The Pink Suitcase

The other Hollywood

2009-07-23T21:39:00.002-04:00

Who goes to Florida in July (think hot) for the Fourth of July (think crowded) for a weekend (think crazy)? The pink suitcase came out of mothballs for precisely that purpose; and kindly, it took me along.

“We” flew down to Fort Lauderdale, hoping to avoid the Miami airport. But a menacing storm with wicked winds required our jet to circle cautiously for so long that it ran out of fuel -- well, almost. The pilot announced we’d have to make a run to -- ugh!-- Miami to refuel before heading back to our original destination. Once we glided down, two hours late, a giant rainbow drew a welcoming arc across the sky, while palm trees swished their fronds in a teasing dance urged on by an exiting gale.

Within 30 minutes I was settling into my chosen spot for the weekend: Hollywood. The other Hollywood. The one without movie stars, without an intersection with Vine, without Graumann’s Chinese Theater. It’s “old Florida” wedged between the cruise terminals of Fort Lauderdale and the overgrown and overpowering Miami sprawl. It’s unpretentious. It has some of the same hotel facades it had in the ‘60s (I know, I was there…). And best of all it had something I couldn’t have found in Ocean City, NJ, on a holiday weekend: deserted beaches.

I plopped my beach towel under a palm early on Saturday, and looked down the stretch of sand: quiet, peaceful, empty. People started to arrive as the day wound on, but there was never a feeling of overcrowding. Live music played along a beachside promenade called The Broadwalk (apologies to AC), and when the sun finally went down, glorious fireworks were shot up over the ocean from a barge plowing through the dark water.

Parties persisted at little beachfront hotels that hung welcome signs on thatched Tiki huts where rum punch was the libation of choice. And it was impossible to resist the urge to dance under towering royal palms. It felt positively tribal. Unrehearsed. Cathartic.

Ah, they’ve sung about the “Moon Over Miami,” but nothing beats the smiling face in the heavens above Hollywood. With its shimmering light illuminating ocean waters set to bathtub perfection -- 88 degrees -- a few fearless souls, myself included, took a midnight dip in the mighty Atlantic.

By Monday I was back in Pennsy pushing a pencil. But the pink suitcase remained packed -- with music, moonbeams and memories.

It's great to be a "Dancing Queen"

2008-07-16T20:30:00.000-04:00

Time travel is one of the joys of living to “that certain age“….
Last night a quick trip into Philadelphia’s still-glorious Academy of Music at Broad at Locust streets gave me one of those yanks to the past that not only evoked old memories, but formed new ones as well.
The event was the Philadelphia opening of a tour of “Mamma Mia,” the smash Broadway hit built around the hits of 70s’ Swedish super-group ABBA. The show is part of the Cadillac Broadway series and continues through July 27.
My midsummer date with ABBA started with a light pre-show dinner on the 19th floor of the Bellevue, just a mini-stroll from the academy. A wrap-around balcony offered views of the city from under colorful orange umbrellas while the interior of the restaurant is exquisite, boasting a domed ceiling bedecked by what can best be described as giant strands of pearls dropping from the dome earthward.
Dinner was simple: A Caesar salad (fresh, heavy on anchovy and garlic, and deliciously sprinkled with hand-shaved Parmesan), pea soup (I know it sounds odd!) But imagine a white oval ramekin arriving at the table with just a sprig of watercress, 5 or 6 fresh peas and two crisp, fried onion rings resting on the bottom. Next came a tiny pitcher with a hot green elixir – fresh pea puree with a zap of spiciness, poured overtop the aforementioned ingredients. Ah, as heavenly as the smell of fresh cut grass in June. This was followed by a dessert of “compressed” chocolate cake --- a fudgy confection served with an intense Thai-inspired Café du Monde cream --- bitter coffee ice cream atop a froth of white chocolate seated next to the cake.
I mention this culinary start to the evening because I want to underscore the fact that “travel” can be to destinations as nearby as Center City. Long distance is not necessarily the path to discovery. And discovery is what my definition of travel is all about. So, during this gas-conserving season, think about a similar trip: Sweden, by way of the 70s, by way of Philly….. An exciting triumvirate of adventure accomplished close to home in a short space of time!
If you want to up the travel-ante, stop into Teuscher’s, Swiss chocolatier in the Bellevue lobby, and buy a decadent chunk of cocoa to take to the theater for an intermission snack. (By the way, the chocolate is flown in every day on Lufthansa! We’re talking traveling chocolate, here, folks…) But beware of the cost: It runs $75 a pound – so a little dab’ll do you….
In the academy, an able pit orchestra started the engine on that proverbial time machine… First a hard driving, demanding beat… then familiar, pervasive melodies… and finally the joy of sensory overload, heaped on by lights, costumes, bodies in motion!
So… here’s the deal. “Mamma Mia” in this touring edition absolutely rocks the house. Oh sure, it’s a guilty pleasure to admit that I love (L-O-V-E) this Broadway detour into the razzle-dazzle of Disco. I can already imagine some of you (Gordon? Gary? Kevin? John? Others?…) shaking your collective head and asking, “How could she have gone so wrong?”
Well, perhaps I am a wayward music appreciator, but I’m not alone! The Academy of Music was packed with similarly wayward souls who waved, raved and shook the rafters with cheers and applause as the ABBA power portfolio made itself known throughout a tale of lost love regained.
Part of the thrill of the estrogen-charged “Mamma Mia,” to those of us who happen to love the ABBA sensibility, is in discovering how this parade of worldwide mega-hits are woven into the context of a made-for-Broadway book.
Characters give a sense of increased meaning, humor and even intensity to music that might have otherwise been considered only a catchy toe-tapper. Standouts that come to mind are --- OF COURSE -- “Dancing Queen,” the ABBA anthem that to this day sends me into my own twirling reverie. In this show, it is performed by three mature women looking back to their own days in the spotlight of life. It’s joyful, humorous and ultimately the most hummable moment of the evening.
Surprising poignancy brings a dramatic thrust to the show when the lead character (a mature woman who is rediscovering a long lost love) performs “The Winner Takes It All.” Susie McMonagle in the leading role of Donna handles the potent delivery, crafting and shading the song with emotion wrought by a man she had love, lost, and then suddenly rediscovers.
If you have even a single disco move left in you, this is THE ticket for the summer. Oh yes, there are spandex moments, little white boots, even strobe lights. But there are also all the other youth-renewing numbers: “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)”, “S.O.S.,” “Super Trouper,” “Take a Chance on Me” and so many others. Oh, and one other thing…. When you leave the theater, very possibly you’ll emerge, yet again, “…the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen… Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine. You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen…”

Long live the Queen...

2008-05-31T20:19:00.004-04:00

I promised you a trip report on my recent short voyage on the Queen Mary 2 (QM2 for the sake of convenience), and with a champagne bottle cracked over the side of my laptop, I'm ready to launch....
What a magnificent lady, this sea-faring QM2! I drove to a cruise terminal in Brooklyn early on a Thursday morning and saw this gorgeous creature lingering in the harbor.... Out past her bow and a confluence of ropes holding her to shore, was the Statue of Liberty, appearing to wave her torch as a welcome to this wandering soul.
I have never been on such a ship before.... In my explorations I discovered her library that rivalled my own Lower Providence Library; a theater with a stage that elevated, turned, and allowed for pyrotechnic and laser effects during nightly shows; a complete planetarium; a mini shopping mall; a pampering spa; pools indoors, outdoors, on top and down below; basketball court; golf simulator; kennels; hot tubs; 10 restaurants ; jazz clubs, pubs, discos and everything in between.
And F-O-O-D.
Good lord, there was enough food on that vessel to feed a small nation. Deck 7 was a perpetual buffet: Asian, Italian, British and American stations offered all manner of fare from morning until... well, I'm not really sure when. But I can tell you I was there having a little repast one morning at 3 a.m.
I have only brushed the surface of amenities on board. I am saving the best for last... In runner-up position: The Queen's Room. It is a veritable ballroom with what is touted to be the largest dance floor afloat on the seven seas. This is where unaccompanied women (such as I was) were entreated to dance by a cadre of willing, fleet-footed "gentleman dance hosts." Now that's just wrong in my book!! Oh, I suppose that some women were happy to feel an arm slip around their waists as a temperamental tango began.... But somehow I think the whole point of dancing is to make a human connection through rhythm and feelings and intensity of the moment. The dance hosts weren't quite my idea of "Love Boat" material....
The real enchantment in the Queen's Room came in late afternoon when her tables were layered with fresh white linens, and an army 0f waiters in trim white cutaways ceremoniously "waltzed" about the room with porcelain pots full of delicious English tea. Then came the dainty sandwiches (ah yes, cucumber of course... among others..), then scones with clotted cream and lemon curd, and a multiplicity of pastries. All of this was choreographed to the music of a live string quartet. The best of civilization in the light of day!
And in the final spot reserved for the Queen's crown: Wooden decks lined with wooden deck chairs, all equipped with tartan plaid woolen blankets. Just the place to get cozy against the wind, to cast your eyes to the unpolluted skies and to count the gazillions of stars to make wishes upon... to contemplate the vastness of the sea and the shorelines it caresses. And just the place to realize that dreams, however unreasonable or unlikely they may seem, really can come true....
Oh, yes, there were stops along the way. Halifax -- charming, Boston --- fascinating. But in the end, the most memorable moment was found in simply meeting The Queen. I bow before her utter majesty....

Planning the great escape

2008-05-17T22:08:00.002-04:00

Time to share!

I'm going on a wonderful adventure in a matter of a few days...
I saw a posting on a last-minute travel website that was enticing, to say the least.

I love last-minute travel: it's spontaneous, reflective of the mood of the moment, and just as thrilling as a late breaking wave over your head on a body-surf ride into shore....

So.... here's the deal: I saw an ad for a cruise from New York -- one of the best ports in all of the world to sail from.. nothing quite like Lady Liberty at sunset --- to Halifax, Nova Scotia and Boston, Mass. It was for a quick 6-day roundtrip float up and back...

But the real thrill of the deal was the fact that the ship is the Queen Mary 2 (QM2 to her friends...) only the largest ship in the world, replete with the largest dance floor on the seven seas, which, in turn, is stocked with "gentlemen guests hosts" so that women, such as myself, traveling unescorted will have a partner for every rhythm. (Seems almost barbaric!)

And becasue it would be a last-minute booking the price was slashed 65 percent.... down to $768. Keep in mind that includes meals, royal formal galas, entertainment, transportation and dance hosts! (ha ha ha....)

I called and was told yes, I could book passage in the morning.... I was thrilled and mentally packing ball gowns and bathing suits (indoor spa pool!), and whatever it might take to fill-to-bulging the requisite 10 pink suitcases.....

But when morning came, the unthinkable happened.......

I was told that somehow, over night, the seven hundred-and-change fare had sold out and oh, by the way, the next available category would cost (are you ready?) $12,000 dollars!!!!!!!!!

After I came to, I got downright angry and dashed a letter off to Cunard Lines (of which the Queen Mary 2 is a proud vessel). How could this be? This takes bait-and-switch to new heights!

Withing an hour or two, my phone jangled. A REAL person, Sharleen Gordon, called from Cunard's California office. Like some benevolent tooth fairy she sprinkled fairy dust all over my disappointment. She said I would move onto the top of a priority list... that the first cancellation would come to me, and that the $700+ fare would indeed be observed.

And with a wave of her imagined wand, someone did cancel that night... and now my bags are all but packed..... I'm sailing this week, and will have my dancing shoes on, for sure.

I really want to salute Sharleen and the folks at Cunard for what I consider the best and most efficient customer service I have ever received in my years of traveling. This will be my first experience traveling Cunard and QM2, but given the royal pre-trip consideration I'm already shouting, "Long live the Queen!"

Next time: A trip report!

Close encounters

2008-05-02T14:41:00.005-04:00

Forgive my prolonged absence!
Life gets in the way of the best intentions, but now I have a little item to share with those faithful readers who return to this would-be traveler's niche.
Early April found me flying -- in a little prop plane -- from Philadelphia into New York's Albany airport which served as gateway to a weekend in the nearby Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts.
The occasion was the first-ever Dulye Leadership Experience (DLE), a weekend retreat wherein selected Syracuse University students and DLE faculty (comprised of individuals from a diverse cross-section of arts and sciences disciplines ---myself included in the latter arts division) converged to share ideas on intellectual and professional growth, leadership, life lessons, the two-way dynamic of mentoring, and ultimately the value of expanding one's circle of friends to include old (well, a little older, anyway!) and young.
DLE was the lifelong dream of Linda Dulye, a proud Syracuse alum, and the human electrical bolt who funded then charged the weekend with excitement, fun, laughter, some growing pains, and ---by Sunday afternoon, pure exultation.
So.... one of the light moments came when Linda, her mother Ann, myself and another faculty member, Sue (whose last name I withhold "to protect the innocent") found ourselves with a dilemma. There were four grown women and only three available beds.
"You can share my bed," said Ann, innocent as dew on a rose petal.
Linda, Sue and I all shot glances at each other... Share a bed!!!!!?????....
None of us minded sharing a room, or sharing a meal or sharing an embarrassing, self-effacing story from the past! But SHARE A BED???
Visions of colliding cold, clammy feet, and snoring nostrils, and just that too-close-for-comfort body heat had all three of us running for the couch. Well, in the end it was Sue who ended up on a couch... a couch that dipped in the midsection and gave her premature osteoporosis and allowed possibly a single hour of sleep... if she was lucky.
Ah, dear Ann, we dearly love you.... but love has its limits!
In that giddy way that happens when there has been too little sleep and a dire situation has been relegated to the night before, Linda, Sue-the-Bed-Martyr and I found hilarity in the recent memory and shared a great big giggle as reward for that momentary fright (still laughing...............!!!!!).
So this traveler's advice: Never underestimate the great appeal of a sleeping bag, or better, an Aerobed! And at very least, be sure to pack a protective pair of warm socks.....

A weekend in The Plaza hotel

2008-03-08T22:42:00.008-05:00

A reader urged me to reach back into the recesses of my youth (already distant enough!) and tell about a long-ago meandering. Well, the perfect subject came to mind with the recent reopening of The Plaza hotel in New York City.

It has undergone a $400 million (isn't that the budget of a small nation somewhere?) renovation, and has been returned to past glory. And it occurs to me, maybe The Plaza hotel that welcomed me into its palm-lined arms back in the late 60s was, indeed, the hostelry during its halcyon days.
Well, that's how I remember it, anyway.
The year is fuzzy, but I was wishing I were a teenager -- wasn't quite there. My older sister and her friend, Bonnie had already made the transition from girlhood to young-lady/prom-queen material. They wore stockings and pumps, and I was still gangly in socks and saddle shoes. They had developed that something extra --- you can use your imagination for the meaning if you wish -- and I was still the admiring child.
I admired everything the older girls did. I thought their hair, worn in long flips or pulled up into French twists, was strikingly sophisticated. I though the Jean Nate cologne they doused on was quite heavenly. And the fact that they poured their trim selves into tight, STRAIGHT skirts --yep, I was wearing pleats --- was just to-die-for.
Well, on one glorious weekend in October my parents announced that they were taking the three of us for a weekend in NYC. It was my parents wedding anniversary, so it was a special trip.
To make it REALLY special, they bought for all three of us --- YES, even moi -- a fake fur leopard skin jacket with leather trim! I died and went straight to heaven at the sight. I was wearing the same fuzzy, jungle-printed cropped jacket that the older girls were wearing. Could life get any better?
When we got to Manhattan, my parents spared no expense. We checked into The Plaza hotel, and had a suite -- a private room for them (still wondering why.... after all they were PARENTS... geez), and an adjoining bedroom/parlor where the three of us shared quarters.
But first we went to Trader Vic's and had Shirley Temples (also called Roy Rogers if you happened to be of the male persuasion) decked out with little paper umbrellas skewered through a multiplicity of cherries. And we ate itsy bitsy puu-puu platters... tiny spare ribs served over a little fire pot. Oh, how glorious.
Then we went to the Latin Quarter --- a big splashy night club -- where we saw a comic --- Corbett Monica -- and what seemed like a billion gorgeous chorus girls decked out in feathers, Las Vegas-style. The weekend also included a Broadway show. The late-great Bert Parks pranced up and down the stage reprising his role in the second cast of the former monster hit "The Music Man." (I can still hear him bellowing, "You got trouble... right here in River City....").
Now you might think all of that would be hard to top. But the absolute best part of that long ago weekend was the night (when we should have been sleeping) in The Plaza hotel. After my parents had "retired" for the evening (that's what they used to call it back then...) the three of us girls waited until there was silence. A ha! The parents were asleep.
Up we jumped, and traded nightgowns for the dresses that we had packed ,and on top of the dresses we plunked those completely obvious leopard-skin jackets. What a sight! Three inexperienced jungle princesses (well, two princesses and one half-pint) on the prowl in The Plaza hotel.
First stop was the Persian Room. A woman named Hildegarde was there, playing piano with gloves on! How odd! (I later became familiar with this legend of "the room"... and learned that playing with gloves on was her calling card to fame.)
When we had heard enough of the ivories, we moved on to a ballroom where, lo and behold, a raucous wedding reception was under way. I suppose the sight of three pre-pubescent girls in party dresses and leopard jackets was enough to make the door attendant's heart soften. "C'mon in girls," said he. And in we went. After all, surely we could just fade into the crowd ---- WEARING LEOPARD SKIN JACKETS AND PARTY DRESSES........ hahahaha!
No matter, we danced the night away.... polka'd until my socks were down around my ankles and my sister's French twist released into a pony tail. And as for Bonnie, well, she always said that was the greatest night of her life.
I don't know what time we got to bed. But we were there, sleepy "angels," when my parents checked on us in the morning.
The Plaza hotel may have been home to that rascallion Eloise. But she had nothing on the girls from Philly dressed like an endangered species.
Raaaaaawl........

Where or when.

2008-02-26T21:10:00.003-05:00

"Where or when" ... that's the title of an old song..
It went,
"It seems we stood and talked like this before...
"We smiled at each other in the same way then,
"But I can't remember where or when..."
Very lovely, romantic ballad... the kind they played at high school proms, toward the end of the night... she'd snuggle her head into the turn of his neck, the embrace would tighten a little, heartsbeats would be palpable, and there would be a warm human electricity in the moment....
Well, that's the feeling I still get from a foreign encounter, human or simply atmospheric. Take me to some distant shore, where dreams run wild and fluid and exotic, and I am again in the arms of that end-of-prom emotion.
Where and when?
Where to go and when to go there; they are always the questions that stare me down as vacation time starts to come into focus.
So tell me, if you are out there and entering this little portal of inquiry: Where are you going this year? Any good suggestions for a woman (and her pink suitcase) with wanderlust? I would love to hear some ideas.
The when...... hmmmmm....... I could be ready in five minutes.....

A time to dance

2008-02-23T17:14:00.006-05:00

Last weekend I was in New York State, passing through Tuxedo, and Warwick, and Florida... and it was a few days filled with:

Great food (Conch fritters; a Cape May Casserole.... shrimp and crab meat and rice and cheese and every ounce delicious, made by a true bon vivant who generously poured unusual wines from California vineyards oddly named for Fess Parker (!) or Raymond....
Fascinating conversation about a planet in change, politics du jour, the need for more books and less TV, the evolving role of the world press and (bruuuuuuuuummmm, insert small drum roll here....) the value of travel in shaping our world view.
The celebration of a life well-lived by a female pioneer journalist who regularly crams more goodwill into one weekend than some people fit into a lifetime.

No matter that I had serious life-altering problems crouching in the back of my mind and jumping to the foreground when I let my guard down, or that a distant snow storm was threatening, or that ice was spitting at me from the sky on the ride home.... I was in my own "New York State of Mind" as the Interstate miles clicked by. And that "State" encompassed energy, possibility, celebration, expanding thoughts, intensity tempered with laughter, reality checks cancelled out by the hopefulness of optimism, exhaustion ultimately giving way to renewal.

Back in the Philly 'burbs, I'm struggling to find the inner joy and peace that seemed to waltz all through last weekend. It's slow in tempo right now, but it IS returning... It's coming in the form of family (a special birthday was celebrated today), friends (one said in a note to friends, "Yippee, Val said she'd come dancing with us Saturday night..." and that made me feel so incredibly appreciated as the sometimes "screwy girl" that I often can be) and in the recognition that soon an overload of work will withdraw and I'll have just enough money squirreled away to set a course for some distant shore for a week or two. My melancholy lifts at the very thought....

And truly, despite a heavy heart that beats within me, this is a time to dance...

Think pink

2008-02-09T22:11:00.000-05:00

Hey, guess what! I'm packing my pink luggage full of more-than-I-need wardrobe items (....taking an electric blue bustier with shocking pink satin laces down the front. Fear not, I never ever wore it, but I like to cart it around in case I'm in a traffic accident and the contents of my luggage get sprawled all over the Interstate. Makes for some advanced rubber necking opportunities for passing motorists...) for a mid-February weekend in the great state of New York.

Yep, this is it! The inaugural outing of the actual pink suitcase, (trust me, she will eventually be given a proper name... any suggestions?) and a ceremonial christening with a bashing (OK, maybe just a splashing) of pink champagne before the departure.

I plan to take pictures. I wonder if she has learned to smile........

Here, there, anywhere

2008-01-23T19:18:00.000-05:00

Sad to say, the pink suitcase is still sitting in the bedroom corner. Waiting, begging to be rolled through some airport corridor or onto a teakwood deck on some glorious vessel. And just as sad to say, this would-be traveller is plopped in bed. And in the event you think this will lead to something naughty, I can only say: Wrong! Shame on you!

I'm in bed because I'm sick, sick, sick. I've had a fever, and chills, and no appetite whatsoever (which for me, is almost unheard of!). And worst of all, I've been stuck in this little corner of my little world for a little too long...

But from this cushy, if limited, position I can still sip on hot tea-with-lemon-and-honey, and I can still write a blogette (and no, that is not a "girl" blog; it is a mini-blog) to let you (whoever "you" are) know that I am still in the land of the breathing... and dreaming...

On the subject of "who you are," I believe I had my first two international readers last week! The first was a gentlemen from Sydney, Australia who identified himself as Delusional King (aren't these online names intriguing?). He said he works in a club in Syndey, just 5 metres from the waterfront. Then he told me about his homeland, New Zealand. In a ragged-yet-heartfelt way he discussed the ruggedness; the open, clean air; the virtues of north versus south; the unlimited scope of natural beauty. And through his unmanicured descriptions I was reminded of how wonderful it is to be exposed to people whose vista and vision of the world are so different from my own that they carry me along the miles in their words. I doubt I will ever run across Delusional King again, but he opened my eyes (at least a little wider) to the attractions of a land a world away. One that I will visit one day -- dragging the pink suitcase behind me.

Another Aussie, now living in the U.S, also visited this spot this week. I will only say that her name, like mine, starts with a V. And she's an intuitive. She's a whole new world in herself! She "knows things." She seems to fly beyond the parameters of Earth, through the heavens with visionary glances of what was, what is, and what will be. I'd surely like to book a ride through her universe! V. says I have some happy, unexpected miles ahead of me. Travel, it seems, can come in many forms. Passages of the body, passages of the heart, passages of the spirit...

G'night.... Keep dreaming...

P.S. To Purple Frisbee: Your kind comment put bubbles in my champagne!

Talking to the wind

2008-01-01T20:31:00.000-05:00

At precisely midnight, as the year surrendered the mantle of lucky '07 to claim its identity as great '0-eight, I was posted like a sentry, on my little deck, out under the stars... just as I was last year.

It's the time when I send sweet wishes up into the sky and across the world to people in distant places. I toast the goodness of life, and I call out hopes and dreams to the universe, with this little glow of belief inside of me that such supplications will fall onto a benevolent ear. And somehow, I actually do convince myself that the director of this big, undefinable confluence of life and death and joy and sorrow and laughter and tears will find the grace to grant me the fulfillment of one, maybe two little human desires. And suddenly, life seems to be full of endless possibilities.

Perhaps I'll find myself in a corner of the world never before darkened by this particular human shadow. I think of that... something so simplistic, then realize that the entire world could change on just that occasion. I mean, yes I will see the world, but the world will also see Val, and whatever value I bring to this planet. Maybe I'll just share a laugh with a stranger, or maybe I'll tell some starving street artist to keep with his vision, or maybe I'll dance on a beach after midnight to the sound of the ocean breaking on shore... There is value even in these things, right? And thus, the world alters and adjusts and changes. Stars realign. Sands shift. The globe spins at a slightly different angle. The very rhythm of life changes tempo just a tiny bit....

To get me going, I received a special Christmas gift: a set of pink luggage. And all because I wrote (in my very first entry on here) about that memorable pink suitcase recalled from all those years ago. And so it is: A dream was sent out into space, and the wish was fulfilled.
Real.
Solid.
Substantial.
Standing right this very minute in the corner of my bedroom.... embodied in a luscious pink suitcase and matching carry-on.

Ask. Believe. Travel to the limits of your dreams. The cost of expectation is merely dogged human hopefulness....

May you all thrive and find fulfillment in this great new year.....

Under the banyan tree

2007-12-16T18:12:00.000-05:00

Because of Gene, who has shamelessly admitted that he "reads me," I will discuss my profile photo --- (it's relevant, because Gene is a newspaper photographer who seems to enjoy imitating me in my most ebullient and effervescent (like champagne?) moments). And this photo was taken at a precise moment in time when I wanted to let out a yelp of joy ... "OOOoooooooo" in Gene-imitating-Val parlance.... because I was sitting under my favorite bit of flora in all of Waikiki --- "the" banyan tree.

Oh there are many banyan trees in this world --- all wonderful, tentacled creatures who drop their arms downward into Earth, to form these great meandering cages of limbs and space.

Last summer in Hawaii, I actually met another banyan --- the second largest in the world I'm told, which inhabits the city square in Lahaina, on the island of Maui. And responding to that little girl who still secretly lives within me, I climbed up the limbs of that old banyan to a perch best reserved for birds. I could see turquoise sea, and royal blue sky and just below me I could see islanders weaving decorative bowls and animal-like sculptures from palms. From my crow's nest I could see young and old, strolling through Lahaina's bustling streets. I could see tour busses wheeling into town and others taking their human cargo back to hotels or ships. I could see the aged resting under the mighty umbrella of shade cast by this tree, and the young lovers, stealing a lingering kiss in the shadows it creates.

All of these undercurrents of life, found within the reach of a single tree.

Still, this banyan cannot compete with "the" banyan --- the one I am sitting under in my profile photo. If you think I chose that picture because I am one of those "girlie girls" who likes pink, well, you would only be partially correct. The star of the photo is the tree. It may not be the largest banyan, but it is, to me, the sweetest. It is rooted to Earth right in the middle of the patio courtyard behind the Moana Surfrider Hotel, Waikiki's first hotel, right on Kalakaua Avenue.

What you cannot see in this photo, which was taken in July 2007, is the flock of white lovebirds flitting from branch to branch in the higher reaches... and the sweet lilt of their song. You cannot hear the music from a Hawaiian slack guitar, just a few feet away from where I am sitting, at sunset. And you cannot see the sensual rhythmics of a hula dancer as she passes beneath the branches and captivates with her body language

Look a few feet farther past this venerable tree and you will see the white sands of Waikiki caressed by the lapping waves of the Pacific. And cast your eyes farther still, and there will be surfers skimming across the surface of the ocean and outriggers flying along the crest of a wave.

And still..... there is so much you do not see.

There are all the ladies who come to high tea in an afternoon ritual, and all the brides who come to be photographed in hopes of capturing a singular day in their lives under the glorious natural canopy. And so it has been for more than a hundred years. The Moana Banyan tree was planted in 1904, a transplanted botanical specimen. At the time of its planting, a hole was dug, and a dead mongoose was thrown in to act as fertilizer! Today it spans more than 150-feet across and 75 feet in height, and it is listed on Hawaii’s Rare and Exceptional Tree list, giving it protection under state law.

It wasn't always happy times under the banyan, though. On Dec. 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked nearby Pearl Harbor, throwing the United States into World War II. And the Moana (which, by the way, means "ocean") was forced to put barbed wire along her beach and welcome primarily military personnel to her core. Rooms could be had, during those turbulent times, for 75 cents a night!

But the war ended and the banyan continued to flourish --- thanks to that old mongoose, I guess. So many people have shared precious and fleeting moments of life under this tree. Joe DiMaggio, Shirley Temple, Frank Sinatra, Will Rogers, Amelia Earhart, George Burns, Lucille Ball ... they were all there. I was told last summer by a hotel employee that Arthur Godfrey sat under this tree on occasion to broadcast the glories of Hawaii via his vintage radio show to the mainland. On and on it goes...

So I, too, have had the pleasure to place myself squarely under that banyan tree, and to stare up at a camera, and "Smile!" I ask you, how could I do anything else?

The Big Apple on $0 Dollars a Day....

2007-12-05T19:17:00.000-05:00

Gee, I wish I knew who's out there reading the thoughts that I sprinkle onto this little acre of cyber-real estate!

A few of you have come forward and made yourself known. And one person even called me on a telephone! -- yes, some people still do communicate by voice -- making the venture all the more joyful.

I told her this blog entry would be for her....

And so I venture down memory lane to a past trip-- well, an adventure any way, in one of the greatest conglomerations of humanity in the world -- New York City.

This story takes place in the 1970s and I am still in college in Wilkes Barre, Pa., and still finding small ways to break outside of my little world. My roommate, the aforementioned Deborah (I called her Debs, and she was the owner of that original pink suitcase), and I were always conspiring to meet people from other countries and experience something beyond the walls of our dormitory. Sometimes that meant a three block walk to the Sterling Hotel to see if anyone interesting was in the lobby. Then we would hightail it all the way to Scranton --- wow, how exotic! -- by bus. Ah yes, the wonderful and expansive world of Martz busses opened up before our young eyes.

So... it wasn't too long before two impressionable art students realized that if we skipped a few meals and saved a few dollars, we could hop a Martz bus and ride all the way to Mecca itself --- The Big Apple.

Debs and I thought that a trip to New York City could result in two possibilities: a) we would be "discovered" by producers for an upcoming Broadway show or, at very least, a movie..... or b) we would meet someone interesting to propel us into some new life venture.

So, on a St. Patty's Day weekend, Debs and I rode the bus through the tunnels and right into New York's Port Authority. No matter that we had NO MONEY to spend -- we had our return tickets in Debs' purse, and that was all we really thought we needed.

Of course, everyone and his brother was in the city for parades and the wearin' of the green. But Debs and I, tying to look "sophisticated," arrived that day in our Sunday best. Debs had on her little pink jumper and I wore a pink floral print dress, -- with ruffles!!! Oh, I remember it precisely! What were we thinking?? We looked like two country bumpkins who had just fallen off the cabbage wagon!

But in our minds, we were quite glamorous and ready for any possibility.

First we made our way down to the pier where an Italian cruise ship was preparing to sail. Since we had no food budget, we decided we would board the ship (there were almost no security checks in those days) and partake of what we supposed would be mountains of bon voyage canapes sitting here and there. Then we would simply take our leave before the ship sailed.

Actually, it wasn't a bad plan because not only were we entreated to join sailing passengers in their revelry (and their hors d'oeuvres), but we were discovered by Italian lounge stewards who were only too happy to slip us a glass of champagne or two --- or three or four -- on the sly.
"Why you don't-a stay on-a board..." said one accented staff member. He said we could sail with the ship, then simply alert the crew and they would allow us to ride the pilot boat back to New York harbor.......Hmmmmmmm......... it sounded like an adventure ......... but.....

We weren't quite that risky and so we left the ship amidst veils of confettii and the strains of "Anchors Away" playing on deck. The ship slipped away from its berth and we wandered back into the city for our next enticing moment.

We didn't have long to wait because the St. Patrick's Day parade was underway and there were revelers in the streets --- some of whom were young men from Manhattan College.
"Party tonight!" was echoing here, there and everywhere... and so Debs and I followed the incantation and ended up in the Hotel Edison where multiple floors were given over to St. Patty's celebrants.

We took off our coats to show off our lovely, glamorous dresses --- (Yes! you can LAUGH here!) -- and we left our belongings in the first room as we checked out the activities in adjacent areas. It seemed to us that there was nothing but semi-drunken college boys in blue jeans in this place, and that was certainly of no interest to two such "sophisticated women" in pink dresses.
Time to leave, we determined.

But when we went to get our belongings, only our coats remained. Deb's purse was gone (we never ever considered the idea of thievery in New York City!) and so were our return tickets to Wilkes-Barre. We started crying on the spot!

One young man saw these two damsels in distress and upon hearing our sad story he extracted $7 in crumpled one-dollar bills from his jeans pocket and told us maybe this would help. It wouldn't get us back to Wilkes Barre, but it would be enough for cab fare to the bus station. So we took the cash , along with his name and address and the promise that we would pay back every penny. and headed to Port Authority.

Once we got to the bus station we could only do one thing: Beg. NOT for money! But we begged the kindly ticket seller to give us "leftover" bus tickets... "Surely there must be some..."

It didn't work quite like that, he said. If we wanted tickets, we would have to earn them.
So there we sat, in our sophisticated, pink ruffles, selling tickets at Port Authority on that blustery March night. Of course, we considered it quite an adventure, even though Jerry-the- ticket-guy was hardly the sort of exotic person we had expected to meet.

But before the last bus rolled out of NYC for Pennsylvania, two young women had "earned" their fares and were both nestled into big cushy seats on a midnight Martz express.
And if you are wondering, YES, we did repay every penny of that young man's kindness. We sent him $10! A nice profit for a boy in jeans from two such "worldly women."

Mary, this was for you! :-)

Hawaii and Florida... like apples and oranges

2007-11-29T14:34:00.000-05:00

A-friend-of-a-friend stabbed me in my wanderer's heart recently with a comment that was something like, "Hawaii... I dont get it... it's just sand and palm trees, like Florida."
I sputtered as I tried to keep my composure and restrain from launching into a diatribe about the differences between the two tropical retreats.
OK, it's true that both of these disparate locations offer soft white sands laden with beautiful greased bodies soaking in the sun, and palms that rustle when breezes flow in from the omnipresent oceans. But that's where the similarities (exquisite as they might be) stop. To say these locations are the same is to say that rock and classical music are the same by virtue of the fact that they share a world of tone and pitch. Would anyone believe that a hamburger from McDonald's can be mistaken for a steak au poivre from Le Bec Fin, simply because they share the parentage of beef?
The difference between Hawaii and Florida is like the difference between the sun and the moon (two solar bodies), or between red and blue (both primary colors) or even between man and woman (two delightfully companionable but decidedly different human forms).
Florida: Think oranges and boiled peanuts, flat land, water skis and jet skis, alligators, Everglades, trendy South Beach, kitschy inner Miami, Disney characters, retired Northerners, mainland culture.
Hawaii: Think plumeria blossoms and sweet pineapple, volcanic mountains jutting up from the sea, surfboards and outrigger canoes, sea turtles, Diamond Head, Wakiki juxtaposed to downtown Honolulu, hula dancers, adventurous relocaters, the spirit of Aloha.
Florida is a wonderful escape from northern chill; Hawaii is a wonderful escape from the mediocrity of life. Florida is a Spring Break romp; Hawii is a visit into heaven itself.
I understand that some people "go on vacation" while other people "travel." The difference lies in discovering what rests beneath the surface --- it is not sand or palm trees or four-star hotels that suggest the personality of a destination. Rather it is found in the culture, the traditions, the languages, the dress, the history, the hopes and dreams of indigenous people, the pride and sorrow they maintain and overcome. It is always, for me, the personal discoveries that cause me to love an island, a city, a state, a country.... And just as I love two friends for the individuals that they are, so do I love Florida and Hawaii--- for their completely different character and willingness to transport me to two vastly contrasting worlds.
Final note: Last time I referenced free air travel. And one of my blog readers (and I don't have many!!!) asked me how I did it. That trick was accomplished by opening a Southwest Airlines credit card which offered enough bonus points as an incentive to qualify the recipient (me) for a free trip! Nice! Will I go to Florida, or Hawaii, or..................

Those bloggin' blues

2007-11-22T21:15:00.000-05:00

So..... here it is just after 9 p.m. on Thanksgiving night. I've had my fill of turkey and wine and wonderful conversation.... so I check the blog to see how many thousands of people have added comments to my personal little publishing empire.

Eegads! Noone new has said a word. Not a single syllable. I have the same 6 comments I had yesterday (and a hearty thanks to each of you). I've mentioned it to friends and they glaze over.... "Yeah, great, a blog...." is what they are thinking in an internal deadpan tone so loud that even I can hear it! One friend, a fellow writer, opened it and then -- upon seeing more than 50 words -- read the first paragraph and the last paragraph and condescendingly pronounced, "Oh , that was nice." (You know who you are!! Laughter included here. Wish this came with sound effects.) Another person told me this is "good therapy" for me! And still another conveniently "lost" the web address..... Oh sure, and I still believe the world is flat!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Blogging does demand a sense of humor!

Maybe when I tell you how I got a free roundtrip plane ticket last week with just 10 minutes of effort you'll pay attention. Maybe you'll even write back.

Maybe.
But I won't hold my breath.

Be sure to pack the duct tape....

2007-11-20T21:51:00.000-05:00

Think "Calgon" is simply dish detergent? Think again.

Calgon is a "he" -- John, actually-- and he is "legendary" for his freakishly complete packing list. I discovered him, or more correctly his Ultimate Packing List (known among travel junkies as simply the UPL) on a cruises-only message board.

(Calgon, by the way, has thrived on message boards and even met his wife, Sunflower Star, by way of cyber surfing. It's been smooth sailing ever since, as he tells it. )

Calgon's UPL first came to my attention in 1999 and I promptly made a copy of the list as I readily admit that I am among the "packing-challenged." I come by this disability genetically -- my mother taught me a long time ago that if packing one cocktail dress is good, then packing 12 must be exponentially better! And shoes! Nine pairs (still in single digits, mind you) seemed within reason!

On a cruise to the Mediterranean in my youth, I recall sitting in a public lounge on board American Export Lines' S.S. Constitution (the same ship seen in the classic movie "An Affair to Remember" and the one that carried Grace Kelly of Philadelphia to Europe when she married a young Prince Rainier and became Princess Grace of Monaco...)

The conversation in the lounge was between two ample, prissy women seated side-by-side sipping afternoon tea and nibbling the requisite crumbly cake. They were discussing a shipboard rumor about "some woman who came onboard with 21 suitcases, and still left all of her husband's clothes at home!"

That was no rumor -- that was my mother! In fairness to her, those suitcases held the "essentials" (evening gowns, bathing suits, hairdryers, perfumes, creams, unmentionables, and shoes, shoes, shoes) necessary for a woman as well as her two emerging-into-young-womanhood daughters. Somehow in our haste to depart from Philadelphia to make the drive to the Hudson River pier in New York City, one hang-up garment bag containing my father's clothing had been left on the back of a closet door. That precious, unperturbed man borrowed bits of clothing from fellow passengers along the way, and all was well -- although I recall that at one formal night he had to wear sandals with a white tuxedo because he hadn't found anyone willing to give up dress shoes. And as he had no button studs to close up his shirt, I remember sharing gales of laughter with my dad as I SEWED up the front of his gaping formalwear.

If only Calgon had been around in those days..... We surely would have packed duct tape to seal up the seams of that shirt!

Oh yes, duct tape is Calgon's number one must-pack item. He never goes anywhere without it! He closes gaping cabin curtains with it (and mentions that the Caribbean sun can be soooo bright on a morning when you might be suffering a hangover), tapes over overly drafty air conditioning vents in staterooms, fixes Sunflower Star's drooping hemlines with it.... Calgon would NEVER forget the duct tape!!

With permission from Calgon himself, I hereby give you the link to his website and his looney but inventive, totally comprehensive packing lists --- one for warm climates, one for cool climates, and more. Oh, one more note: Calgon told me just yesterday that he is now working on a UPL which will comply with the newest airline regulations and will be ready this month. So you may want to bookmark him. Or better yet, write his web address on a chunk of duct tape and slap it onto your forehead!

You can find the master of luggage packing at
http://www.geocities.com/Calgon1/Ultimate_Packing_List.html

The Duke, the Duchess and Me....

2007-11-16T21:57:00.001-05:00

I came to an appreciation of exploring the world at the tender age of 4. Trust me, travel is not wasted on one so young. Give a child her first journey into the global unknown, and she'll remember it her entire lifetime.

It was then that I took my first ocean voyage, on a "tin crate" called the Queen of Nassau. My "stateroom" was nothing more than a canvas sling for a bed, with a wool blanket thrown across a rope to form a door for this makeshift compartment. I shared the quarters with my father while my sister and mother had similar accommodations just one blanket away.

It was still the dawning side of the 1960s and we were headed from Miami, Fla., to the still-primitive and under-developed island of Nassau. We were going for two reasons: To visit the straw market and buy impossibly unwearable hats and purses woven from dried palms, and to see Blind Blake, a native performer whose name was Blake and who was (any guesses?...) blind.

On the first night onboard ship, I was allowed to wander from stern to bow with my sister -- two years my senior, so what trouble could possibly befall us? Armed with a roll of pennies and a roll of nickels, we were quite sure we could afford any luxury the ship might allow. However, we stumbled upon an unexpected thrill when we found the saloon.

Think of a Wild West saloon, if you will, because this was similar in kind ---smoky, dingy, men playing cards at small tables, women with preposterous makeup slurping down cocktails, and a man hammering out music on a single steel drum. Then, much to the delight of two little girls, there was also an unfathomable machine -- a one-armed bandit -- beckoning from the corner of the room.

A kindly gent explained to us that if we put our nickels into the hungry machine's gaping slot, we might magically turn one nickel into two. Being the younger and more naive of our twosome, I plugged my nickels in as fast as I could, watched little windows of fruit spin and turn, and walked away with nothing at all.

But my sister had a different experience. On the fourth nickel, the machine lit up like a Christmas tree... bells sounded, lights flashed and the bandit began spitting nickels at us in a fury we could never have imagined. It was like a peanut scramble, as five-cent pieces rolled across a makeshift dance floor. And every time the ship lurched, the coins would shift direction. As we ran and giggled and gathered our winnings, the hardened crowd softened and applauded and laughed and helped us find our coins.

We were tired tots the next day as we went to hear Blind Blake perform something new -- "calypso" music. And when we returned to our little ship, we thought it quite odd that the entire island had turned out at the pier to bid the two young gamblers farewell. There was a marching band, and there were school children, and police in dress uniforms marching in formation. There was music, and shots fired into the air, and a grand red carpet leading to the gangway.

And then there was a dose of reality.

None of this was for the two little girls from Pennsylvania! It was, instead, a salute to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor who were sailing with us back to the States. Of course, at such an age as I was, I couldn't imagine what could be so captivating about a man who gave up the throne of England just to marry an American divorcee. Indeed, I had never even heard of Dukes and Duchesses! I only knew that I was delighted that they had managed to cause such a colorful commotion.

That evening in the shipboard dining room, the D&D were seated in a corner all to themselves, while other passengers stretched their necks to get a glimpse of displaced royalty. As for myself, I was much more interested in the fact that rough seas caused our dinner plates to slide right across the surface of the table and to drop (crash!) right onto the floor! What heaven this sailing experience was for a wide-eyed child!

As we pulled into the port of Miami the next morning, I had my first "Loveboat"-like experience, right along the rail of that aging Queen of Nassau. A rascalian "older" boy --- age 5 or 6 I would estimate -- wanted to give me a remembrance of our brief meeting on board the vessel. Out from his pocket he pulled the gift: a 5-inch long stick, meticulously wrapped in waxed paper and bound with string.

A strange thing to give a girl, I said. But better than a frog...

He instructed me to unwrap it and take it to my lips. And never one to turn away from what may have been an imprudent suggestion, I did just as he commanded. "Take a bite," he said.
And again I followed orders.

Then and there I tasted the sweet, raw, intense juice of sugar cane, just cut from a Bahamian field. And in my innocent acceptance of an awkward gift, I drank in a memory that would last a lifetime. And I would never forget......

Her suitcase was pink

2007-11-16T15:12:00.000-05:00

When I was 18 years old, I met Deborah. She was a kindred spirit who would eventually become my college roommate, a partner in innocent "crime," a patient heart --- a special friend. But little did she know that when I first met her, the one thing I noticed most of all was her gorgeous pink suitcase. It was a big, vivid, luscious watermelon pink trunk in which to pack up the world, or at least an Italian bathing suit... or Paris-inspired evening gown ... or -- more likely-- faded jeans to wear on some imagined trek to the ends of the world.

Debbie and I dreamed of places we'd see, and people we'd meet in that infinite space called "sometime." Some of those dreams came to fruition, others are still waiting to be realized. But one thing is true: I do have my own pink suitcase... and as I travel or experience the world in some way that seems unique, I offer a companion ticket to anyone who ventures into this space. Together we'll explore the Pacific islands, some languid Caribbean corner or the exquisite elegance of Europe -- if we're lucky; the neighborhoods of Philadelphia or New York -- if our budget falls short; or merely the longings of my heart -- which will lead us to places as yet still undisclosed.

To the world-at-large I admit, this is my virgin blog. So be kind...