Revelling in the Lemongrass ... jump-starting my life in a tuk-tuk!

Wow.

It has been a long time since this steel magnolia appeared on the scene.  But here I am.  A wiser, more polished sixty-something yearning for moving to the edge of my comfort zone.

So I am doing it. Yes. Following through on the dreams ruminating earlier in these columns. Relocating to Indochina on at first a temporary basis as an expert volunteer at a rights-based NGO in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. And with good fortune and the ancient Angkor god-kings shining benevolently, I hope to secure a real (read: salaried) position which leverages my real (read: seasoned and experienced) professional background.

And to top it off I leave Monday. This Monday, April 2nd!

I can soon be found half-way across the globe exploring and adventuring in the tufts of mosquito-repelling lemongrass at the confluence of three great Southeast Asian rivers. 

Join me as my ramblings continue from the batik-covered back seat of a tuk-tuk surrey with the fringe on topcarefully balancing over bumpy roads chilled martini up three olives in hand ... as we wend through streets crowded with motos, cars, people, ox carts and the occasional elephant!

Cheers to new happenings, fresh perspectives and a zany sense of the absurd in the enchanted Kingdom of Cambodia whose tragic past is just that ... in the past ... and the air is a-buzz as this ancient country emerges onto the global stage!

Pump Boys and Dinettes ... or the global travels of one pair of Brooks Brothers patent leather formal pumps with grosgrain bows

Lesson learned. UPS is better, faster, more reliable (hands down) than its closest competitor who coined the generic overnight delivery term. But noooooooooo. Not this time. Took nearly a week for the white package with the blue and red logo to wend its way from our nation's capitol through Newark to southern Maine. Boo hoo on them. Yay, UPS!!

But the shoes. Charlie's precious shoes. The ones ordered from Brooks Brothers in November made it in time. The nick of time, I might add. But in time. Thanks in part to the diligence of his lovely chestnut haired Mama (c'est moi) and the ubiquitous brown trucks and planes that fly through her hometown in the deep blue grass and whoosh ... across the earth. Made a special compensatory nod to Charlie's dilemma, and delivered them with hours to spare. Around the world in a nano-second. So he could dance, Fred Astair had nothing on my boy, into 2011.

Santa's route, indeed.

The jolly bearded man in the red suit belted with a wide black cinch belt and spiffy high top black well polished boots looking oh so courant could make the trip around the circumference of the globe in the twinkle of his eye and a twitch of his pug nose.

But not the FedEx-express. Nope. It's UPS all the way from here on out. No choice. Not unless requested specifically by the recipient.

I should be so lucky. To travel from the east coast of the United States, through the rolling hills of Kentucky, pop up to Alaska, over the Pole and then wend my way to southern China and the new Hong Kong home of my darling son.

But ... ah ... I am. Fortunate. I, too, will be following that route through Newark, over the pole (hey there Santa, pooped ol' man) and into the booming island metropolis where my sweet Charlie has taken up residence.

In February! In celebration of my 60th. Wahoo!

Cheers to safe travels ... to me ... dancing shoes ... and the new year!

Over the Pole

So much for the magic of technology. Last night was one of horrors.

I walked away from my desk, from watching the arc of the flight route across the Hudson Bay toward the North Pole, my sweet precious love of my life, my Charlie being transported to his new life across the world, when it happened. Three and a half hours after departure from New York's Kennedy airport.

The smooth white and green dotted line careened to a halt. A solid white line veering in a 45 degree angle due south-west. To a point in the Cascade Mountains near Spokane. And stopped. Zero MPH. Zero foot altitude.

Refresh page. Nothing changed. Again. Nada. Same white line. Same ending point. Same stats.

My heart jolted to a screeching halt. A buzzing filled my head. My ears rang dull.

Frantic calls to Cathay Pacific went unanswered. After hours in the U.S. A deep thud in my gut. My boy. My precious heart.

As the sound came back into my racing mind I methodically Googled the FAA equivalent in Hong Kong. The airport there. They would know. Simultaneously I opened the website for CNN and the Seattle Times for news that would at once rock my world and silence my being. Nothing. Not yet. Too soon perhaps.

Phone calls across the globe yielded nothing. No information. No one in a position to know anything. "That is not on our screens. Call so-and-so at such-and-such. Have a nice day."

A software error? Computer malfunction? Out of range? Or, worse?

Panic oozed sour in my mouth. Paralysis gripped my muscles. My head buzzed with a palpable fear. One apprehensive minute after another dripped by slowly. Achingly. For eleven hours in the black of the night.

Ringggggggggggggggg. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. A pre-requested text message arrives on my Motorola RazR. Flight 481 has arrived on time in Hong Kong.

The correct trajectory. The planned flight path followed. An errant glitch in a faraway computer wreaking havoc with me, my sister and brother-in-law. Caused perhaps by a stealth surveillance of another transoceanic flight to Europe with alleged terrorists aboard.

Modern technology be damned. No more following flights moment-by-moment. Never again. Ever.

China Trade Route Hopping (and Hoping)

Hello, my love … and welcome to your new home in the Far East!

In reality you are a mere 16% of the way there. I am tracking the flight on a map (had to get it from another website) and you are 1,100 miles from NYC with 7,000 to go to touch down.

Bailey is looking over my shoulder and is pleased you are above her native Labrador. She asked me to inquire whether you can see black labs frolicking on the snow covered terrain, since she knows as a fact that all Labs love freezing weather, but I reminded her that you are in the middle section and most likely the shades are drawn so you and your fellow passengers can view movies and play backgammon with themselves en route.

It is suppertime here and I have thrown together a big salad Niçoise (sans potatoes and haricot verts but you get the picture). Bailey is staring at her bowl in the corner of the crate and trying to psychically alter the state of the kibble in hopes that it will magically convert to hamburger bits before her eyes. Bored, she steps back out onto the Kilim pillow and sighs. She has ventured up to your room in vain. Didn’t even take a rest on the calico patch floor cushion she knows is hers. We are both trying to adapt to your absence in our own ways.

I, on the other hand, have been busy Googling hotels and flights to Hong Kong, train schedules to Guangzhou (around US$60 RT for the 90 minute ride on the iron rooster with commuting Chinese proletariat no more), and my desired destination of Hanoi near the lake and as close to the Opera and all things French Vietnamese as possible. My armchair sojourn has been quite exhilarating. I feel that I am getting the lay of the land (your new land) from the comfort (for the time being) of the French rattan bistro chair in front of my aging Dell Latitude.

This is so much more efficient than waiting several months for sea-sodden letters describing the gateway to the East. Marco Polo has little on you, my intrepid son. We (that's the collective 'we') miss you. But, my darling (and this I mean with all my heart) you are off on the adventure of your lifetime. A modern-day post-colonialist with the very best of intentions, compassion, passion and an unimaginable zest for the new and unknown.

Welcome to your new home. May you flourish despite the tropical clime and sow seeds that will reap a bounty over your lifetime. I love you, Charlie.

Devotedly (and admittedly pea green with envy), your Mama sitting on the edge of the sea in an olden New England seafaring town yearning to join your adventure (if even from afar).

Cheers, my love, safe travels and Godspeed xoxo

Guest Blogger: Flyin' Over the Pole

My email this afternoon updating family re the flight path of Charlie's flight to Hong Kong from the northeast United States declares unabashedly: "The plane is now entering Canada near the VT/NH border as it wends its way over the North Pole. He’s off!”

With respect and giggles from the Doodle Brothers Momma (AKA Charlie's musically talented auntie and fellow Harvard alum) comes this modern today rendition of a 1960s tune by Arlo. Apologies Mr. Guthrie ... but this land is your land, this land is my land ... and so is this song!

Coming in from BOSTON
From over the pole
Flying in a big airliner
Wi-Fi playing everywhere around the plane
Could we ever feel much finer?

CHORUS:

Coming into Asia’s Jardines
Bringing in a can of sardines
Don't touch my chips or my beans
Mister Customs Man

There's a guy with a ticket to Hong Kong Bay
No, he couldn't look much stranger
Biking through the hall with his red rickshaw
Smiling, said he was a Mao Ranger

CHORUS

What a trip. I’m right there with him, along with “Major John to flight control . . . “I want it!!!!! I want it!!!!! I want it!!!!! I want it!!!!!”

Cheers ... and not even a little whiff of the poppies, Dorothy!

Five Cubic Metres, Five Cubic Centimetres

How will he ever pack his belongs in five cubic metres? The American equivalent of 6.5 cubic yards. Impossible.

The past six years we have overstuffed the rear of whatever Volvo station wagon I am driving. Squeezing pillows and posters and bedding with squash gear and lamps and rugs. Ooooh. I almost forgot. Clothes for every possible event. Several choices, in fact. Into half that space.

This he gets from me.

And my Grandma Alice. She of the grand steamer trunks replete with silk lined drawers and monogrammed leather trim.

You might need this for that event. And of course what about this for the other event? What if so-and-so invites you to meet the Queen? Be on the safe side. Take both. It might rain. Snow. Not. Be flexible. It's yours. it should be with you to remind you of home. Your sense of humor. Camp adventures. Middle school buddies.

The more the suitcases. the more the merrier. Except for our ten day university tour by train through Great Britain and Scotland in early winter. Might need boots? Check. Extra scarves? Right-o. Dressy clothes? It's close to the holidays. Your school books? Midterms are the week after our return.

Four heavy very heavy roller bags later we embarked. Heavy as lead suitcases that we had to hoist from train platform through quickly closing doors and hop in behind. Four different hotels in less than two weeks. And horrors ... we never wore the boots. Nor our festive outfits. In fact, I wore the same pair of black pants nearly every day. Could have done the entire trip with a carryon. But shhhhhhhhhh.

We are crazy. Bonafide, over-packers. You are more than welcome to acknowledge the fact. We are nuts Did we learn from our sore backs and aching shoulders. HELL NO! Our motto - Be prepared for anything!

Schleppers extraordinaire.

Barely able to see over the piles smoonched into the back of the car and filling every gap under our feet, I have pulled out of our driveway or the circle in front of one of his Andover dorms or Grays East in Harvard Yard ... where yes, you can park in Harvard Yard and his single in a five-man suite was formerly inhabited by the then brilliant super geek and now infamous, jailed for life Unabomber) or Lowell House with the lovely bell tower silhouetting the Cambridge sky, a stone's throw from The Fly (finals club of FDR ... and my darling son).

The conundrum? Our latest dilemma?

Transporting piles of need-to-have accouterments, wardrobe and vast library of books across the seas to his new home in the Far East.

Can it be done?

Should it be done?

Will it even fit in his company-provided apartment two blocks from the office?

Our vote ... drum roll please ... is to take three suitcases packed with clothes and a very few mementos of home. Period.

Cheers to enlightened world travelers who may just finally get it.

[Postscript: Charlie's shared apartment is minuscule. His bedroom the size of a sleeper car in economy. A bunk bed loft over the closet with steps doubling as dresser drawers ... and a desk with chair. His entire personal space less than five cubic meters! Lesson learned, I think ;-)]

A Bite of the Apple

There's something about a visit to my beloved Manhattan that sends an adrenalin burst through my body. Tingling my energies. Touching my soul.

It has always been that way. Annual childhood trips to The City from my home in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky dazzled my imagination. A magical kingdom between two rivers. My Oz.

The pink walls and tables amid tea carts bearing fanciful desserts at Rumplemeyer's across from the park.

Twinkly lights, multi-hued balloon swirls, eggs b chased by Shirley Temples in martini glasses at Tavern on the Green.

The fabulous B's of shopping wonderland: Best and Co., Bendel's, Bergdorf Goodman, Bonwit's!

Skaters wrapped in bright woolen scarves figure-eights over the white ice at Wollman rink, the painted ponies on the carousel, Alice perched high on toadstools watching boats gliding across the man-made pond. Ah ... my Alice statue. Then. Now. Forever my go-to place for solace and the sweet peace of time.

Sophisticated ladies in pencil slim black dresses with fox collars and mink stoles casually draped over their delicate shoulders. Pearls. Dreamlike.

Over the years. My residence for a decade. The venerable Lotos Club my haunt. My home away from home. Impromptu, spontaneous visits planned in the morning for an eight o'clock curtain of a new show. An alto sax mournfully crooning in a blue smoke filled bar underground. My heart races as I cross whichever bridge leading me to this magical island that forever channels my soul. My alternate self. My real self. Where I'd be in a New York moment if only ...

But hey, I am here. My Charlie at work in a glass and steel midtown tower. We'll meet for a regional Cuban supper at Victor's Cafe, mojitos flowing. What could be better?

To the pulsating energy coursing through my Maine-weary veins! Cheers!

Elephant Walk

Foolhardy adventures are streaming through my overstuffed, desperately under-used brain. Addled as it is.

It's flowing now. The spigot wide open. Have decided to stick with the theme-of the moment. At least for a day or two. You don't mind, do you? Stream of consciousness rules!

The theme? My bucket punch list. Egged on by spontaneity and wanderlust. Hey, who knows when I will close my hazel green eyes for the big sleep. Imagine all the possibilities. Experience and revisit places in and out of my comfort zone. Time is a'wastin'.

I have 4 more states. 1 continent, 2 if you count Antarctica. Micro-finance in Southeast Asia. Or teaching English. Building communities in sub-Saharan Africa. Restoring an ochre plastered farm in the southwest region of France. Tuscany. Argentina. Connecting with the love of my life. Exploring. The adventure unfolding one day at a time.

My comfort zone ebbs and wanes with the tides. The season. My coffers. My nerve.

Redefined at a given moment, depending. A shelf life of several days. The amorphous comfort zone interpreted on an 'as needed' basis. Maybe a month. But only if reservations are required and an overseas flight is involved. A tad longer if being joined by a bold intrepid soul, my venturesome son or a dear friend. To coordinate calendars. Schedules. Bailey. It fluctuates wildly.

Oh to be utterly boundaryless. Unrestricted by either time or money. But you know the drill.

A few weeks before my travels to meet Charlie in South Africa I dared to commit to a pre-paid elephant safari. In the bush. Bareback.

The bonus of an aging mind and faded memories. Not intimidated one iota by the eight inch scar running from stem to stern. Forty five autumns later, a whiter shade of pale. No more bikinis. Or a tawny, suntanned tummy. Unless you count the topless beaches in France (another story, peut être). Ruptured spleen.

Involved: Galloping double bareback with my school friend, Libba. A skittish mare. Handsome teen age boys. A train crossing on a country road. And yes, you guess it, poor timing. Recipe for disaster. Cantered right past a RR crossing. Gates descending. Clanging bells. Lights flashing crimson. A maniacal freight train bellowing black steam roaring past. Horse shied. We tumbled to the gravelly pavement. Woke up in the ambulance. The horror now as faded as the white stripe.

Obviously. Or I wouldn't have found myself four decades later leaping from a second floor deck onto the thank god swayed back of Muqua. My transport for the next sixty minutes through the bush. One of a handful of orphaned adolescent males rescued from ivory poachers. Oh my. Hadn't we just watched as he sparred playfully with Duma, the alpha male, Charlie's mount? I prayed their barely over quarrel for dominance was complete. Let Duma lead.

Monkeys darted in an around. In between the grey wrinkly legs of our mounts. Muqua lumbered over the rock strewn path. I clutched the skinny waist of my Zimbabweayn guide in a death grip. Up. Down. It mattered not. My knees couldn't grip his sides. This was no thoroughbred.

We'd stop. I'd catch my breath. Mustering the courage not to ask to head back to the lodge. Muqua's giant trunk arched in a 'u' onto our laps for some gigantic pellets. Super-sized treats. Bailey would have been jealous.

Muqua's giant Africa-shaped ears flapped back and forth to keep cool. Resting on my knees. I thought it was my guide getting fresh. But I didn't care. I gripped him tighter. Linking my survival to his jungle instincts. Wild birds dipped in flight. A lemur family perched in the scraggly trees. It was exhilarating. And terrifying. If Muqua misstepped I would tumble onto the jagged rocks far below. Or onto a prickly shrub with 6 inch dagger-like thorns. Did they take Blue Cross/Blue Shield in the bush?

When we approached the watering hole I slid off Muqua's leathery, wiry haired back onto a platform. Legs wobbly. Pulse slowing to its natural rhythm.

Buckets filled to the brim with the gigunda treats awaited on the ground. Charlie already had his hand in Duma's gaping mouth. Muqua nudged me with tusks as long as my arm. His trunk arched high. His mouth gaped open. I tentatively placed a nugget on his tongue. He gently swallowed. Brushed me again. This boy wanted treats. Now! Muqua curled his wrinkled trunk downward, snorted and made a bowl with his snout. I tossed in a handful. My new adorable pachyderm buddy. Now that my feet were planted firmly on terra firma.

You never know what crazy-out-of-my-comfort-zone discovery is in store for this self-proclaimed adventurer. I cannot wait. I can feel the tingle.

Let the games begin!

All My Eggs in a (Pier One) Basket

Yesterday's posting got me to thinking about hot air balloons. And the yellow brick road.

But first the colorful, float with the clouds, flight apparatus that preceded the airplane. Imagine. The ability to get from one place to another, traffic be damned.

Mais oui. The only mode of overland transportation in the late 1700s was horse drawn carriage, horseback or one's very own feet.

It is worth a mention that in late 18th century France actually was on technology's cutting edge. On the cusp of a brave new world. France! That in itself is amazing. You'd expect it from the Italians. Da Vinci after all conceptualized the helicopter in the latter part of the 15th century as science, art and society flourished. But that it was in the French countryside that the Montgolfier brothers made the leap into aerodynamics. Successfully. It elevated the family to nobility. But of course.

A gondola ... a wicker basket not unlike one that would carry paté, vin rosé, a baguette, cornichons and a wedge of Brie into the countryside for an afternoon delight, two hundred fold larger ... suspended gracefully by braided guy wires from an artistic and quite colorful envelope. Fueled by hot air from a flame precariously close to the fabric.

Thermal airships. Floating windbags. Carried buoyant across air currents. Just high enough to feel the sensation of floating ever so slowly over meadows, rivers and rolling farmland.

Fast forward two hundred years. The Napa Valley. A chilly pre-dawn trek via caravan across the vineyards to an open field. Three hot air balloons being prepped for our excursion. Champagne, croissants and fig jam awaited at the other end. Not quite awake I was along for the adventure. And a few glasses of bubbly before 11 in the morning. That itself was the incentive.

We arrived. Found the woman with the clipboard to check-in, run the credit card through the machine in her backpack and sign a death waiver.

A what?

My heart started pounding. White noise filled my head buzzing loudly. So noisy was the cacophony brewing inside that I couldn't hear the directions of how to be a good passenger. What to expect. Emergency procedures. Nada. All I could do was keep from passing out altogether. Grainy swirling flashes of sparkled light fogged my vision.

I was in deep trouble.

My head was filled with a jumbled mess of thoughts flashing neon across my mind's eye. My very own jumbotron. The messages came quickly crowding out the fact that I had to twink, badly:

1) This was my very first trip away from my four year old child;

2) I was a continent away;

3) The van driver looked like a hippie who smoked hash before picking us up at the bed and breakfast;

4) I was praying he was not the pilot, or whatever the flyer is called;

5) My mobile phone was locked in the van that transported us here; and most importantly

6) I am deathly afraid of heights.

What had I signed up for? Egads. I was nauseous, feverish and couldn't hear myself think. The buzz in my head now a roar.

We were being herded towards the balloons quickly filling with hot air tethered to the ground by what appeared to be leather bases. The kind from a baseball diamond. Scarily old fashioned. The burner shot white hot flames into an flammable (god, I hope not) fabric pocket. Wooden library steps were placed next to each one. One of the ground crew was leading me away from my friends to the what appeared to be flimsy craft in the middle.

Someone grabbed my elbow as I hoisted myself up the final step through a wicker gate into the basket itself. Eight other intrepid souls joined me. The pilot last. Sandbags were heaved to the ground and the folks charged with preparing our ascent (our van driver, thank the lord, on the field). I held tightly to the metal bar in the corner and prayed. All I could hear above the din in my mind was Charlie's sweet voice ... and that of my father reminding me to never let my Blue Cross/Blue Shield lapse.

Slowly the craft drifted straight up. Not unlike a helicopter. The rolling meadows and wine lands spread out below us like a Van Gogh. Streaks of mad-driven pigments spread furiously. Attached to the canvas by the putty knife. In splotches. Multi-hued. Vibrant.

I clutched the rod in the corner of the basket. My heart rate slowed a bit. Down below a miniature red fox darted through a hedge followed by hounds and horses carrying men in red coats and white jodhpurs. It was amazing. Floating just under 1000 feet with the birds. Flying really. Up up and away.

In what seemed to be an instant we were being instructed as to how to land without injury. I unlocked my knees, bent them and braced myself for a hard landing in a farm yard. Geese squawked, chickens ruffled their feathers, a dog barked wildly as the pigs continued to chew on the corn cobs littering their sty oblivious.

Next we bumped the ground bouncing. Skidded to a halt. The balloon flapped as the air was released. I unclenched my teeth and kissed the pole. Nonchalantly strolled over to the wicker gate being unlatched by what appeared to be leather bands. Relieved that this flimsy contraption had ensconced us safely during our 75 minute flight. I descended from the Pier One basket shakily. Grateful to be on earth.

We toasted our adventure with Etoile, the most sublime sparkling wine from nearby Domaine Chandon. Crisp and tart. Lovely. It washed away my jitters and restored calm. One should always have a flute of bubbly before lunch.

Cheers!

Marriottish

What can I say? A spa suite, no less. Gorgeous view over the fourteenth hole of the Newport Beach Country Club all the way to the Pacific. Catalina Island shimmering on the horizon. Very La-La Land. Pampered.

But wait. The rooms have the appearance of plush elegance. Until you start unpacking. Whoops. The light for the large closet and its foyer 'dressing room' is far far away. By the front door.

And hey what's this? Gorgeous evening clothes lined up with choices of glamorous shoes. Silky 3 inch sandals. Or lizard high tony pointy pumps. But wait. Nope. No full length mirror. My mom and I taking turns aiming the 8X magnifying mirror in the bathroom to the floor and then scanning our torsos to see which works. What a hoot.

Even the bathroom in all its marble and gold chrome splendor has no towel racks. Not one. Oh yay. Next to the tub is a tiny hook to drape a nightgown and peignoir set falling ever so gracefully hiding the light switch and dimmer. Not sure where to put the not-so-plush bath towels. But this'll work. I'll hide the damp ones under the marbleized vanity until the morning. Then pop them out to be whisked away. Ingenious, if I do say so myself. And it is a suite after all. I am rolling in clover. Kind of.

Let me check out the mini-bar. Take inventory of the goodies safely stowed on those cool, well stocked shelves. Nums. Late night treats of the candy and liquid varieties. After hour munchies and spirits ... no last calls here. But hey! Where is that bad boy? Found the safe on the floor. That's needed. But no tiny fridge. Oh ... there it is. In the desk cabinet. It's empty. WTF? Not sure what I am supposed to chill. Meds? Nail polish? Sadly not wine or mixers. There is nary a grocery or package store to be found in all of Fashion Island.

A bit Marriottish, if you ask me. Cheers ... pour this girl a drink!

Slow to Post: Ramblings from the Other Coast Delayed

... am in not so sunny southern California where the temperatures are as chilly as those we left yesterday morning in wintertime New England. But the views of Catalina Island from my sister's stunning hillside home are rivaled only by the majestic palms leading up the drive.

My musings will be delayed. Overtaken by to the festivities of this joyous family event so long in the making. But take heart ... I have copious notes written on envelopes and napkins from the past few days that are sure to entertain. It has been zany to say the least. And quite the ride.

So kick back ... add another maraschino cherry and a dash of bitters. I'll be right back. Cheers!

Come Fly With Me

It's o'dark thirty and the house has been busy for hours. Boonie, my mother's eighty-six year old convivant, was unloading the dishwasher a few hours ago, the sound of clanging pots and clinking glasses awakening us way before the alarms on our cell phones could beep us awake. Yikes. We had hours before the car service would fetch us for the 90 minute drive down the coast to Logan airport.

Mom, looking fresh and revitalized after a recent visit to her "skin" doctor, fidgeted with her contact lenses and after dropping them in the sink one too many times uttered a few unmentionables not befitting her mostly graceful octogenarian demeanor. Gave up on them altogether and grabbed the Sophia Loren oversized glasses from her Longchamps bag. Looking oh so chic. Even at this ungodly hour.

I was being paged. Loudly. Seems I couldn't get attired quickly enough. Boonie needed an assist ASAP. Oh my. This morning had all the makings of a very hectic day. Holding my index finger against the side of my neck I massaged until I could get my being to relax. Patience. Patience. I needed some Zen calming potion and an OM thrown in for good measure. All this and the sun hadn't even erupted into the eastern sky.

We managed to jam five heavy heavy suitcases, three carryons and our purses into the back of the tightly packed Jeep and pile into the car. My stepfather's still nose bleeding from a deep gash on his left nostril from hasty shaving in the middle of the night. Our driver's eyes drooping from working the late shift. I tightened my seat belt and stared out the window as the sky turned pinkish purple and the stars vanished before my eyes.

Mind you I am in charge. The three of us ... two octogenarians and me ... dropped in the middle of the access road near the terminal with our overpacked luggage some wheeless and nary a skycap in sight. Gone with the 9/11 rules for a streamlined 21st century travel experience. So I was the man. The guy. The one who had to figure out how to manage all these suitcases, my aging parents and my not so awake self and herd unbalanced us through the long, passenger filled maze twisting around toward the check in counters. I needed some serious meds. Sadly have none. Zen. OMmmmmmmmmmm. Deep breaths.

Finally the bags were on the conveyor belt to the bowels of the airport. I was praying they wouldn't make it onto the plane so JetBlue could taxi them to our hotel in Newport Beach. The thought of dealing with these on the other side rang terror in my almost calmed heart. At least for the time being it was manageable. Not. The long security lined loomed. I looked at my mom, her 'boy' friend and the grey plastic bins were we would place most of our clothing and shoes for the x-rayers to examine.

Yikes. Flying today was all the more hectic after the underpants bomber's Christmas escapade. Hospital gowns with the hiney flaps flying in the breeze comes to mind. My Mom finally agreed to remove her neck pillow, all her jewelry and jacket. But somehow the alarm still sounded. In the next aisle, my step-father was dripping blood from his shaving wound. Thin skin closes very very slowly. Yep. Herding ducks.

We slid into our seats at the gate. Exhausted. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. In moments we would be nestled on the big silver bird jetting across the country. Naptime for all.

A round of Bloody Marys for all ... cheers ... and happy flying!

Changing Closets

Lump in my throat. During the 90 minute drive home this afternoon. All the way from Cambridge up I-95. Snizzle wetting the windshield. Tears in my eyes. It's almost over. An era drawing to an end. Happy-sad. My boy is growing up. My darling Charlie.

Wasn't it just last week that his long graceful yet still chubby fingers wrapped tightly around mine as he nervously clutched his yellow plastic lunch box in the other hand? A teensy navy and green backpack monogrammed of course held an extra pair of undies and Madison ... just in case. First day of school. He was two. One day a week. Mondays. Mothers' Day Out. For me - Mothers' Day In - For a few weeks I waited the several hours as he dealt with the separation. First on the comfy bench outside his classroom. Graduating to the sofa in the director's office. Until finally I could go do some errands before picking him up after lunch. We both managed beautifully. The days have melted into one another. Years zipping by, smiling. Laughing. Learning. Experiencing.

Yesterday he finished the eighty-eight page draft of his honors thesis on the decolonization of Hong Kong. 88. Double infinity. An auspicious number for the Chinese. Symbolizing fortune and wealth. The luckiest of all numbers. The year of his birth. The month of his birth. His first night sleeping in his crib yellow and white chintz, Madison and Monkey Doodles at his side, at home. 8/8/88. The sun shines on my baby. He is blessed. The fortunate one. It has been a most delicious dream dripping love. Discoveries. Adventures. The most profound pleasure ... these past two decades. The 'dynamic duo' imagining the possibilities.

He graduates from college in May. So today marks the end of our annual ritual. Switching closets from winter corduroys, wool cable knit sweaters, scarves and boots to the pastels of spring. Since he schools away from home, and has for six years, this is not your typical up to the attic or down to the basement. Uh-uh. It involves me, my station wagon, many LL Bean bags and a 90 minute trek down I-95. The mid-March drive to Massachusetts. Back of my Volvo filled to the brim with Charlie's spring clothes and warm weather gear on the way down; winter woolens and down parkas on the way home.

Next year he might be in Hong Kong or Singapore. No need for seasonal changes of clothes. Summer year round. Or in Moscow. Yes. There he'll need to switch from winter warm and cozy to summer lights. Or in London. But the Volvo won't be making the trek. No longer. C'est fini. Obsolescence. The mama needs. My sweet boy will be changing before someone else's eyes. All grown up and out in the world. Rooted. Loved. Cherished. No matter the season.

Cheers to my heart ... his journey ... and him knowing I am always here at the ready. Always!

Chinglish

As promised. This morning I jump-started research on the CELTA program in Hanoi for their fall sessions. Several options for this intensive month long training.

Also, snuck a peek at options in China. With one billion people and the party's ruling that all Chinese under 50 must learn standard Mandarin and English in addition to their ethnic tongue. So the entire country is desperate for teachers. So is South Korea and southeast Asia. Fierce competition to train ESL staff. Lured by their willingness to provide room, board, transportation costs ... plus sign up/contract bonuses to stay in-country. Caveat: You get what you pay for. Literally.

Trepidation seeps through my soul that I am even considering being at the mercy of a non-Western Communist government. You WILL like it here. No complaints. Off with her head, the Red Queen screeched.

Know the drill only too well. The lack of 'stars' on student housing. Sub-par for Americans of a certain age! Food? They love scorpion satay! But, what really is the deal breaker, the breaking point, are the freakish salles de bains pour les femmes. Holes in the floor. Watch your step. Squatters we are not. My hair, however, will be well treated. That I already know. You do too.

China needs fluent English speakers. We all know that. English is the way of the world. Business especially. Tours are offered in two languages: Mandarin and English. Translators for translators required for those unfortunate tourists not fluent in my mother tongue. Too bad for the Poles, the Ruskies, the Brazilians ... anyone who doesn't know either.

Two truisms re China: (1) Not only are they overtaking the global economy, but (2) their signs are hilarious. Younger, English speaking Chinese know how to translate. But the whole face saving aspect makes them reluctant to correct their managers.

The results are hysterical:

• A road sign on Beijing's Avenue of Eternal Peace warns of a dangerous pavement with the words: "To Take Notice of Safe; The Slippery are Very Crafty".
• Emergency exits at Beijing airport read "No entry on peacetime".
• The Ethnic Minorities Park is named "Racist Park".
• At one of the bigger train stations a huge sign which states simply "Question Authority". Eeeks. What is this incredibly heavily controlled officially Communist state saying? LOL ... the sign points to the Information Booth.
• Menus frequently list items such as "Corrugated iron beef", "Government abuse chicken" and "Chop the strange fish". But the one that really gets to me: worm pig stomach. Now you understand about my free board issue!

Thumbs up to teaching English in a foreign land ... and god help me for not knowing their language! Cheers!

Fat Tuesday

Laissez les bons temps rouler! Oui. Oui. Bienvenue. I am all for that! Bawdy N'awlyuns is dancing in the streets. Rio de Janeiro is smokin' hot. Montreal is hopping. One last day before the diet begins for all church-going folks. Prelude to spring. The rebirth. And all things steaming as we head into the sultry days of summer bare-skinned and loose.

This gal, too. Need to take it up a notch. Dr. John blows his horn. Revelers debauched frolic along the narrow avenues to Dixieland blues. Trumpets. Trombones. The strains of a lone alto sax drifts from the alleyway. It is celebrating time. This is for real. Doubloons glitter. Purple and green jesters bow and leap. Cougars in vests made of bottle tops, velvet and lace bounce in tune with fraternity boys sporting crew cuts and beer. Beignets and cafe au lait and trolley cars and bourbon. New Orleans in mid-February. Best place on earth. Actually a glimpse into the festivities of Hades. All those lost and departed fun livin' crazies. Way too much fun. Bien sur.

Hide behind your glitter and sequined mask. Peer out from behind the curlicue rodiron balconies. The Saints are celebrating big this year. Secrets. Cajuns. Hurricanes at O'Brien's. Lady Shawmut a very naughty girl. Every time she visits this French ville sur la mer. Swamp rats the size of small dogs roam Le Quartier. Mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds spin lazy circles in the damp evening sky. Humid. Hot. Tantalizing. Mossy trees. Bluesy jazz. Bacchanalian energies a'mix with sensual delights. Pralines and chicken gumbo. Crawfish, jambalaya and etoufee. Po'boys and pork boudin. Bread pudding souffle. Mmmm nums! Oh la la. What's not to love? A little something extra for all of us wanting to have a little bit of romance the southern Louisiana way. Lagniappe.

Cheers! Fais-do-do! A demain ...

When Pigs Fly

Now it's available! The H1N1 vaccine. For free even. At the Catholic church on Route 1 in my New England coastal village. I pull my silver Volvo wagon into a vacated parking spot and head through the crowded parking lot. Saturday morning residents chatter familiarly while waiting patiently, sipping coffee from styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cups. The columned portico abuzz as we await access through the large white panelled wooden doors to the clinic inside. Familiar memories from another Saturday morning nearly fifty years ago flood my mind's eye as I stood in queue for an innoculation from the next available SMMC nurse.

It was 1962, not sure of the season but it wasn't too hot or too cold outside. My three siblings and I piled into the family Ford Country Squire with the faux-wooden side panels for a routine morning of Saturday errands. Mom behind the wheel. I, the eldest, perched happily in the passenger seat. Our first stop? Saint Francis of Assisi, the century old parish on Bardstown Road in the Highlands where my best friend, Valerie, went to school. Odd. Very. We're Jewish.

Thought we were headed to the Winn Dixie at The Loop for our weekly grocery extravaganza. Not yet. Quiet eerily replaced our noisy bantering. All eyes riveted to the throng of families milling about on the sidewalk. Mom pulled into a space on the side street bordering the church, moved the shift poking out of the steering column into Park, grabbed her purse from the leatherette bench seat sans safety belts and got out of the car. Keys still in the ignition.

Maybe she had to pick up something on the way to the market and would be right back. Instead motioned for us to join her outside. Robin hesitated not quite understanding. Mom reached through the open window and gently cupped her hand around Robin's shoulder so she could join me on the sidewalk. Mary and Willy tumbled out. No explanation needed from this Howdy Doody raised brood. We followed politely.

Inside the granite stone rectory long tables were staffed by nurses in starched white uniforms with even stiffer caps perched on their over-sprayed hair-do's that Daddy often called "hair don'ts". Everything about these women was imposing. Trays held neat columns of hundreds of tiny pleated paper rinse cups from the dentist office. A small white cube rested inside each.

A newfangled vaccination awaited. No shots. No visit from needle-happy Harris, our house-calling pediatrician who scared the bejeezus out of us when he walked in our front door carrying the dreaded worn black leather bag hiding syringes, rectal thermometers and brown glass vials of antiseptics the color of rubies that caused more pain than the scrape it protected. The first of three doses of Sabin oral. Pink medicine on a lump of sugar. No hospital smells here. Candy dispensed drugs that would inspire Timothy Leary and entice my generation into a psychedelic haze. Blotter acid's precursor. But ah, I digress.

Back on point: The burning question of today. Where was the stockpile of this virulent flu vaccine when I really needed it?

Nowhere to be had in July when, arriving at the Beijing Capital International Airport jet-lagged and crumpled after a sixteen hour flight over the pole, a dozen of the tiniest USA-doubting men-children boarded our 767 to register the temperature of entire rows of passengers with an errant wave of a wand over our heads. The slightest deviation from a standard 98.6 Fahrenheit risked a two-week quarantine in some facility deep in the quagmire of the People's bureaucratic labyrinth.

And definitely not available a few months later to prevent three weeks of miseries I succumbed to just as my son arrived home for a relaxing, fun-filled Thanksgiving vacation. Had been inoculated for the seasonal flu in a very public traveler-crowded concourse at the Atlanta airport, my Delta flight home delayed. Had a mani, too. But noooo ... nothing worked. Over-zealous, I partook of every known precaution out there. Every single one. I incessantly wiped germs and the 'good' bacteria from grocery carts and door handles with an inordinate amount of Purell. My sandpaper dry hands flaked like the snow falling outdoors. Every one except the H1N1shot.

That little piggy went we-we-we right into my lungs. Hacking and limp for most of the holiday season. I hadn't been sick in nearly a decade. Proof? The expiration dates on the various cold and flu meds from Walmart's had expirations circa 2003.

Anyhoo. It is a moot point now. Anticlimatic. Useless, really. But hey, I'm card-carrying now. Vaccinated and ready to sit on the tarmac of any airport in China confident that the pigs are locked in their stys ...

... at least until tomorrow. Cheers!

Wyeth and the Beans of Egypt, Maine

In October, Mom and I jumped into her dark green jeep with the thin red pinstripe just under the windows for our long talked about road trip to view the Andrew Wyeth's autumn inspired collection at The Farnsworth Art Museum on Maine's mid-coast.

The day was gorgeous. Spectacular in a way that artists capture and poets describe. The embodiment of a picture perfect New England fall day. One you could bottle. Treasure. Ephemeral. A final vestige of warmth and color in the fleeting weeks before daylight savings ends abruptly draping afternoon sunshine with winter's grey shroud.

On this day, the cerulean sky cloudless. Dry air defined the crisp edges of each brightly-hued leaf bordering the highway. Breathtaking. I-95, the turnpike that would lead, or so we thought, to U.S. Route 1 and Rockland. Our canvas boat bag packed with a few bottles of Poland Springs and apples from the nearby orchard was tossed casually on the back seat. Ooops. No GPS. No map. No problem. Just follow the highway toward LL Bean and then along the shore road.

Not a happening thing. Not in Maine. I-95 is a north-south highway wending its way north from the tip of Florida through the densely populated megalopolis of the east coast, parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. Right? Uh-unh. It veers left at Portland and heads straight through interior Maine to the Canadian border. North! Who knew north was not along the coast as it was the entire length of this super highway? Who knew the meaning of 'downeast'? Not this mapless Kentucky-bred driving duo beelining on a course directly into moose territory during wild turkey hunting season. If only the sour mash variety.

Lost in animated conversation, unwittingly staying the course on I-95 to the exit for the coastal route. The one that which would lead us through the picturesque antique village of Wiscasset past Bath Iron Works shipyard at the mouth of the Kennebec River (which further upstream was a torrent of white water rapids that our Willy canoed during his childhood summers). Instead, we sailed into the heart of Maine, a comedy of errors.

Ooops. Zoomed past the exit for Augusta. Augusta? The state capitol. Maine's epicenter. The democratic location for every state house in the nation ... except Boston. The toll collector surely would redirect us. But, and this should have been a tip-off, he didn't exactly know the way. No problem. We did what every self-respecting lost driver would do: headed to the nearest filling station to reset the course. I popped inside and asked the woman selling Lottery tickets and slushies at the counter. She rambled off a series of turns, landmarks, route numbers. My ears numbing out the turn right at the blank, then left at the other blank, around the rotary, past the quarry to a route number we never found. I nodded as my eyes glazed over. So deeper into rural Maine we drove. This time on country back roads.

Phew. Mom spied several men in camouflage gear unloading their rifles from the pickup's gun rack. They'd know. Men are so much better at directions. We slowed onto the gravel shoulder, rolled down the side window and hoped the shotguns were not loaded. Smarter now, I jotted their convoluted directions on a piece of scrap paper stained with a crimson lipstick blot. I know they were chuckling as we pulled off on a wild goose chase. Pin the tail on the donkey dizzy. A museum? Yup.

We zigged and zagged past fields and barns and rusty tractors. No route numbers. No signs. Nothing. The double yellow line luring us into a false sense of confidence that this secondary road would take us somewhere. Anywhere. Ahead a farmer pulled his red Ford F-540 dualie to the mailbox on the edge of road. His kind eyes met mine and I knew, the way one knows that his directions would be honest ones. And, we'd be on our way. I explained our predicament to this patient man whose steely grey eyes locked onto my face. When I had stopped talking, he shrugged and shook his head, his hands on his ears indicating he couldn't hear. Pitiful. A deaf mute with a driver's license. We were screwed.

Late afternoon. Our resolve gone. I positioned the setting sun on the right side of the jeep and headed toward what was assuredly the coast. Miles later Mom squealed. Ahead at the bottom of the hill a sign for Route 1. Finally. Not knowing whether to turn right or left to reach the Farnsworth we threw our hands in the air laughing at our trip to nowhere. With growling tummies, we stopped for barbecue at Naked Buck's juke joint outside Freeport.

So, where is this going, this column of mine? To Rockland! To the Farnsworth. Andrew Wyeth's winter collection in the main gallery. This time for real. The correct way. The only way to reach it by land from southern York County. I-95 to I-295 to Route 1. A confident passenger in another classic green automobile heading downeast. My seasoned sailor at the helm. The wind at our backs. The sun in our eyes. The Gulf of Maine at the tip of pine covered peninsulas, scattered with deserted islands on our right looping in and out of view. Monhegan Island appears on the horizon. We are nearing our destination.

Poland Spring water bottles clink. Cheers ... until tomorrow!

Champoo

Nothing is better than having my hair shampooed at a salon. Hands down, it is one of my guilty pleasures up there with peanut M&Ms and gloppy BLTs ... and well, you know! I look forward with eager anticipation to my monthly visits for reshaping my tresses. Recurring scheduled appointments made way in advance. Reserved on my calendar a quarter at a time. The village salon over the yoga studio and mariner insurance agency where I am coiffed like Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion and friends in the Emerald City. A buff-buff here. A buff-buff there. Crazy, right? Not to me.

Popping out of the car I focus only on the relaxation awaiting at the top of the wide wooden stairs. Poor (wo)man's therapy. My muscles uncoil, my breathing relaxes. A shimmery cape is draped over my shoulders and the narrow towel of soft cottony terry cloth loops tucked elegantly like a silk Hermes scarf at my nape. Drifting I lean back into the porcelain sink. My head rests gently on the foam pillow in the curvature of the bowl my neck fitting comfortably. Eyes close. Ah. Warm spray sudses the shampoo into billowy lather. My scalp tingles with the gentle pressure of shampoo being massaged into my thick chestnut hair. Stress streams with random to-do lists into the soapy water swirling to the drain at the bottom of the black porcelain sink and out through pipes to nowhere. Blissful! What's not to love?

Transition to a very hot, humid and way too polluted day in Beijing last summer. Which parenthetically trumps LA brown auto-emissions smog in the 1970s and coal black Pittsburgh steely haze before the Golden Triangle was developed. Filthy air. I am so not sure how the Summer Olympians were able to breathe much less perform their personal best. The sun might be shining brightly but who the hell would know it? Nary a blue sky on the horizon. Ooops. Off point. Way. Back to hair.

Beijing's intense July heat, oppressive humidity and off-the-chart pollution have taken root in each of my too-many-gazillion strands, soaking deep into the follicles. My hair a dirty, swollen tangle. My very own Forbidden City and Birds Nest gnarled into one. I needed a professional shampoo. Badly. A much deserved hour luxuriating in an Asian salon where deep tissue massage is an artform inspirational.

Raffles, my elegant and storied 19th century five star hotel booked months before on deeply discounted hotels.com (surely the result of a precipitous decline in Western tourists post-Olympics and threats of arbitrary mandatory H1N1 quarantines for foreign travelers arriving at airports with muscle aches or elevated temps) boasted a sumptuous salon and spa where a humdrum hair washing would break the bank. My bank. Ever the adventurer, I sought out a beauty shop catering to locals. The closest on nearby Wang Fu Jing Street -- a not-so-stylish pedestrian mall where sidewalk vendors hawked Pier One exports and pushcarts offered scorpion satays and melamine-tainted ice cream. A red, white and blue striped barber pole marked its entrance. The 25 yuan ($3.65) price tag lured me inside.

Every head in the grey walled, hair dryer-dome filled room spun when I pushed open the revolving glass door. Smiling, I presented the note penned in Mandarin by a giggling Raffles' concierge: "Hair wash only. No scissors, please." I was handed a number and pointed to the row of seats not unlike the waiting room of a bus station. Nodding, I took a vacant chair among chattering ladies looking curiously my way. I kept smiling. Looking around. Taking it all in.

I felt a nudge on my arm. The customer seated across from me with wet hair wrapped in a turban signaled to the petite lady standing in the doorway to the salon. My three-digit number had been called. I was the next patron. I motioned a thumbs up indicating my understanding to the ladies now staring at my every move. Grabbing my purse, I followed the attendant inside to another row of chairs in front of a mirror running the length of the room. No shelves for tools of the trade. No fancy swiveling salon seats with lifts. Just four-legged straight backed chairs. Curious, I sat and faced my reflection in the looking glass.

A slippery cape and a hand towel were causally tossed over my shoulders. Shampoo was drizzled on my head, then warmish water squirted from a clear plastic ketchup bottle and my hair was lathered it into a frothy heap. No sink. No sprayer. No serenity. I expected more from the Chinese. Where was my Oriental head massage?

The rest of the process was similar. Redundant actually. The bus terminal seats. A tap on my arm when my number was announced. A neighboring client motioning me to follow the attendant to the next step. And the next. Smiles and thumbs up from me at each juncture. Giggles from them.

I relaxed. Nary a scissors in sight. No wire curlers the size of D batteries. And to my delight, no helmet spewing a hot dry blast from an ancient row of hair dryers. My stylist deftly blowdrying my thick hair into the ubiquitous page-boy. Close enough. I smiled. Paid at the front desk and pushed open the revolving doors and ventured out into the bright noontime sun. Turned to my left and strolled nonchalantly along busy Wang Fu Jing back to my shi-shi hotel. Hair clean, coiffed and shiny. Thumbs up.

With a flip of my hair ... cheers until tomorrow.

Drives to nowhere ...

Sometimes it just feels good, great even, to join a dear friend on a drive into the country, or up the coast, or into the city. It just feels good. To get in the passenger side of a well-waxed forest green classic automobile and slide deep into the leather seats knowing that the adventure is not in the destination, but in the journey.

This afternoon was one of those days. A crisp clear January day where the air is so cold and dry that the edges of every naked branch on winter-bare trees stands sharply against the azure sky. One of those rides. Destination unknown and of little consequence. Maps stowed in behind-the-seat pockets. A full tank. Minimal amounts of cash. Sunglasses. Nothing else needed. No baggage. Well, not much anyway!

Time stretches before us like an open road. The nose of the car points north then east then on the back roads past charming antique farmhouses, rolling fields and the ubiquitous neighborhood with mobile homes converted into ranch housing. The sea air luring us toward the shore. Cruising down rural highways traveled before ... and to be visited anew. Peaceful and alluring when snow covered. More colorful and vibrant in the sweet heady days of summer.

Deep in thought one moment. Spirited conversation the next. Familiar and comfortable, yet thrilling in an unpredictable way. These rides to nowhere. Nothing is everything somehow. Nothing can be just that. Nothing. But not today.

Cheers to no maps! No preconceived destination. That can wait until tomorrow ... or the day after.

Last Tango in Portsmouth

Yep. Despite a faltering sense of self and feelings of dubious judgment, I did it. Grabbed my 3 inch strappy never-worn black satin Salsa big girl shoes with the suede soles and bravely signed up for beginning tango lessons at the Portsmouth Ballroom. $50 for four weeks. Friday nights. The consummate answer for transforming my humdrum sexless-in-the-noncity life into one filled with romance, passion ... and if I am lucky ... an uninhibited, sexy me in one month's time. Daring? A no brainer.

The tango. Ah, a barroom dance, an open embrace, negotiated delicately between a testosterone fueled gaucho and a bawdy putain. For a price. A moment. The night. A steamy conversation passionately played out in a crowded milonga. Ankles brush lightly. Knees graze as her calf flicks quickly between her partner's stance and her foot sweeps the floor. Sultry. The tantalizing Latin beat of Astor Piazzolla playing soulfully on his bandoneon, violin-like strains drifting across the smoky room. I was so there.

The October day finally arrived for my first class which would transport me to Buenos Aires on the Rio de la Plata albeit on the Pisquataqua River in coastal New Hampshire. Spring in the southern hemisphere. Rebirth. Romance blossoms. Tying back my thick chestnut hair at the nape, I combed the back of my closet for the most low-cut black dress flowing with the asymmetry of an Argentine flag from my New York City days long ago. Slipped black stockings the color of midnight onto freshly shaved legs and carefully applied the crimson Fire and Ice color to pursed lips.

I was jazzed. MapQuest diagrammed the route to my first night of immersion into the passion of South America. Thirty minutes to the Route 1 Bypass just north of the traffic circle. Pedestrian address. My expectations dropped. My verve faltered. Hesitantly I pulled my Volvo into the crowded parking lot maneuvering carefully between the orange construction cones nearly blocking the entrance and the studio. Signs warned not to park in front of the Adult Book store that shared the building or risk towing. Or, I imagine snapshots of my license plate by the local authorities tracking illicit voyeurism at the pleasure palace next door. My enthusiasm wavered. Big time.

Hesitantly, I slid my car into a space near the dumpster and reapplied my lipstick peering nervously into the vanity mirror on the visor. My dancing shoes in the silk drawstring bag on the passenger seat. The picture glass storefront windows of the ballroom revealed too bright lighting. Couples twirled like whirling dervishes. I seriously considered gearing into reverse and hightailing it into the traffic heading back to Maine.

The irony not lost! I never frequent a bar alone, pas moi. Yet I was poised to enter a ballroom on date night solo to learn a dance with passionate intimacy a dialog born from brothels and cowboys. A paradox, indeed.

Fast paced soul searching required! Under-employed with my son in college, $50 would be an extravagance I could ill afford without giving the experience a whirl. And after all, isn't that what I wanted? To spice up my life. Add some adventure. Joie de vivre. Net net, my fear overshadowed. I quickly turned off the idling engine, grabbed my big girl shoes, steeled my nerves and emerged into the crisp evening, channeling Eva Peron.

Inside two classes were being conducted side-by-side on the ballroom floor. Music dueling loudly: big band swing and gypsy tango melodies. A riot of noise. Skirts swirled as fast paced jitterbugging overtook the dance floor. A few of us waited for our Argentine teacher to arrive from Boston. Intimidated as we watched a master tango class in a studio off to the side rehearsing a well-orchestrated number with Dancing with the Stars precision and talent. Daunting.

Imagine my surprise. Four of us had registered for this beginning class. Three women and one man. The man, a slight Taiwanese ex-pat, zeroed in on me in his barely over five foot glory. At least I would be paired with a male partner. However, I am 5'6" teetering on 3 inch heels. You do the math. Seventh grade cotillion all over again. And this was not the worst part. The tango is a chest-to-chest carefully choreographed dialog, the woman gazing fiercely at her partner's heart. Instead, Chou stared at my decolletage. Where was my six foot tall, dark and ruggedly handsome partner? My bubble bursting into a thousand fragments like the light refracting off the silver mirror ball hanging in the center of the room.

For each of the next three weeks I wore black slacks, ballet flats and a turtleneck. The tantalizing and sultry tango not quite coursing a passionate exchange between my partner and me.

I have earned a do-over. This spring in earnest. But first I will ensure that there are more men, and taller ones, in my class. Even if I have to drive ninety minutes to a milonga in Boston. Or better still - spend a weekend in Buenos Aires sipping Malbec and dining on beef tournedos from the ranchos outside of town before gracefully negotiating an evening of passion uninhibited in a blue smoky barroom filled with the vagaries of the night.

Don't cry for me Argentina! You are on my itinerary. Cheers!