Kabuki Theatre

Kabuki actors dancing not so gracefully.

Passionless.

Duplicitous.

Confused.

Begone!

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!

Around the World in Eighty Days

Lemons is global!

As of today Lemons, propelled by wanderlust, insatiable curiosity and off-the-cuff insights, has landed this Steel Magnolia on five continents! Welcome! Willkommen! Bienvenue! Recepción! Welkom! Vinda!

Even transported to South American where this trepid soul has not yet adventured. The Aussie wallabies downunder have yet to amble by to share some cheer and ramblings from this fork in the road. But are most welcome.

Interestingly, nearly every traveler outside the U. S. lives near the sea. Lusty breezes luring you to my coastal home.

And daily I open my arms to my new American friends visiting from the heartland, the northeast, the deep south and New England.

It is a pleasure most profound to be interconnected at home and abroad with you. Joined in outbursts of zany irreverence, sublime wit, brilliant observations, kindred spirits.

Cheers, fellow travelers! To the toasts of my town: Y'all comeback now. Ya hear?

Commodity Trading

It's Monday morning. The first day of my first yoga class. My inaugural foray into the ancient physical and mental discipline born in the belly of India. I am jazzed.

Not the bona fide emotion descriptor for my eager anticipation of the ancient gentle practice of awakening one's body and aligning it effortlessly to the mind and heart that awaits at the top of the wooden stairs. A few short blocks from home.

But I am.

As with every activity I fully engage my eager self. Especially the first day. My enthusiasm tempered by a serenity. A grace. Humbled by the physical embodiment of a virtuous spirit. Another path to open my heart. Breathe in embracing the impurities. Exhale and release.

Strengthen my body. Align it with my inner core. Condition my heart. Experience contentment despite the realities that exist beyond the door. Out on the street buzzing with jack hammers and back hoes as our village downtown is updated. A makeover long over due. I know. Mine is too.

I am ready.

So here I am. Dressed and ready to commence. Black dance pants. A white long sleeved top. My thick chestnut tresses pulled tight at the nape. With a few moments to spare. Reading yesterday's Sunday New York Times. In the Style section, a feature article catches my eye. The emergence of the yoga business. Trendy. Fashionable. Commoditized.

So now it appears to me that I am jumping on the bandwagon. The thought never occurred to me.

Seems everything, whether sacred or mundane morphs at the hands of greedy entrepreneurs morphed into a commodity. Wall Street and fashionistas run amok. Yoga instructors, the teachers of the teachers, reaching celeb status in New York, LA ... and Dallas. Crazy.

Yoga training symposiums held in Las Vegas fetch $1,400 for 84 postures. That's a mere $17 per. Discounts a plenty. Bring a friend. Reduce the net cost to just under $12. Hawking this ancient, spiritual practice. Selling it to the masses. Diluting its soul.

Bikram Choudhury partnered with Cheryl on Dancing with the Stars? Not so far-fetched. But can a guru tango?

Namaste.