The Haunting

Haunted hotels. We’ve all stayed in them. Yes even you. It’s true. Don’t shake your head at me. You have. You just didn’t know it. According to my friend, who works in the hotel industry, almost every hotel is haunted. The staff whispers about rumored murders and suicides that happened in their building. They’re aware of the scariest rooms, the times of day to avoid certain steps, and the spaces to stay away from all together. What you and I think is just an old pipe system making noise, the staff knows to be a ghost. They just don’t advertise it. So, yes, you’ve stayed at a haunted hotel.

If you believe in that sort of thing, anyway.

I had my doubts. I didn’t really think that a ghost or spirit would waste its time trying to scare random people. After all, wouldn’t it get boring to keep spooking strangers? What do ghosts really get out of it, anyway? Even if they scare away one guest, another one shows up a few hours later. Granted, they have an eternity and nothing else to do, but really? It just doesn’t seem believable. So, I added it to my list. I wanted someone—or some ghost—to prove to me that it existed. And to prove to myself that if ghosts do exist, I’m tough enough to handle them. Plus, it just sounded fun.

Even though all hotels are supposedly haunted, I wanted to choose one that was famous for it—that actually did advertise its terror. So I started to dig. There were some in San Diego, Los Angeles, New Orleans (darn it! Should of stayed at that one when I was down there), San Francisco, Denver, South Carolina. There were so many that I had no idea how to choose. I decided that I would stay at the scariest one—the one that seemed the most haunted.

And then I stumbled upon The Stanley.

You may have heard of it? Perhaps you remember Stephen King’s The Shining?

Well, the Stanley Hotel is apparently where he stayed while he wrote that book. And although no one actually admits that this is indeed the hotel that the novel is based on, the movie was also filmed there. So, you do the math.

The Stanley it would be. I booked it. The two scariest rooms for the two nights I would be there: room 217 and room 401. I googled them, youtubed them, just about everything-internet-availabled them. And boy, were there stories. The more I read, the more freaked out I got. Luckily, my friend would be coming with me. Even though I wasn’t a believer, I’d have someone there. I may not believe, but I am still human. And there was a lot of scary stuff out there about this hotel. Probably didn’t help that I started reading The Shining either.

Rooms reserved. We were ready to go.

Except the trip got cancelled. My friend couldn’t make it last minute. And frankly, I had read too many scary things about this place to go alone. Yes, I chickened out. Guilty. I was only willing to go there on the condition that someone stayed with me. And apparently, all of my friends are chicken too. So, I have to be honest, I’m not feeling so bad about that choice. At least I was willing to go with someone. They weren’t willing to go at all.

Back to the drawing board.

I had a trip to San Francisco planned already; I decided to make a little detour on my trip and choose one of the haunted hotels in Northern California. And since I still couldn’t convince anyone to come with me, I would have to pick a place with a friendly ghost (yes, like Casper) and save the scary ghost for a time when I wouldn’t be alone.

The chosen locale: The Queen Ann Hotel, a quaint Victorian Bed and Breakfast.

It was built in the late 1800s as an All Girls’ Finishing School. The head mistress, Lady Mary Lake, apparently loved the girls like they were her own daughters, and when she died, she loved the school so much that she couldn’t move on (clear case of separation anxiety, if you ask me). According to the concierge at the hotel, Lady Mary Lake’s ghost has been seen in mirrors and has been heard playing the piano. Her favorite room of all, though, is room 401, which was once her office. She is a seemingly nice hostess who unpacks her guests’ bags and tucks them in at night.

A nice ghost who plays the piano, unpacks for me, and makes sure I’m snug as a bug in a rug while I’m sleeping? Heck, I could handle that. Noooo problem.

When I showed up at the hotel, I was unbelievably pleasantly surprised. What a charming place. It was like I had stepped onto the set of a Jane Austen novel. But I felt sorely underdressed. Where was my bodice? My petticoat? My bustle? My umbrella? No wonder Mary Lake didn’t want to leave this place. I had just gotten there, and I felt the same way.

On my way to my room, the concierge stopped me. “Don’t forget,” he said. “Tea time at 4.” They had tea time? How cute!

“Yes,” I said. “I have time for afternoon tea. How delightful.” (All in my head with a British accent, of course).

I waited for the elevator. Inside, there was a small red velvet bench, and I almost expected there to be an Elevator Conductor too. But it was just me. I pressed the button to the fourth floor and sat on my bench. The elevator clunked up. By level two I was beginning to think I should have taken the stairs. There was a lot of clunking going on. Perhaps it was just Lady Mary saying hello. But considering the age of the hotel, I was more worried about rusted chains and pulleys.

I walked up to my door (it was hard to miss considering the big gold sign that said Lady Mary Lake Suite), snapped a couple pictures, and then entered my room. The windows were open and a breeze blew in, rustling the white lace curtains as shimmers of sun danced across the carpet. I felt like I was stuck in some period piece. I was falling more and more in love with this hotel. Of course as the wind wafted through the room, I asked the obvious question.

“Wait, is that what people think is a ghost? Wind floating in through an open window?”

Some more pictures. And then I waited. Surely, she would make some sort of grand entrance. Make herself visible. She must have known that I had to write about this experience.

I sat. And waited. And waited. I even attempted to call out to her. “Uh, Lady Mary? I’m.Here,” I said, waving.

"Just in case you know, you didn’t see me come in or something. Feel free to make yourself visible. Holla at a sista.”

And I waited. And waited.

“Well then,” I said. “Can’t sit here and wait for you all day. Come out when you feel up to it.” I tapped my fingers on the table. And then I did the next thing anyone in a haunted hotel would do.

I flipped on the television and watched some college football, of course. Hello! College football Saturday! I had to watch my team—ehem, the most winningest team in college football history—the University of Michigan. Go Blue! Sadly, we weren’t able to pull off a win (don’t talk to me about it, I’m still licking my wounds), and of course I blamed the loss on the ghost (which in retrospect was probably a bad idea, considering I was on her turf).

By the end of the game, Lady Mary had still made no appearance, and I felt like exploring. So I left my bag unpacked and made my way to Fisherman’s Wharf. Surely I would return to my clothes folded neatly in the drawers and my shoes placed in order inside of the closet.

It was late by the time I got back. A chill ran down my spine as I walked into the room—it was much scarier in the dark. The lamps only dimly lit up the place, and knowing Lady Mary had not made her way to my room yet (the bag was still packed), I started to feel a little scared. Maybe she wasn’t the nice ghost everyone made her out to be. Maybe she was mean. Afterall, she had caused my favorite football team to lose. What else did she have in store for me?

I got in bed and waited. One eye open, I tried to sleep. It was chilly, but I’d lie there and wait to be covered up and tucked in. That was the deal, right? After about an hour in bed, I was too cold to wait anymore for the ghost to wrap me up. I got out, grabbed a sweatshirt and scurried back under the sheets.

I’m not sure when I finally fell asleep. But I can assure you it was not a restful night. Not because Lady Mary kept me up. Nay! More because she didn’t even try! I got up over and over again to look around the room and check if anything seemed different or if there was some blanket that had magically appeared over me from nowhere. Nothing. Not once. No strange breezes (I’d shut the window, which could be a possible explanation), no snug as a bug in a rug feel. She hadn’t even stopped by to glance in my suitcase, let alone unpack it.

I felt jipped. There was nothing scary about this hotel. Nothing felt haunted, even if it was. I mean it was beautiful with a nice staff and a romantic feel. But no ghost. At least, not one that felt present while I was visiting and that wanted to hang out with me.

Then again, maybe that’s what I get for wanting a ghost like Casper.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.

Detroit Muscle

“Detroit was always made of wheels. Long before the Big Three and the nickname “Motor City”; before the auto factories and the freighters and the pink, chemical nights; before anyone had necked in a Thunderbird or spooned in a Model T; previous to the day a young Henry Ford knocked down his workshop wall because, in devising his “quadricycle”, he’d thought of everything but how to get the damn thing out; and nearly a century prior to the cold March night, in 1896, when Charles King tiller-steered his horseless carriage down St. Antoine, along Jefferson, and up Woodward Avenue (where the two-stroke engine promptly quit); way, way back, when the city was just a piece of stolen Indian land located on the strait from which it got its name, a fort fought over by the British and French until, wearing them out, it fell into the hands of the Americans; way back then, before cars and cloverleaves, Detroit was made of wheels.”

--Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

I love this quote from Eugenides’ novel, Middlesex. It stands out to me not just because I think he is one of the best writers of our day, but because it’s about a city that means the world to me; a city that’s downtrodden with negative labels by those who know her least; a city filled with a rich history, a stark present, and an underestimated future; a city that produced cars and music; a city that is full of proud, hardworking, capable citizens. It’s the city I grew up in, the city I love: Detroit.

“Restore a car” was added to my list for one simple reason: I don’t like them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like that they get me from point A to point B faster than a bicycle; and I like that I can stay warm in thewinter and cool in the summer when I’m traveling the aforementioned course; and I appreciate that they are one of the coolest inventions created in human history.

But I don’t love them the way many people do. I don’t get awed by their shiny exteriors, oohed by their leather interiors, wowed by their little gadgets and buttons, or turned on by their ability to move so fast (I find the last one particularly terrifying, as a matter of fact). I have no idea what transmission fluid does; why I need to get an oil change every however-many-thousand-of miles; or how to change the battery. I can drive them. I can jump start them (at least I think I still can; I’ve done it once). I can refill the washer fluid (although, admittedly, I’ll wait as long as possible before replenishing it). And I can put air in their tires. But that’s about it. Seriously. Like that’s all.

So I decided that this year, I would get to know a car on a much more personal level—to strip it to its bare bones and rebuild, to learn how it’s made and how it works. Afterall, I grew up in the Motor City. At a minimum, I would understand cars. At a maximum, maybe by understanding them, I’d appreciate them and love them like so many of my friends. Was it a big task? Yes. I recognized that I would unlikely restore an entire car. But I’d be a part of it.

I had a trip planned back to the D in August and I decided to complete this resolution there—to restore a car in the city that started it all. I got a hold of my contacts—the few friends I know that restore cars or work in the automotive industry, and tried to meet up with some when I returned. Unfortunately, we couldn’t coordinate our schedules.

But the seed had been planted. I wanted to write not just about me fixing up a car, but about Detroit; this resolution became less about me, and more about her. The whole country has been hit by the bad economy; but Detroit has been particularly hit: rapid job loss, the bankruptcy of the automotive industry, and a mass exodus from the streets and homes of a once beautiful city have stripped her to her bones. And yet it is so loved. Detroiters will defend their city to the death.

But why? Why do we think Detroit is so great?

Here are some Detroit fun facts: it gave us cars and Motown music; it has some of the greatest sports’ teams in the country (Tigers, Pistons, Red Wings) and is the Sports’ Capital of the Midwest; it’s the only city in the United States to be North of Canada; it’s the birthplace of the traffic light; Detroit is the first city to pave a road; it is home of the first soda (Vernor’s); it gave us Francis Ford Coppola, Sonny Bono, Madonna, Dianna Ross, Stevie Wonder, Eminem, and Kid Rock—not all born in Detroit—but certainly Made in Detroit.

Outside of the tidbits about Detroit, it’s a great place because of the feeling you get as a Detroiter. It’s a mixture of feeling at home and feeling pride, knowing that the people from this city are loyal and committed to their town and that they’ll work as hard as they can for as long as it takes to keep her bright and beautiful, that you feel connected to strangers just by seeing the famous Tigers’ logo on their hat, that you say Hockeytown and everyone knows instantly you’re a Wing, that you come from a place that has given our country so much and has asked for little recognition in return. It’s a feeling that never leaves you, not even when you live all the way on the other side of the country.

All of this talk about Detroit doesn’t mean that I didn’t complete this resolution. Granted, I didn’t restore a car, but I did learn about them—which is the first step, right? I still hope to participate in a full restoration, but for now….here is what I learned...

I now know where the engine is located, that belts and hoses should be inspected for frays and tears each month, how to check my oil (remove the stick, wipe it, insert it back, remove it again--if it's low, replace it), how to replace the battery (sort of), how to check the shock absorbers.

Ahh…the power of the internet J

And I actually looked under the hood of my car and “located” all of the parts on my list.

I'm still open to helping someone restore a car, officially. So any takers, let me know. I will “addend” this entry. In the meanwhile, it was great to take some time out to talk about Detoit—it is not a scary, dirty place to live (despite what the media may tell you). It has its share of danger and problems, like any metro city in the country.

But mostly, it has history, architecture, a beautiful river, and a strong spirit. It’s a tough time in Detroit right now, but with that sad reality, is the realization that she could—and will—be restored. If there is anything I know about Detroiters it is that they are resilient and strong. And that they will rebuild their city. It will take work. But Detroiters are one of the hardest working people in the world—they can handle the work. It will take time. But the love that Detroiters have for their city makes them patient enough to take the time. It will take good government leadership (it’s had its share of corruption with Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick). And it will take hope, which may be lacking a bit right now in the streets of Detroit (but I think will take form again in time). Detroit will heal and flourish again. Of that I have no doubt.

Then maybe we can add “greatest rebirth of a great city” to the fun facts.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.

Forget the Cowboy. Ride a bull

Bullriding was a must for this year’s resolutions. When I started putting the list together, I actually had a moment of awe. I couldn’t believe that I had never ridden a mechanical bull. All of these years, so many nights out, and not one bull ride? Nope. Not a one.

Images of the movie Urban Cowboy immediately flashed through my head: Debra Winger bringing the whole bar to a stand still with her—how do I put it—talents as she rides the bull. Flipping around in circles, moving like waves, standing up and then sitting back down. Gulp. Moment of anxiety. Clearly there would be no such expectations of me, right? I just had to stay on the bull for as long as I could. Although….(moment of wishful thinking), it would be kinda fun if I could do more than just stay on the bull.

But this was no movie, and I’m no Debra Winger. So….the primary objective would remain simple. Stay on the bull.

First, I had to strategize. Create a list of sorts.

Ingredients for success:

1. Find a bar with a mechanical bull
2. Gather a posse of friends
3. Drink enough to make myself believe I was invincible against the bull, but not so much that I would fall right off of it on the first spin
4. Meet a group of hot Australian men with sexy accents
5. Convince my posse of friends to ride the bull first
6. Ride the bull
7. Don’t get bucked off; dismount gracefully

FIND A BAR WITH A MECHANICAL BULL CHECK

This was surprising more difficult than initially anticipated. For some reason, I expected a surplus of such institutions. But only found a few within driving distance from where I lived. There was one down the road from my house (who would of thunk?)—but they only had the bull on Thursdays. I work nights, so that was a big no-can-do. Lucky for me, Hollywood had just what I was looking for (doesn’t it always?), and as such, became the chosen destination. And since anything can happen in Hollywood, this could turn out to be the best or worst decision of my life.

GATHER A POSSE OF FRIENDS CHECK

I knew I wouldn’t be able to go in the center of the bar in front of dozens of strangers and ride a mechanical bull without some friendly faces in the crowd. I needed my girlfriends there for support. You know, so I could hear them say “Girl, you sooo got this” and “That bull ain’t got nothin’ over you” and “Don’t think about Debra Winger or Urban Cowboy; I mean, really, who rides a bull like that anyway?” And so…time for a shout out to my girls: Lupe, Ariana and Amy!! Can I get a Woot Woot?!?!? You guys made the bull riding experience a million times better.

DRINK ENOUGH TO MAKE MYSELF BELIEVE I WAS INVINCIBLE AGAINST THE BULL, BUT NOT SO MUCH THAT I WOULD FALL OFF OF IT ON THE FIRST SPIN CHECK

I was nervous and out of my norm. I needed a little liquid courage to get me onto that bull. Not so much that I would turn into an irresponsible, out of control, intoxicated drunk. Just enough to loosen me up and help me shake away some inhibitions. Time for another shout-out to my beautiful friends. They definitely helped me get there. A designated driver, 2 shots and a giant margarita (that I initially thought was a pitcher we’d all be sharing) later, I was ready to ride. Not intoxicated, not wasted—a little unsteady maybe—but still clear headed. And ready.

MEET A GROUP OF HOT AUSTRALIAN MEN WITH SEXY ACCENTS CHECK

Okay, admittedly this is not an actual requirement to riding a bull. BUT, it was one of the perks of this particular resolution—and so it had to be thrown into the checklist. Nothing more to add other than it was done. Hot. Check. Australian. Check. Sexy accents. Check. Moving on…

CONVINCE MY POSSE OF FRIENDS TO RIDE THE BULL FIRST FAIL

That was the most unsuccessful point of the night. It wasn’t just fail--more like EPIC FAIL. Man, I couldn’t get them to ride that bull. Not first, middle or last. Stubborn bunch of ladies, I tell ya. And I tried every trick I could think of. But no budging. I would be alone on this for the night. But it wouldn’t stop me. COULDN’T stop me. Afterall, it was my resolution to complete not theirs. I had no way out really.

RIDE THE BULL BIG CHECK

Ahh. And so came the moment when the bull and I would finally meet. Such build up to our first encounter—in one corner, the mechanical bull that would try and try again to throw me off its back; and in the other corner, me who would be holding onto it with all of the strength one woman can muster. Except we weren’t really in different corners. I was waiting in line and it was busy evacuating seated passengers one after the other. I was getting more nervous. My turn was getting close. It was too late to change my mind. I was there. In Hollywood. In a bull-riding bar. In line. Darn it. I needed more liquid courage, but it was too late.

“You’re up,” the bull’s conductor said to me.

Oh boy. The door to the fence surrounding the bull opened. Off came the heels (it would be a really bad idea to punch a hole in the padding/air mattress that would cushion my fall). In I walked, the crowd growing around me as more people arrived at the bar. The lights were dimmed (had been for a while, but I only noticed it then), the masses cheered me on, my nemesis waited. The conductor helped me onto the bull. I slipped my right hand through the rope that lay across the bull’s neck and held tight; pressed my thighs firm around its torso;

lifted my left hand high; posed for a picture; and then nodded. I was ready to go. And even if I wasn’t, the bull had started to move. Gently at first. And then faster with interesting gyrating motions. I could hear my friends cheer. I held on tighter. I would not fall. Heck, maybe I would pull out some Debra Winger moves. Bring it, bull. Around and around we spun.

DON’T GET BUCKED OFF; DISMOUNT GRACEFULLY SORTA CHECK

I think I stayed on for a lot longer than I thought I would have. And then I finally let go. It wasn’t the spinning or the fear of being thrown across the room that made me do it. My wrist had seriously started to hurt holding onto that rope. All of the twisting and turning while my hand was stuck was making me sore. And so I let go and when I did, the bull enacted its revenge. I flew up and then down onto the ground. I certainly did not gracefully dismount. But still, I like to think that it was my choice and not the bull’s to end the ride.

Overall, a great experience. The actual bull riding played a small role that night. But it allowed me to have SUCH a fun night out with some beautiful friends and helped me make some new ones. I accomplished a resolution, which is always a great feeling. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go again. Maybe the more I do it, the more my wrist will adapt to the awkward positioning. Maybe if I keep practicing, I can learn all of Debra Winger’s bull-riding skills. And if not, then this one will go down as one of my most unique and most fun nights out. Ever.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.

Up in the Air

Immediately after arriving in Hannibal via the Cessna, I began strategizing ways I could get out of the “Fly a Plane” resolution. It was easily justifiable. The point of that resolution was to face a fear head-on. And I had done that. I flew in an eight-passenger plane. Sans resolution, in any other normal circumstance, I would drive or take a train rather than subject myself to the terror of a tiny airplane. The point of the blog is to face my fears. So, I felt validated to skip this one. I shouldn’t have to go through it a second time.

I decided I would just be honest with all of you and explain that it was too scary to put myself through it again,and that the only thing I’d write in this entry was a quirky or smart-ass comment that would serve as a link to “Getting to Hannibal”. Something like, “If you think I’m crazy enough to try my luck and do that all over again, just re-read how scared I was the first time!” or “If it feels like you’ve read this somewhere before, that’s because you have; I’ve already sort-of completed this resolution.”

Or maybe I would just buy a toy plane, review the package insert and directions (thereby “taking a lesson”) and then fly it; maybe even capture it on film as proof. After all, I had never specified the type of plane. It wouldn’t be cheating. Real planes aren’t the only things flown.

But as the days went by, guilt consumed me. “Getting to Hannibal” wasn’t me actually flying the plane; and, let’s face it, neither was learning to fly a toy plane. I knew what I meant by that resolution, and it most certainly wasn’t a toy plane. Who was I really cheating here? Only myself.

So the decision was made. I would take a real lesson. One with a real plane, a real instructor, and real airtime.

I called and scheduled a day and time to fly. They gave me the Sunset Lesson. We’d be up in the air when the sun started to go down, which would allow for “beautiful pictures and a sense of romanticism.” Um, first, the last thing that would be on my mind would be how pretty my pictures turned out; I would be more focused on the butterflies fluttering through my insides making me want to pee in my pants. Second, I was going to be in the sky with a stranger teaching me to do the one thing I feared most; trust me, I would not be feeling romantic in the slightest. But I’ll go with it, I thought. Maybe a beautiful sunset above the Pacific would be enough to calm me.

Twenty minutes before we were supposed to have the lesson, I arrived at the flight school. I settled in and waited for my instructor. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel as nervous as I thought I would. Maybe it was the comfortable leather chairs, or the sound of a trickling waterfall at the entry, or the basket of cookies by the desk, or even the miniature deodorant and mouthwash bottles in the Lady’s room (don’t ask me why they had any of these at a flight school, but hey, who am I to judge? I actually thought them quite nice amenities. At least we would all smell fresh up in the air.)

The backdoor opened, and in walked a tall man somewhere in his early fifties with ruffled blonde hair and blue eyes. He sported a T-shirt with the flight school’s logo and carried a packet under his arm. He looks capable, I thought. And he gives me good juju vibes. Hope he’s my teacher.

He smiled and extended his hand, introduced himself, and asked me to follow him into the conference room where we would start with a basic one-on-one flying tutorial. Yes! He was my instructor. I already felt comfortable with him, with the school and their mini deodorant, and with the whole feel of what I was about to do. Eh, maybe flying wasn’t too bad.

He pulled out papers from the packet and told me a little about himself. He was originally from Germany where he had been a pilot. One day he “decided to have a life” (his words, not mine) and no longer felt the tug to fly all around the world.

“It’s a difficult lifestyle being a commercial pilot,” he said. “The sky becomes your home; you live in a different city every few days. And there comes a point when you have to decide if that’s enough. For me, it wasn’t. I wanted a home on the ground. With a family.” He grinned.

“That must have been a hard decision to make,” I said. “Especially if you love to fly.”

“Nah,” he answered. “It’s not a hard decision when you love someone else more.”

Aww, how sweet. What did I tell ya? Good juju vibes, all around. I could tell right from the start that I was going to like this guy.

“But of course I still wanted to fly,” he continued. “So now I teach and I’ve been doing that for fourteen years. But enough about me. Tell me about you.”

I confessed my fear of flying and explained that that was the reason I was there. I intended to battle my demon, to fight an epic battle between the iron dragon and me—one I intended to win. Well maybe I didn’t use those words or create such a dramatic depiction, but he got the picture.

He nodded and said, “You're not the first person I've taught who felt that way. It's very common actually." He smiled. "Let’s get started then.” He stood up and held the door open for me, leading me out to the airplane.

We walked over to a parking lot of sorts with rows of carports; only, instead of cars, there were planes. He pointed at the different makes and models and taught me about the different engines and styles. All I heard was “little plane and big plane.” No idea what all of the rest of it meant. He explained that celebrities kept planes there, pointing to one as we walked past. They would call, request one, and it would be waiting to take them to their desired destination. And yes, I glanced around, wondering if Brad Pitt or George Clooney would suddenly walk out onto the tarmac. And no. They didn’t.

“So what kind of plane are we flying?” I asked.

“A Cessna Skyhawk,” he said. Great. Here we go again. Another Cessna. “Four seater.” Wonderful. I went from an eight passenger plane with space for two pilots to a four-seater.

“At least I get to fly shot gun and I don’t have to sit in the back,” I said, chuckling.

“Shotgun?” he replied. “That’s what I’m flying. You’re the driver.”

I’m sorry, come again? I was going to do the actual flying? This wasn’t one of those lessons where he would show me a few things (you know, like the basics? The on and off switch and engine light for example), and then fly us into the air where maybe, just maybe, he would gently allow me to take control of the plane (for like three minutes at a comfortable cruising altitude) and then immediately resume control and bring us safely back down to the ground? I was going to fly the plane? Me? The person who was terrified of flying? The one person in the plane with no flying experience what so ever? I mean, really, was that sensible? All of a sudden good juju man looked a little wacky to me.

He must have seen the terror shoot right out of my eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can assume control of the plane at anytime. I’ll be right there.”

Damn straight you’ll be right there, I thought.

“And there she is.” He pointed at our plane.

I looked at her tiny little figure. White body, white wings, small glass windows, maroon writing with the word “Skyhawk” on the tail. Looks more like a giant dragonfly than a hawk if you ask me, I thought; I was going to pilot a dragonfly. Awesome. I couldn’t help but laugh. I had wanted to conquer the dragon. Here she was. Only in fly form.

We walked around the plane as my instructor taught me about her.

“Every good pilot does his or her own thorough inspection of the plane before flight,” he said. “We never rely on others or what the computer says inside of the plane. We inspect it—front to back, top to bottom—ourselves.”

We looked at the wings, the tires, the windows, the front, the back, the top, the bottom. We checked for any cracks or oil leaks, any loose gadgets and widgets. I climbed onto the top of the plane and checked the amount of gas in the tank, making sure that the quantity in the tank matched the quantity on the computer. We looked at the oil level and confirmed that it was adequate. Then we untied the rope that was anchoring the plane to its parking spot, pushed her out to the runway (literally pushed the plane to the runway), and finally climbed inside where we inspected all the internal parts. I quickly noticed that all of the components that move the airplane were on both my side and his.

Thank God, I thought. It’s like driver’s ed—he can stop, start, and turn, controlling the plane the entire time.

Even though I logically knew that he’d have that capability, seeing it was more comforting than you can imagine.

The instructor showed me all of the buttons, explaining what each was and what we checked with it. He pointed at the pedals and explained that I’d press down on the top of the pedals to break, and at the bottom of the pedals to move the plane while on the ground.

“Press on the right one to turn the plane right, the left one to turn her left,” he said. “To go straight, you dance, pressing right then left then right then left.” He jiggled in his seat as he said it.

Then he twisted the key in the ignition and turned the plane on. “Let’s drive her to where we’re going to take off.”

Okay then. Pedal time. I pressed right then left then right then left.

“I look like a drunk driver,” I said as the plane swayed around the runway.

“Yeah, you do.” He laughed. “But don’t worry, you’ll get it with time. Just keep trying.”

There was one plane ahead of us. Once it took off, my instructor turned on the weather channel to confirm good visibility and favorable winds. Then he called into the radio tower and asked for permission to take off.

“Alright, let’s do it,” he said. “Pull this out all of the way.” He pointed at a knob in the center of the control panel.

As I tugged, the airplane accelerated forward.

“Okay now pull the yoke,” he said pointing to the ‘steering wheel.’

My little dragonfly floated into the air.

“Keep pulling,” he said. “Harder.”

The more I yanked, the higher we soared into the sky. Once we were high enough, he taught me to level out the plane. We moved in the direction of the sun, flying over mountains toward the Pacific Ocean.

He continued to teach me while we were in the sky, explaining all of the things I needed to look out for. He pointed at planes beneath us—most of which I hadn’t seen until he called attention to them. We practiced turns, leaning right and then left as I steered simultaneously with the yoke and the pedals. He took pictures of me in the plane, assumed control of the plane (which I secretly knew he always had anyway) so that I could snap pictures, and then told me to turn around and head back to the airport.

We floated in the sky for a bit. Then as the sun started her descent, so did we. My instructor assumed full control over the landing and gently brought us down to the ground again. I got to drive my dragonfly across the runway once more. And no, I didn’t look any more coordinated the second time. We climbed out and pushed her back to her parking spot, and then tied her in place with the rope.

The instructor walked me back to the building and we said our goodbyes before he went into his office and I went to my car.

It was a great lesson with a fabulous instructor (the good juju vibes were dead-on). Am I less afraid of flying? Maybe a little, but not much. I think, though, I’d have to take a lot of lessons before I lose the fear completely. Was it worth taking the lesson? ABSOLUTELY. It was an experience that I’ve never had before (and in all honesty, will unlikely ever have again), and one that I wouldn’t give back for anything. Not a thing. Not even for all of the free miniature deodorant and mouthwash in the world.

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The Beach and Pizza

Watching a beach sunset likely falls somewhere in everyone’s life-to-do list, and there’s a good chance it’s been checked off most of them, time and time again. In truth, most of us have done it at some point in our lives. It’s peaceful; one of the most tranquil of life’s pleasures is the sound of waves washing up to the sand while seagulls caw. It’s meditative; all of the day’s thoughts and worries seem to flow away with the water as it rolls back to sea. It’s romantic; few things compare to tasting the lips of the person you love as the earth’s candle goes out around you.

But I would venture to guess that a lot of us don’t do it just to do it. We don’t take the time to sit on the beach and watch the sun set behind the ocean or the lake “just because.” It tends to be part of the bigger picture rather than the picture itself. I was definitely one who fell into this category. I’ve seen many a beach sunset, most by accident—being in the right place at the right time. And those that were intentional were meant to be a part of something else.

I added it to my list of resolutions because I didn’t want to do it by accident and I didn’t want there to be a reason I was on the beach other than to take the time to watch the sun set. It fell under my search for tranquility. I could just sit and breathe in the salt, listen to the ocean, and watch the day end in peace.

The day that I decided to go to the beach had been a lovely one. My sister was in town; my father had the day off from work; and my mother, knowing I have resolutions to complete, suggested we watch the sunset together as a family. We don’t get to spend as much time together as we once did; my sister and I are off living our lives as “grown ups.” It had been years since we had sat on a beach towel, our toes wiggling in the sand, together.

And so, despite my initial decision to spend the sunset alone, I decided it would be more meaningful with my family there—not just because I would be in the company of the people I admire most in this world, but for an opportunity to spend a beautiful day doing something that made me remember a beautiful childhood. The sunset was still the bigger picture; its frame would just be constructed of family time and memory making.

We left from my house, bags of beach towels and soda/pop stuffed into the trunk, and headed toward Malibu. But first, a food stop. We had to eat, of course. Dinner time and sunset seem so hand-in-hand. We got some pizza (and Mexican for my darling sister who craved a “run to the border”), climbed back into the jeep, and made our way up through the spiraling canyons that would eventually give way to the one and only Pacific Coast Highway.

As we got to the top, mist settled around us, blanketing the sun from view. Darn it. Come back, sunshine! Come back! It would not be easy to watch the sun set behind the ocean if the clouds were hiding her. I could only hope that once we made our descent and reached PCH, the fog would lift and sunshine would glisten once more. As we swerved through the canyon, I crossed my fingers and balanced the box of pizza against the seat cushion. At least I could save dinner.

Once we reached PCH, I knew that any hope I had of the sun coming back out was gone. We parked the car, filled up the meter with coins, and grabbed the food and bags, marching our way toward the sand.

I flicked off my flip-flops and stepped onto the beach.

“Oh My God, it’s so cold,” my sister said, squirming. She had just read my mind. “I’m so used to the sand being hot.”

I laughed and nodded. She was right. Usually we had to race across the beach like we were walking over hot coal. But it had turned into a suddenly icy, hazy day by the ocean. No such luck. Oh how I missed the hot coal feel of sand on my skin in that instant.

We went as close toward the water as was reasonable; the fear of the ocean swallowing our pizza stopped us from going too far. The blanket was spread and the food was placed in the center. The four of us settled into each corner, keeping our eyes toward the sea. The only other inhabitants were straggling runners and a family of birds colonizing the sand a few feet from us.

Dinner was consumed amongst chattering teeth (it was dang chilly) and belly-shaking laughter (we are dang funny), all the while sneaking peeks

at our watches to make sure we didn’t miss sunset. After cleaning up, we explored the beach—my sister walked around in search of shells and I snapped pictures of my family, the ocean, the birds. When the water rushed up to my feet, it felt like a million frozen needles piercing me; but when it surged back, the sand felt like calming, grainy dough against my skin. I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking how the sand I had thought so cold an hour earlier was now the thing that soothed me. The mysteries of nature are so fascinating.

When it was time to “watch the sunset”, we settled back onto the blanket and stared out toward the ocean. I smiled. We sat in the shape of a frame, literally. Each of us in our respective corners. And the sea, the sand, the sun were the picture

We waited until it was officially “sunset”, and though we couldn’t see the sun actually go down behind the ocean, we sat together, shivering in the cold and sharing our moment of tranquility with nature. And with one another.

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The Big Easy

Blend the beat of drums with a splash of VooDoo rituals and European horns; then mix in some Church music and a sprinkle of Saloon sounds, and from that recipe, jazz is born—in the Big Easy—dating back to the late 1800s.

Prior to the Civil War in America, New Orleans was the only place where slaves could own their own drums. They thumped their instruments, sung with harmony, and danced to the rhythms that tasted of freedom. Once slavery had been abolished, jazz grew stronger, evolving into sounds that got people off their feet, to dance and to come alive.

Those who know me well know that I have a mild obsession with the era of Slavery in America. I love to read books and watch movies that take place during that period. It’s such a horrible time in our history, such an immense moment of shame; yet from the cruelties of slavery, so many heroes were born, so much culture was planted, and so many types of music were created—beats that, to this day, make our heads bounce, our feet tap, and our hearts find their tempo.

And so what better place to go to learn about jazz—how it’s made, how it’s played—than New Orleans?

I entered into this specific journey very poorly prepared. I only knew that I wanted to take a lesson. Why? I’m not very musically inclined, and so I wanted to work on that. I know when I like a song because it will stir my emotions or make me want to dance. Often, the writer in me sees stories playing out in my head when I listen to music. The sound, the story, and the flow that are brought to life by a song fill up empty spaces in my soul. Jazz in particular has the ability to vibrate deep into the depths of those listening to it.

The next obvious question would be what type of jazz? Dancing, singing, playing an instrument? I had no idea. I was interested in all of it. I looked things up on the internet and searched for instructors in the New Orleans area, but came up flat. I wasn’t sure any of the people I found would be keen on a one-time session. But, I had to do something. So, I decided to book a hotel. It was the least I could do before figuring out how to take a lesson.

I made my reservation the old fashioned way—I actually called the hotel. No online deals. I’m not even really sure why I chose to do it that way; but it turned out to answer my question.

The reservation specialist asked me if I was coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.

“Uh—no,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

Silence on the other end. Then a chuckle and an obvious sigh of condescension. “It’s the jazz festival in the French Quarter. All sorts of jazz bands performing in the streets,” she explained. “I thought that was why you were coming that particular weekend.”

What?!?!?! The stars have aligned?!?!?! Again?!?!? I randomly picked a weekend to go to New Orleans to take a jazz lesson and it so happened to be French Quarter Festival? What better place to learn about jazz than on the streets where it all began?

“Well in that case,” I said. “Yes, I am coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.”

When I arrived in New Orleans, I could feel the buzz and verve in the air from the start. As the shuttle stopped in the streets, dropping each of us at our respective hotels, I marveled at the people pausing to snap pictures in the middle of the road—oblivious to the traffic they caused; the sound of trumpets and drums merging together with the hum of laughter, and drifting through the air like an invisible compass to the city; and the smell of jambalya and gumbo swimming past my nose. It almost felt like the city itself was a living, breathing being; and we were all tiny creatures, enjoying our symbiotic relationship, as we inched across it.

There were booths set up through the streets, barricades put up to stop cars from getting through, and jazz instruments lined up with performers behind them. Every few feet that I walked, I heard different music and sounds; although, all had the same familiar beat of jazz vibrating through them. In some places, people danced in the middle of the street beside the band; in other places, they simply crowded around and clapped at the end of each song. Magicians wowed with cards and tricks; painters showed off their canvases; and voodoo shamans hovered around their amulets and charms.

I walked for some time before I built up the courage to go talk to the different performers. I told them about this blog, asked them about their instruments, and listened to them share their stories. Each fascinated me with their tales.

I met a man who told me he had been playing in the streets of New Orleans for twenty years—day and night, he sat with his guitar and his trumpet and performed.

“I’ve seen so many faces come through here,” he said. “All them faces have the same thing in common: a smile with life behind it. I like to think it’s my songs doing that for them.”

There was a band of young men in their twenties. They had known one another since childhood, and had grown up playing music together.

“You gotta bop your head,” one of them said to me. I bopped with him, doing my best to follow his lead. “Yeah, you got it. Feel the music in your body, and it’ll flow out through your hands.” He wiggled his fingers across his drums. “And out through your voice.” He bellowed.

A married couple sat on “their corner” and performed songs about betrayal and magical spells. They told me that each of them had been pursuing the dream of becoming a jazz musician since grade school. It was jazz that brought the two of them together. And now, with fifty years of wedded bliss behind them, they had a strong following of fans, all stopping to buy their CD and drop cash donations into their guitar casing.

The one thing that ALL of the musicians had in common? Outside of the obvious (jazz)? None of them would let me hold their instruments. They taught me the types of beats, the various scales, and the part of jazz history that meant the most to them. But when it came to letting me hold their instruments, they all said no…..which, of course they would and I understood. After all, it’s as though I asked a complete stranger if I could hold his baby. He may want to tell me all of the cute things his baby does, when his baby took his first step, and how very much he loves his baby; but he would never put that child in a stranger’s hands.

I took pictures and filmed their performances. However, without the proper permission, I do not feel comfortable posting them on the blog. But I want to thank all of them for teaching me about jazz—in particular, New Orleans jazz. It was such an interesting experience. And now, when I hear the sound of bass drums and trumpets, I’m taken back to all of the friends I made in the Big Easy, and all of the lessons they taught me.

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Mark and Me

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”—Mark Twain

By the time I arrived in Hannibal, it was late—too late to go sightseeing anyway. So the adventure started the next day. My hotel was across the street from Mark Twain’s childhood home, and so after breakfast, I walked toward the cobblestone path that would lead me into the past of a much-admired American author.

I bought my ticket for the self-guided tour, which started in a small museum that had pictures of the author attached to biographical information and quotes. It was fascinating to learn about the parts of his life that shaped him into the writer that he became—in particular, the loss of his father that turned a young boy into a grown man with grown up responsibilities practically overnight. The rebel in Tom Sawyer—his need to break free and “be a pirate”—became clear as I learned about Mark Twain’s own childhood.

After reading all of the facts posted on the wall beside the many photographs, I walked out to his house.

In the front was a portion of the white picket fence that shows up in Tom Sawyer, the one that Tom tricks his friends into washing. A bucket and brush sat beside it so that tourists could pretend they were painting the fence as they snapped pictures. People had scribbled their names across it—some with big hearts and happy faces drawn beside the letters. Once I had taken some photos for myself (and then subsequently took some for couples and families who wanted to pose together), I followed the marked path to the back of the home where we could enter. The rooms were blocked off with glass, scenes depicted in the different spaces throughout the house--the kitchen, the bedrooms, the library.

Props were set up to make it feel as though the house had been left untouched since Mark Twain’s last visit—marbles and spinning tops scattered on the bed, a shawl draped across the kitchen chair, spectacles resting on a pile of papers in the library. Mark Twain’s bedroom had a view of the Becky Thatcher house, and I wondered if their homes had really been across the street from one another and if a young Mark Twain would glance through his window to see his sweetheart, the one who became Becky in Tom Sawyer.

In the back, a pebbled walkway led to the childhood home of the boy who inspired Huck Finn (whose real name was Tom Blackenship).

He was a poor boy with seven siblings and a father who was known as the town drunk. And from all accounts, he and Mark Twain were inseparable. The house itself was small and shack-like, with an outhouse in front of it—it was a modern reproduction of the original home. It had only two rooms—a fireplace in each and wood floors throughout. I had to wonder how difficult it would have been to care for and raise so many children in such little space. It stood in stark contrast to the house I had just walked through, Mark Twain’s. On the walls were pictures and quotes from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In one poster, there is a summary of the story: a boy who chooses to help a slave escape to freedom. This is a defining moment of the novel. Huck makes the decision to help Jim despite his fear of both society’s and God’s condemnation, saying, “all right then, I’ll go to hell.”

Across the street was the Becky Thatcher house, which was, sadly, closed for remodeling at the time of my visit. I could only see its exterior, although I wish I could have snuck in somehow to see Becky's world

Beside the Becky Thatcher house was the law offices where Mark Twain's father worked. It is presumably the courthouse that is described in Tom Sawyer. Inside were a desk, a judge’s gown, and benches. A sign outside of the office explained that Mark Twain once saw a dead body on the floor of this building, and rather than being scared, he felt annoyed because he had to climb out the window. Strange? Not really. Not if you consider the story of Tom Sawyer. Not if Mark Twain’s real world truly paralleled the stories he wrote. Then dead bodies found by young curious boys weren’t all together uncommon.

Down the street from the buildings flowed the Mississippi, and across it I could see the islands that likely represented Jackson Island where Tom Sawyer hid and formed a pirate gang with his friends. There were no ferries to take me there, but I sat in front of the river and contemplated everything I had seen as I stared off in its direction.

As I walked through each of these buildings, reading the descriptions and explanations, I thought about the author, and how his feet had tread through that space and his imagination had flourished. The streets were different—so much had changed from his time to ours—and yet these small spaces had been saved. There is a sense of fulfillment, as a writer, to see the world that inspires another writer, almost a calling or a feeling of home. Somehow as writers, I think we’re kindred spirits to one another. We can understand each other in ways that perhaps others can’t. We get how a dead body on the floor can inspire rather than terrify a young boy with a vivid imagination.

And maybe I hoped that as kindred spirits, Mark Twain’s could stir mine to persevere and pursue my dream of writing. To keep trying until the dream was realized. Maybe he’d be willing to help. Just maybe.

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