Travel - Peregringo

The Perils of Travel: Weighing in the Balance

Pitfalls abound in the world of travel: Illness, injury, political instability, robbery, perilous roads and unfit vehicles. Yet I’m not really a fearful traveler. So far nothing serious has happened to me (knock on wood!) but I’ve had some close calls:

The worst is probably the time the young child tried to pilfer my $20 Casio watch at the Lima, Peru central station immediately after I drowsily stepped off an all-night bus.
Or the time I was involved in a slow-motion, multi-car accident on a switchback mountain road in the Venezuelan Andes.
Or the time I miraculously piloted a scooter many kilometers on the wrong side of a winding road in Bermuda — at night.
Or the time our octogenarian taxi driver in Morocco fell asleep while careening down the highway from the Atlas Mountains.
Or the time we were sideswiped on a motorcycle by a licenceless, prepubescent driver, mere miles from where Che Guevara met his fate in Bolivia.

I’ve survived so far despite civil unrest in Argentina. Scams in the Maghreb. Trading with the enemy in Havana. Attempted muggings in Madrid and Lisbon. Economic collapse in Ireland. A volcanic eruption in Nicaragua. A ferry accident off Cape Cod. Favelas in Brazil. An earthquake in Colombia. A springtime heatwave in Oslo.

Did I survive because I was invincibly young? Tenacious? Was it simply fate? If anything I was probably just plain lucky. While many things are out of our control, I believe the world is intrinsically safe. Strangers will help. Our bodies are designed to be resilient. It’s why we live so long, on average, despite all the risks and uncertainties that are thrown our way in life.

Desert Stories, Desert Stones

Writing Prompt (Natural Abundance): Find five pretty or interesting rocks.

Last month we visited Ray at his home at Sun City in Palm Desert, CA. It was really nice to see him after a year of pandemic-mandated distance — and the last time I saw him was the day Mom passed away. So it was a relief to reacquaint under more normal circumstances, even though we social distanced responsibly with masks and an outside patio visit.

Last June, Paul and I were guests at our friend Scotty’s family cottage on the Isle of Springs — a perfect place to get away from the world’s craziness. We cooked, kayaked, walked through the island woodlands, sipped cocktails, scouted the beaches for sea glass and dug for littleneck clams, listened to music, played card games, put together jigsaw puzzles, and enjoyed fine sunset views over the Sheepscot river to the mainland.

Heritage

5:30 AM: I just got back from dropping Paul off at the Sarasota airport, an early wake up for both of us especially since the time changed overnight to daylight savings time so we effectively lost an hour. He’s headed through Dallas on his way to Las Vegas for his second Pfizer coronavirus vaccine shot but the weather looks troubling at DFW.

We just haven’t had much luck with that airport lately. On our return flight from Palm Springs a thunderstorm diverted us to Austin which delayed our arrival by many hours. It was my second diversion at that airport — a few years prior when flying from Querétaro, Mexico storms diverted us to Houston which was a huge pain since we were an international arrival which complicated the security.

But hopefully things will be just fine for Paul today, I’m thrilled he is getting his second shot which means he will soon be free to interact more socially and travel more. Things are looking up, many experts are saying that things will begin to feel much more different in the next 45 days or so as vaccine injections continue to ramp up.

Morning Pages Become Electric [sic]

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2010 Inaugural Ride

Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats

Sailing to Byzantium
William Butler Yeats
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

My idea as an accompaniment to my summer riding this year is to photocopy random poems from my Immortal Poems of the English Language anthology received from Mom back in 1984 (I can’t believe this edition is still in print, same cover and all).

With a poem taped to my handlebars to keep me company, my aim is to spend time reading and reflecting while cycling the seacoast. As a kid I loved reading poetry, memorizing favorite ones. As an adult I find it difficult to make space for poetry, so why not carve out time while doing something equally rewarding. Or in our modern idiom: kill two birds with one stone, as it were.

So a couple days ago I cracked the volume to Yeats and thumbed to the intriguing title Sailing to Byzantium which starts “That is no country for old men.” Perfect for my first pedal of the season!

Olá mundo

First blog post, just testing this out.

I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.

You can read the full post by Tony Judt here.