Who was it that wrote about multiple intelligences?  I can’t remember.  Her or his point was that there are many areas of life where we can be smart, and other areas where we’re far from it.

I think I have interpersonal intelligence.  I connect easily with people and am often successful in drawing out their soul, what’s important to them.

I believe I also have musical intelligence, feeling and expressing the subtle flavours of a song sung or a cello piece played.  And often touching the audience … again drawing forth the best from many of them.

Now it’s time for a “but” …

I love my water bottle.  It’s beautifully turquoise.  And it works great in the gym for cardio and strength training.

Recently I noticed that the inside of the drinking spout was dirty, and soaking it in hot soapy water didn’t help.

So the glory of my mind created bleach.  I soaked the top of the bottle in a bleach/water blend for two hours.  “I’ll clean it off really well afterwards under the tap, rinse it some more, then immerse it in a bath of clean water for a long time.”

Whew!  I remain fascinated with my brain.  In what universe would this procedure be considered benign?  But I remained cheerfully ignorant, trusting that the gods of cleanliness would protect me.  Silly, dangerous Bruce!

It was time for the first sip in the gym.  Metal!  Toxic!  Stupid!  My trust in the universe had neglected the fact that, while the body of the bottle was hard plastic, the drinking spout was rubber.  As in easily absorbing what it’s bathing in.

Not being entirely dense, I stopped drinking after two sips.  I passed through a vague nausea as my arms and legs did their thing on the elliptical machine.

Then I spent a few minutes shaking my head.

Next I sat in a gym chair and searched for a replacement bottle from the same manufacturer – Contigo. 

It arrived today.  The observant among you will notice not turquoise but blue … my new and improved bottle.  Which goes nicely with my new and improved Bruce.

There’s a second part to this story, which I will reveal tomorrow.  It involves a quirk of mine, and delightful OCDness, which my dear wife Jody used to call “a Bruce idiotsyncrasy”.

Stay tuned

I love trains.  As a 20-year-old I crossed most of Canada to reach my first away-from-home job.  There was a dome car, and I saw the world from up high.  Even the Northern Lights.

I remember another overnight trip.  I left my seat, seeking the bathroom.  And I passed all these sleeping folks in the dark.  It was a privilege to see human beings at rest.

Now that I live in Belgium, the train has become larger in my life, with trips to London, Amsterdam, Düsseldorf, Lille and Leuven.

For the last few months, an old loved song has re-emerged, bubbling up in my soul.  And what bubbles needs to be expressed.

So I’m learning the lyrics for “City of New Orleans”.  The title is the name of a train in the USA.  It travels 1455 kilometres (904 miles) from Chicago south to New Orleans on the Gulf of Mexico.  Twenty-five hours.

Steve Goodman wrote the song in 1971.  He died in 1984 but his poetry of the train lives on.  And, God willing, it will live on a few Fridays from now at an open mic session at Salvatore’s.

Here are the lines I love:

Along the southbound odyssey
The train pulls out of Kankakee
Rolls along past houses, farms and fields
Passing trains that have no name
And freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of rusted automobiles

Dealing cards with the old men in the club car
Penny a point, and no one keepin’ score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumblin’ ‘neath the floor

Mothers with their babes asleep
Are rockin’ to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel

Halfway home, we’ll be there by mornin’
Through the Mississippi darkness, rollin’ down to the sea

The conductor sings his songs again
The passengers will please refrain
This train’s got the disappearin’ railroad blues

***

O my goodness

I’m going to sing these fine words

And may the audience ride the City of New Orleans at my side

The film “explores the precarious lives of two migrant workers, Reginald (a Romanian construction worker) and Niki (a Greek bicycle courier), in Brussels, Belgium.”

Last night I was there, in the Sphinx movie theatre.  And so were perhaps a hundred other cinema lovers.

Reginald and a friend didn’t have Belgian work permits … but they had to eat.  A building owner hired them to renovate an apartment.  They worked for two weeks – ripping down and then building up.  When the job was done, the owner threw 300 euros at them and started phoning the police when they protested the ripoff.  So much anger, so much despair.  We the audience felt it with them.

During the 90 minutes, my mind flowed between the story and the people sitting before me – black figures with hints of grey at the edges.  I fell in love with these ghostly human beings whose lives I didn’t know.  And then the story returned …

Niki had a bicycle that didn’t work well, but it was the lifeline for her to survive.   When the chain came off, she knelt down to get it back on, wiping the grease off on the leaves of weeds.  At one point she had the food order, and stood in front of a sprawling complex with no idea of how to find the person who did the ordering.  And no answer on the phone.  More despair.

Towards the end, Niki and a fellow bicycle courier sat on a wall, talking about their lives, their struggles, their dreams.

I was with Niki and Reginald

I was with my fellow audience members

***

After the screening the lights came on, and four men took a seat facing us: the director of the film, a fellow who advocates for people who don’t have a Belgian work permit, a union rep for bicycle couriers, and the interviewer.

The conversation was in Dutch.  The commitment of the four was vivid.  And so was the kindness of the young man who sat beside me.  He translated a lot of the panel’s comments.  “Thank you for translating.  That was nice of you.”

It was a fine evening

***

This post was to be about trains.  Maybe tomorrow!

“Loose in the vowels.”  I love that phrase.  I’ve said it for forty years or more.  Some people laugh.  It makes them happy.

My writing feels different – oozy, without a structure.  I wanted to talk about a train today, and maybe I still will.  But perhaps not.

I just lingered for 45 minutes in Panos Langemunt, eating my sandwich.  As I sat down, I made eye contact and smiles with four oriental women – one older and three younger.

As I savoured the tomato, cheese and ham, a flowing language wafted over me.  Lovely.  Eventually I asked “Are you speaking Mandarin?” 

That’s all it took … a simple question.  And we were off to the races about life and living.  Topics appearing and disappearing, carried by the flow of the moments.

The older woman didn’t appear to speak English but one of the younger ones translated.  “She wants to know if you’d like a Chinese girlfriend.”  I leaned towards the curious lady, professing my eternal love.

“No, no … she’s talking about her friend, who lives in China.” 

Oh. 

“Hmm.  I don’t think I can afford the flight.”

Etcetera

I love trains too.  That story will be born tomorrow.

Yesterday I started writing again on Jetpack.  It felt good. 

For years I’ve followed the same procedure to transfer posts to Facebook.  What happened each time was what I wanted: the Facebook user saw the title of my post and usually a photo, as long as it was in landscape mode, not portrait.

And then yesterday … no title, no photo – just brucearcherkerr.com.  Clicking that would give people my full post with a photo, but I want the impact immediately, not after a click.

So, after all of that, something is different in my mind:

1.  It’s not important that the first view shows a title and photo.  I smile at the lack of something, rather than furrowing my brow.

2.  I don’t know how to fix this.  I Googled my problem and the AI on my new phone gave me a long procedure for how to have my Jetpack posts automatically transferred to Facebook.  Maybe I’ll end up following those instructions, but I’ve enjoyed transferring the file manually and adding a second title for Facebook.

3.  Maybe when I finish writing this post, the problem will have magically disappeared.

4.  If it hasn’t, I’ll write a P.S. post, looking for someone out there in cyberland to help me.

5.  Arching over everything is a sweet “All is well”.

***

Okay, enough of that.  Let’s see what happens when I post this.  Fingers crossed.

From August 4 till August 13, I was at a silent meditation retreat in the United States.  When I left Barre, Massachusetts, I had no interest in writing.  Something had changed.

I wrote one more post, and since then … silence.

Until this morning.

I’ve written 2,289 posts on WordPress/Jetpack and Facebook over the last eleven years.  And now … perhaps I have nothing left to say.

But I don’t think that’s true.

It’s a mystery why I picked up my phone a few minutes ago and started tapping.  There were no thoughts, such as “You really should do this” or “Some people miss your writing.”  The body knew it was time.

At one point last year I wrote for 120 days in a row.  And now I essentially haven’t written for a month.  Ahh … the rhythms of life.

I’m very loose after the meditation retreat.  There are spaces everywhere, such as in my body.  Life feels slow, like a slow-motion dance.  If there’s a destination, I know it not.

***

Hmm.  I wrote.  How ’bout that

I’m back in the usual speaking world after nine days of silence.  And I have little desire to write.  But … I thought I’d say a few things:

I walked into Dunkin’ Donuts this morning.  I wondered if big coffee chains in North America (such as Tim Hortons in Canada) still had signs saying you can only sit here for twenty minutes.  Dunkin’ was different – fifteen minutes.

(Sigh)

I find the word “loitering” particularly nasty.  In my home of Ghent, Belgium, you’re welcome to visit with your friends for as long as you like … sipping your cappuccino.  It’s what the world is meant to be.

***

Last night I returned to a Mediterranean restaurant in Boston’s North End.  I had a delicious meal there before my meditation retreat started.  After the retreat ended on Wednesday, I’ve been telling people on buses about the glories of the Moon Restaurant.  Locals had never heard of it.

I showed up yesterday after Google Maps gently reminded me that it was “Mood”, not “Moon”.  The owner Fatima and I had a good laugh.  All that lost business!

***

I sat on a bench this morning watching the flow of humanity.  One young couple caught my attention.  She was black and he was white.  Their hands loved each other.

I noticed the skin colour difference but there was no impact.  Their relationship outshone everything else.

I thought of the past.  In the 1960’s there would have been big reactions from passersby.   We’ve come a long way.

***

Hmm … I did write

As for the future … I don’t know

Splorin’ in the North End of Boston … old, Italian, European, lovely.

Hanover Street is full of restaurants that are open to the world.  Huge spaces that sometimes are windows … and life from the street flows in.  This photo is from the Internet:

Here’s one from my real life, on nearby Salem Street.  Minutes earlier the two tables were full of happy people but I didn’t ask to take their photo.

The restaurant is Mood, run by Fatima and her husband.  She grew up in Saudi Arabia.  Her smile filled the dining room.  It rubbed off on Dave and me, and all the diners surrounding us.  The group of us had a fine old time.

And the flavours!  Tagliatelle, sea bass and asparagus.  Subtle and remarkable.

***

Then there was St. Leonard Church.  I sat in a pew twice … meditating and watching people.  It was a miracle of pastel colours and curves.  I felt at home.

In a somewhat less spiritual vein, as I gazed at the beauty I felt food stuck in my teeth.  Being an organized human being, I was carrying my floss.  But you don’t do that in church, Bruce! 

I supposed I was right.  But then an inspiration … I’ll wait till the church is empty and then I’ll do my thing. 

12, 9, 7, 10, 4, 1, 3 …

It was never empty.  So I soldiered on with tight teeth.

Outside was the St. Leonard’s Peace Garden.  Twice I gazed upon the Virgin Mary.  She glowed.

It’s the next day.  I’m sitting in Logan Airport, about to meet three of my fellow yogis.  We’ve arranged to share a van to the Insight Meditation Society two hours away.

Before the retreat starts, I’ll include a couple of pics of IMS.  After that, it’s radio silence for nine days.  No TV, Internet, music or reading.  And I’m fine with that.

See you on the other side

I was sitting in the lobby of the Boston Marriott Long Wharf Hotel, waiting for my friend Dave to show up.  A gentleman moved slowly to the couch across from me.  He had trouble sitting down.  Once there he closed his eyes.  There was a long scar on his knee.

When he came back to his surroundings, I said hi.  We talked about his home … Massachusetts, and mine … Gent.

And then his wife sat down.  Their room wasn’t ready yet.  She told me that they live an hour away but came to the Long Wharf for a two-day retreat.  Husband isn’t very mobile right now so the hotel offered the chance to be near the water and all the boats.  Plus near Francesca’s, one of their favorite restaurants.

I silently gave thanks for my continuing ability to wander the pathways of life.

Then they melted into each other … and I took their picture.

***

Dave and I meandered through the old streets.  In the daylight, we came upon an immense flag.  I find any country’s flag to be beautiful, and this one sure was.  The hopes and dreams of a nation.

Interlude:

I’m writing this from a bench in Boston Common, a huge downtown park with a splash pad and a woman wearing a white dress and straw hat, sitting with her friends.  Straight out of Gone With The Wind.

Okay … I’m too tired to keep writing.  Tomorrow morning I’ll tell you about more Boston people, and then it’s off to Barre, Massachusetts for the meditation retreat – nine days of no Internet, nine days of silence.

One more pic: evening grace …

À demain …

Here’s a quiet Boston place to write …

Yesterday’s arrival in Boston was momentous, and not in a good way.  I wonder what the word really means.

Of great importance or significance, especially in its bearing on the future

So if these three happenings were yucky, the future is not that they’ll never happen again, but how I deal with them down the road.

1.  I was tired after the two flights – ten hours in the air.  In Boston Airport, it was immediately clear that I had no phone service.  And I was too out of it to see that “BOSwis” was the airport’s WiFi.  I fact, I bet the sign really said “BOSWiFi” but I didn’t have eyes to see.

Also, apparently no Data Roaming from Belgium.  Couldn’t find any message about it.  So I was flying blind.  My Airbnb host “Melanie” had kindly offered to pick me up at the airport but I couldn’t figure out how to contact her.  Later I heard a voice in my head: “Well, Bruce, WhatsApp would have done nicely.”

I spent nearly an hour this morning on the phone with my Belgian Internet service provider.  Janice was so kind … but I couldn’t piece together her instructions, or what had gone wrong.  In a lovely spurt of niceness, she e-mailed me the instructions so I wouldn’t have to remember the words of her voice.

She adjusted the coverage that I was getting … and here I am sitting with oodles of data.

2.  No luggage.  The first flight, to Munich, left Brussels an hour late because of weather problems.  My layover of 1:20 turned into a sprint of :25.  One result was that Lufthansa left my luggage in Munich.

I sat for many minutes at Carousel 4, watching suitcases traverse their loop, just not my suitcase.  Ten or twenty passengers shared my fate.  The Lufthansa rep did his best to be helpful.  “Coming tomorrow.  Right now, leave the Customs area and go to the Transfer desk.  Another Lufthansa agent will take your info so hopefully your luggage will be delivered to your home tomorrow evening.”  So there was hope within the sigh.

I left the meeting travelling light.  Rather than find the desk right away, I worked on solving problem number three.  By the time I got to the Transfer desk, the rep had gone home.

Happily there was a sign.  I could scan the image to access a “delayed luggage” form, not requiring the Internet.  So I sat there blearily, doing my best to answer questions about my suitcase.  I wasn’t on top of my game.

Hopefully this evening I can shave and put on deodorant.

3.  My Airbnb host and I couldn’t find each other.  A neighbouring passenger helped me identify Logan’s WiFi.  (Thank you, dear anonymous one)  So at least Melanie and I could talk to each other.

Bruce:  “I’m standing outside Customs at Terminal E.”

Melanie:  “So am I.”

Bruce:  “I don’t see you.”  (We’d exchanged pictures)

Melanie:  “I don’t see *you*.”

The fact was that we’d both assumed.  My experience in airports is that once you’ve cleared Customs and got your luggage, you go through a big door that opens into a lobby.  Behind a low fence are the loved ones, some holding signs.  And that’s what I saw last night.  I held Melanie’s photo and scanned faces.  No one that looked like her.

Melanie’s assumption was that I would meet her in the parking lot because drivers picking up travellers were supposed to stay with their cars.

“And never the twain shall meet.”  Well, you’ll be happy to know that the twain eventually met.  We drove home.  I fell into bed.  And I dreamt of tomorrow … another day.

My conclusion?

I don’t think much when I’m that tired

And tomorrow always comes