase any record of the subject.  Well … here I go again.  I have benign cysts on my testicles such that the little guys have turned into big guys, two to three times their normal size.  Add that to the reality of wearing a Speedo and you can see my problem.  Before coming to Cuba, I’d decided that gym shorts would be my bathing suit.  Maybe I’d strip to my Speedo in the confines of my beach lounger but I sure wouldn’t walk around wearing it.

So there I lounged in the Speedo way, reading my book.  Yes, the urge came to get up and walk down the beach.  “No, Bruce!  People will … ”  Come on now – people will what?  “They’ll laugh, point, or maybe call security.”  Geez.  Just get up and stroll around.  So I did, first walking out to the shore and staring out at the infinite ocean.  Nobody tackled me.  So I turned right and dipsy doodled along the water’s edge.  Two or three folks did look at my central area but I kept going.  Then a young woman came up and asked me to take a picture of her family.  They were lined up looking at me as I fiddled with the camera.  I’m pretty sure I was blushing but I hoped they’d mistake it for sunburn.  I took too much time and the screen went blank.  So more time as she showed me how to get the camera going again.  Happily, no one stuck out their tongue or vomited, but I was dying inside.

I could have made a bee line back to my chair but instead, girding my loins, I meandered along the shore some more.  I climbed the steps up to the beach bar and ordered a pina colada, then walked in front of maybe fifty people back to my temporary home.  No bolt of lightning struck me down.  I was thrilled and astonished.  I did it.  And really it was just a couple of body parts that had gotten out of control.  I hummed a happy tune.

***

After supper, I sat in the lobby bar reading Birdie, the story of a Canadian aboriginal woman that almost won the Canada Reads competition on CBC Radio.  The heavens opened up before, during and after.  The bar is open to the elements, tempered by the translucent blinds that offered some protection from the rain.  What I experienced was delightful.  The lightest mist fell upon my face and arms … just like Niagara Falls.  The perfect end to a perfect day.  Or perhaps not.

I was in bed by 11:00 and up by 12:30.  The bod was on fire, not with a burn but with itching.  I turned on the light to see what was shaking.  What I saw was lots of tiny blisters adorning the newly tanning areas.  (Big sigh)  Sleep seemed impossible.  I knew that I had some hand lotion with me, so I rubbed that on.  More fire.  So into the shower I stumbled.  That helped a bit.  I took the second sleeping pill of the evening and lay down again.  The itching continued.  I resigned myself to a largely sleepless night.  That was about 1:30.  I woke up at 9:00.  The blisters were gone.  Thank you, Jodiette, and other beings who watch over me.

Bye bye, tan.  From now on, I’m staying in the shade – under the thatched huts on the beach and hanging loose in the lobby bar.  My cold is full speed ahead.  My energy is way down low.  But my soul is happy.  Quite the adventure, this life of ours.

Day Two:  Not Me … Or Me?

My head is fuzzy and stuffed up.  I’m weak.  And I don’t want to get out there and do things, such as dancing and chatting.  So I sit in the lobby bar with a morning coffee and reflect upon Bruceness.  Gosh, I guess it can mean a lot of different things.  Skilled and not skilled.  Vibrant and almost comatose.  Making meaning with other people and staying away from them.  It’s all me.

How can I not want to dance?  Go to tonight’s evening show?  Pump iron at the gym?  Well, actually it’s easy.  I just want to write blog posts, read Golf In The Kingdom and lie on the beach towards sunset, when it’s cooler.  All perfectly fine.

At breakfast, I watched a couple and their two young boys.  Mom and dad took turns getting food.  Dad made funny faces at the tiny kid in the high chair.  Mom cut up his papaya and swished away the flies when they came too close.  It was lovely to behold.

Last night, I watched a performance of Grease in the theatre.  Sixteen months ago, I was enthralled in the same room, with probably the same songs and singers.  This time I was pretty flat about it all, despite an inspiring performance from the two leads.  A strange conversation entered my head:  “Bruce, you seem to be devolving, not evolving.  What’s happened to your spirit?”  The answer is simple – I’m sick.  I need to allow myself to be so.  Sleep most of the day if that seems right.  Stick to fruit and other non-greasy things at mealtime.  Let go of creamy alcoholic drinks for a bit.

To be present in the moment rather than leaning forward to a “better” future – quite the trick, I’d say.  This headache, for instance.  “Hello.”  Eyes that want to close.  “How ya doin’?”  Nothing to say to anyone.  “Works for me.”

A light brown cat just walked through the bar.  Someone made a purring sound.  Ahh … maybe that’s it.  As slow as I am, I can just watch life passing in front of me, look into some tourist and Cuban faces as they walk by, and watch the palm fronds wave in the breeze.

See you tomorrow.

 

 

Day One: Letting It Be

1. I have pictures in my head of the way things should be … in Cuba, for instance.  I shouldn’t be sick (but my cold continues on its merry way).  I should be on the beach working on my tan and just hanging loose (but the heat is getting to me and so I’ve been showing up on the sand an hour or two before sunset).  I should be talking to all sorts of people (but mostly I want to be alone).  How come life has its own ideas about my life?

2. Friday night’s show at the theatre was so much fun.  Last night’s focused on the MC’s booming voice.  Too much amplified bluster for me.  But the night before was golden.  Even before the curtains parted, there were moments to behold.  A young girl, maybe 12, was kneeling in front of the stage, tossing a beach ball to a far younger girl, about 5.  The older child was so patient, hanging in with her partner for at least five minutes, smiling all the while.  I figured they were sisters but when the music started, they went their separate ways.

A fellow dressed in black came onto the stage, wearing a white clown face on the back of his head.  He turned away from us and began to dance.  His arms and legs flipped and flopped as his new face scanned the audience.  Those limbs bent opposite to us normal human beings.  It was an unearthly flow of life.  Very cool.

Michael Jackson put in an appearance, telling us all about Billie Jean and snarling out “Thriller”.  We erupted when his moon walk slipped him backwards.  Add it all up and it was a great evening.

3. I met a couple by the currency exchange office on Friday and we said we’d sit down together sometime soon and have a good talk.  It happened yesterday afternoon on the beach.  After twenty minutes, I was feeling overwhelmed by the husband’s dominance.  Not only did he spew forth an incredible volume of speech, but most of it was in lecture mode.  I mentioned that I’m a Buddhist and he came back with an analysis of several schools of Buddhism.  Ouch.  Should I just smile and accept what life is giving me in the moment or should I speak up?  I chose the latter:

“Please stop.  Too many words.  I can’t process what you’re saying.”  >  Silence

The two of them walked on shortly thereafter.  There were pleasant goodbyes but I don’t believe they’ll be seeking me out any time soon.  And I’m fine with what I did.  I had no antagonism towards them.  I just wanted the noise to stop.  It’s becoming clearer to me that I need to exit myself from noxious stimuli.  And I will continue to do so.

4.  I went to the gym yesterday.  After all, Bruce goes to the gym.  My cold was there with me but I decided that an hour of cardio in the air conditioning would be a good idea.  They didn’t have an elliptical so I started out on the stationary bicycle.  My rear end started complaining after half an hour.  “Why didn’t you pack your padded shorts, Bruce?”  How shortsighted of me … not about my packing prowess but being so critical.  I can’t expect myself to anticipate all the little details of a Caribbean vacation.  So I let my self-grousing go and moved to the StairMaster.  Not a machine I’ve used before but at least my bum would recover nicely.  I finished the hour on the vertical beast, going far slower than my brain said was okay.  Silly brain.

Then it was yoga time.  I spread my mat out on a nice blue floor and stretched assorted muscles of the back, arms and legs.  They smiled.  I was really tired but my nose was clear.  Yay!

5. As I was discovering how to connect to the Internet and send blog posts on their cyber journey, I also spent time seeing how Brooke Henderson was doing in the first major golf tournament of the year.  I’m obsessed with her.  Brooke is Canadian, pretty, young and highly skilled.  Plus she hits her drives about 270 yards.  She’s climbing rapidly in the world rankings and I’ve imagined an unbroken line of success stretching into an infinite future.  More silliness.  Life doesn’t work that way.  After yesterday’s third round, she was tied for 33rd, 8 strokes behind the leaders.  Not a great week so far.  I watched myself struggle with this fact.  I want to cheer on a hero.

Actually, I felt a sweet sadness as I thought of her.  All of us get a few life birdies along the way, mixed in with our fair share of double bogeys.  May I embrace it all.

***

This is fun.  I’m doing things my way while staying open to the unknown.  More please

Southerly Journey

I’m sitting in the lobby bar of the Memories Paraiso Azul Beach Resort, sipping a Spanish coffee and tapping away at my laptop.  I’m used to having trouble with my Internet connection in hotels and restaurants.  And that’s in Canada.  What about Cuba?  A friendly bartender has hung in with me, exploring how to get around all the security thingies.  And here I am … actually talking to you!

A little voice inside says that I should be on the beach right now, soaking up those intense rays.  But hey, it’s my vacation.  I plan to be on the beach every day but not right now, thank you.

Thursday seems like a long time ago but the memories are vivid.  I spent four hours in the morning – packing, organizing, thinking.  Weren’t you supposed to spread this stuff gently over the past week, my man?  Hey again … no supposed to’s.

I arrived at my Toronto hotel around supper time.  Then it was off to the nearest drugstore for some essential item that I had missed (and that now, inexplicably, I don’t remember).  I was so excited.  Even a saunter over to Shoppers Drug Mart was fun.  Back in my room, I messed around on the Internet for awhile and then took my sleeping pill.  Into bed and off to dreamland by 7:30!  Well … not quite.  I got under the sheets but sleep didn’t come.  As I tossed and sometimes turned, my 2:00 am wakeup call loomed large.  Gosh, I thought I was so smart, booking a hotel for my night before.  I’ll get 6, 7 hours sleep.  Actually, make that 1 or 2.  (Sigh)

I entered the Toronto airport at 3:30, perfectly stunned.  I travelled on the moving walkway for quite a spell and came to the conclusion that I was the only human being who stood still.  I clung to the right railing as a fair percentage of Canada’s population motored past.  I don’t know what it says about me or them.  I’m just different, I guess.

On the plane, I plunked down into my precious window seat.  Had a good chat with the fellow beside.  An hour into the journey, the movie was beginning.  Little screens popped out of the ceiling every four rows or so.  Then the announcement:  “So that your fellow passengers may enjoy the film without glare, please lower your shades if you’re sitting beside a window.”  Being a nice little Buddhist person, I half expected that I would go along.  After all, no one moment is better than any other.  However, I didn’t go along.  I wanted to see the world outside.  Either I’m a selfish so-and-so or someone who wants to embrace real moments, not just ones that show up in movies.  I prayed that glare wouldn’t be a problem for my companions.  I don’t think it was.

In the fullness of time, we were approaching Santa Clara, Cuba.  And then another troubling announcement:  “A disabled plane is sitting on the runway.  We need to land at the airport in Camanguey instead.  Once the runway at Santa Clara is cleared, we’ll fly back.  Sunwing Vacations is sorry for the inconvenience.”  Oh my and oh well.  “It’s really not important if I get to the hotel hours later than expected,” he said unconvincingly.

Half an hour later, we landed … in Santa Clara.  “April Fool’s!” announced a sunny flight attendant.  Have to admit, it was brilliant.  We laughed.

Going through customs was fine.  After that, we were supposed to pick up our luggage and proceed to one of ten shuttle buses.  But I couldn’t find my stuff.  I checked every “red and large” suitcase in the concourse.  None of them were mine.  Several staff members did their best to help.  Nothing.  Other flights were arriving and new belongings were speeding down the conveyor belt.  Not mine, however.  The inhabitants of my shuttle bus were waiting and waiting.  I was stewing and stewing but within that was a bit of my Buddhist peace.  Finally a gentleman in uniform came up to me to say that one of the bus passengers had picked up my suitcase by mistake.  All was right with the world.

And that’s true.  All is right.  The beach will appear in my life at the appropriate time … later this afternoon.  And my message to you here will no doubt go through.  I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.

Sniffing and Sharing

I’m sitting in the lobby of a hotel near Toronto airport, letting my newly emerging cold be there.  I have some saline stuff to spray into my nose and some intestinal fortitude to move way past “poor me”.  How strange life can be.

I want to talk to you in Cuba.  I’ve heard that the Internet at Memories Paraiso Azul Beach Resort is sporadic, and that it’s only available in the lobby.  So what?  My strength training has shown me that determination can go a long way.  So you’ll be hearing from me.  Is it unwise for me to promise?  Maybe. But I’ve been unwise before.  It could be fun to go down that road again.

I want to describe what I see on the outside and on the inside.  I want to tell you about cool people I meet.  About dancing in the disco and on the beach.  About Michael Jackson.  About waiters, maids and gardeners.

Time for bed.  Wake up call at 2:00.  Taxi at 3:00.  Fly at 6:15.  Oh my, I’m really doing this.  Tell you all about it tomorrow or Saturday.