Tag: Nicholas

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Plumage, by Nicholas

          I like
scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people.
Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and
protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide
an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around
your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are
and even what side you take.
          I’m always
surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a
winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy
and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light
wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them
around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago
but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.
          Scarves can
also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can
be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a
feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes
and I have a fuchsia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The
secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be
so gay.
          Political
statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on
certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is
checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn
by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of
solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to
me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my
new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my
pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.
          My favorite
scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these
bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or
banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different
colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers
of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17
districts of the old medieval city.
These banners are used by neighborhood
teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th
century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town.
Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and
pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people
in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and
very bright colors.
So, wearing a scarf can be more than
putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support
for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves
have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world
that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.
©  March 2015 
About the Author 
Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Ticking Away – Homophobes, by Nicholas

I was feeling just kind of stupid the
other day so I did what you do when you feel just kind of stupid: I turned on
the TV. Surfing the channels, I came across a CNN show talking about the
attacks in France that left 12 journalists and 5 others dead. One commentator
was identified as being from the Catholic League, a conservative Catholic organization.
This spokesman started by, of course, condemning the violent attacks but then
went on to say how he thought the cartoonists of Charlie Hebdo, who also ran items lampooning Catholic hierarchs,
were provocateurs and pornographers and if they hadn’t done what they did, they
would be alive today. The first part of his statement was delivered in bland,
white-guy-speak; but when he began criticizing the victims, whom he clearly
didn’t like, his dull, fat face fairly well lit up with determination. This is
what he really wanted to say. I don’t know if this man is prone to violence,
but he displayed an attitude of contempt for the victims.
What makes homophobes tick? Probably
much of the same thing that makes all phobes–racists, anti-Semites,
women-haters and murderous jihadists–tick. The time bomb of intolerance they
carry around.
          I’m right, says
the phobe, my culture and religion tell me I’m right and you’re wrong and
therefore I have the right, maybe the duty, to attack you, beat you, even kill
you. Getting angry isn’t enough. I’m entitled to get even.
Start with a conviction of
superiority and power, add a sense of entitlement and plain old egoism,
sprinkle with self-righteousness and every imagined criticism becomes a threat
to be answered with explosive violence. Clearly, this good Catholic, supposed Christian
didn’t mind at all that 12 people he didn’t like lost their lives. They
shouldn’t have done what they did. They shouldn’t bug people like me. We’re
entitled to defend ourselves against such bad behavior as making fun of the
pope or the prophet. That line used to be commonly used against gay people: if
you didn’t flaunt it (i.e., live openly) you wouldn’t antagonize those who
don’t like you and maybe then we wouldn’t have to beat you up.
          It’s the
classic rationale of the bully, full of egoism and entitlement and yet
self-pity. Phobe equals bully. They think the world is theirs and others are
allowed in only in so far as they do not impinge on preconceived notions. And
those preconceived notions and common prejudices frequently get bundled up with
high flying notions like it’s god’s will and law or it’s the bedrock of
civilization. Of course, we know that civilization has no bedrock; it’s really
a fragile thing.
          What makes
phobes tick? Self-righteousness, anger, helplessness, isolation, fear of change—all
the ingredients of prejudice, discrimination, homophobia.
          But while the
racist, anti-semite, and woman-hater can separate himself from those he hates,
it’s more difficult with sexual discrimination because everybody has a
sexuality. This prejudice hits inside. Some straight men fear that if they
accept gay men they will become gay themselves or, just as bad, others will see
them as gay. Their presumed code of manhood will unravel. And if they accept
lesbian women, they become useless and irrelevant instead of dominant. Sexual
prejudice has that unique quality of turning the political into the very, very
personal.
          I recently saw
a refrigerator magnet that read: “Why should you mind that I’m gay? I don’t
mind that you’re an idiot.” In our multi-cultural world, that could be the best
we can do in establishing mutual tolerance. Ultimately, I don’t care what makes
phobes tick just so they keep their ticking away from me.
Intolerance, as we’ve just seen, is a
lit stick of dynamite set to explode. It comes from a sense of helplessness in
a world that offers plenty that is offensive to what you hold dear. We’re all
entitled to be angry when offended. But we are not entitled to abuse anybody
else with our anger. Sometimes, “fuck you” has to be enough.
Nous sommes tous Charlie.
© 22 Apr
2015 
About the Author 
Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Plumage by Nicholas

I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.

Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuschia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.

Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.

My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.

These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.

So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.

© April 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Hitting a Milestone by Nicholas

The first thing I wanted to do on reaching 60 years of age was look back. Look back on just how I turned out to be me. As I’m writing this, Quicksilver Messenger Service—does anybody remember that ‘60s rock group? —is singing “What are you going to do about me?” Good question. What am I going to do about me? A little self obsessed, maybe, but there’s no apologizing needed for that in this day and age.

In 2006, I turned 60 years of age. This was one of those milestone “zero” birthdays, like 30, 40, 50. Only this one seemed to hit me as more of a milestone than the others ever did. I wasn’t sure if it marked another mile but I sure felt the weight of the stone.

I like to say that I faced my 60th birthday instead of that I celebrated my 60th. There was a celebration, of course, one of the best parties I’ve ever had. It was put together by my sisters and Jamie and was quite a wing-ding, with catered food, champagne, a huge cake and lots of family and friends to share it with. In fact, I extended the celebration to all that year long, not just one day. It was not just another routine birthday passed with a day off work, a bike ride in the mountains, a special dinner with Jamie, a few cards and presents and then on to the next day. No, this one meant something.

This birthday was different and needed to be marked differently. This one presented challenges. It demanded to be paid attention to. Turning 60 was truly a cusp of something, a turning point. I am now closer to my departure from this planet than am I to my arrival upon it.

I felt that I’d crossed a threshold, stepped over a line, a boundary to somewhere though I was not sure where. If the past was a burden piling up behind me, the future seemed a foggy mystery and unknown territory. I was in a new country without a map and with loads of hopes and fears but not sure what direction to take.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of being old. Now I was one of the old people, a senior citizen. I was now entitled, if I summoned the nerve, to boot some young person out of those seats at the front of the bus reserved for old folks. I’ve never done that, of course. But I was old and everybody knew it. No more anonymity, I was marked with gray hair, sagging skin, a bit slower to take stairs, and a few more bottles of pills on the shelf. Now with this birthday and every birthday hence, my age was a matter of public policy. I was officially a statistic, a “boomer,” a term I despise. This birthday and the party to commemorate it left me with an uncomfortable self-consciousness.

And some confusion. One morning I was bicycling along the South Platte River, following the familiar path when suddenly the way was blocked and I was shuffled off onto a detour around a huge construction zone. I followed the detour hesitantly, not knowing exactly where I was and fearing that it was taking me too far out of the way. But the route was well marked so I continued to follow the signs. Eventually, I got back to the river path and I knew where I was.

That’s the way I was feeling on this birthday. I don’t know where this path is leading and this one is not marked at all. Am I on another detour or is this the main path? I’m trying to work my way to a point where I can see where I’ve been and so I can figure out where I’m going. At least that’s the aim.

I have this sense of the past, my past—which has grown rather bulky—and I do not want to let go of it. I can’t let go of it. I like my history and my memories. I like what I’ve done, embarrassments and failings as well as achievements and successes.

In my first 60s—the 1960s—the world was on fire with change and excitement. There was nothing I and my generation couldn’t do to make the world a better place. Justice was on the move and so was personal freedom. The personal became the political and politics became very personal and passionate. Passion is the word I attach to the ‘60s. The music was passionate. The war and the war against the war were passionate. The drive for civil rights was passionate. The freedom was passionate.

If I hearken after any remnant of that youthful decade it is that sense of passion. If there is any bit from that era that I’d like to restore to my later years, it is that passion. Turn nostalgia around and let it lead me into the future. Grow old and find your passion. Is that wisdom speaking? Have I stumbled onto wisdom somehow?

So, yes, it was quite a party, the party of a lifetime. It was the party that marked and celebrated way more than another year on the planet. I can’t forget that party because to do so would be to forget my life, its past, present and future.

© 17 October 2013

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Drifting, Not Adrift by Nicholas

Drifting calls to me. It is one of my
all-time favorite images. I picture easy summer days, though this can occur in
any season, of floating along with the tide or the current. No resistance
though there is movement. Drifting along on an inner tube in a stream. Drifting
snowflakes. Drifting into day dreams. Drifting conjures up images of movement,
movement in a fluid environment, like floating in water. It appeals to me
perhaps because floating is the only thing I actually can do in water.
          Drifting is
not like being adrift. Being adrift is to be aimless and not necessarily moving
at all. Being adrift is akin to being lost whereas drifting is a more
imaginative state of seeking.
Sometimes I think I have been
drifting through most of my life since unlike a lot of other people I never
adopted a certain, single career path that I pursued devotedly–or slavishly–but
have pursued a number of careers. And I never tied myself down with raising
children, seeing the little ones grow because I helped make them grow,
following a course until they went out on their own. I guess I attach a lot of
freedom to drifting. I’ve always had a lot of freedom in my life—freedom to
move on to another place, start or stop a job or a career, make or end
relationships—without being constrained by too many responsibilities.
          Of course, my
life hasn’t been completely unmoored, untethered, without anchor. Being with
Jamie for the last 27 years has certainly brought me out of my self-indulgent
freedom now that I plan life changes with him and not just on my own whims. And
that change has been good as well.
          Now, that in
some ways, my drifting days are over, drifting is even more a state of mind
with my imagination conjuring up memories of wandering. I used to spend days
wandering or drifting around the Northern California coast on Point Reyes or on
the slopes of Mt. Tamaulipas. I used to drift about the fascinations and splendors
of San Francisco. I once spent a summer drifting through the Sierra Nevada mountains.
How nice it was to just drift along, letting the stream carry me, sometimes
literally, to whatever lay around the next bend. Drifting is a form of
exploring.
          Not many
people these days or at my age seem to think of life as an act of exploring. But
that is sometimes the only way I seem to be able to see it. We are all, after
all, just drifting from somewhere to somewhere else or maybe nowhere at all.
          Later this
afternoon you might find me at home, drifting off to sleep

© July
2014

About the Author 

Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.


Posted on

Giving Thanks by Nicholas

(published previously in this blog on June 10, 2014)

It was our first Thanksgiving together in our first flat together in San Francisco. We loved the place up the hill from Parnassus Avenue above Cole Valley. The street was Woodland, named so, we presumed, because it ended in a small forest of eucalyptus that ran up Mt. Sutro in the heart of the city. The rent was a bit steep even then but we fell in love with the redwood shingle house of which we occupied the first floor. We were right at the usual fog line so we could watch the fog roll in from the ocean at the front and see the sun at the back.

Our flat was elegant. Old wood trim, arched front window with beveled glass, neat little kitchen with lots of counter space that was a deep, lustrous purple. I loved those deep purple countertops. That was the first kitchen that I loved to cook in.

Being our first Thanksgiving in our own place, we decided to entertain at home with friends coming over instead of joining Jamie’s family in Menlo Park, an hour south. It was kind of a statement of independence from the family and a statement that holidays were ours. So, we invited a bunch of friends and began planning dinner for eight on Thanksgiving Day. We asked each person or couple to contribute something like an appetizer, a salad, a side dish, dessert, wine. We ordered the turkey and would roast it and make stuffing.

We got a 12 pound bird and studied up on what to do with it. What’s to cooking a turkey, we thought. You throw it in the oven early in the morning, check it now and then, and, voila, dinner was ready. Truth is, this wasn’t the very first turkey I had cooked. A previous boyfriend and I had cooked a turkey one holiday so I thought I knew what I was doing. I should have learned more from that turkey, I mean, the boyfriend.

With the bird in the oven in plenty of time, we thought we were in fine shape to get other things done. Jamie decided to call his mom just to wish her a happy holiday and remind her of what a wonderful time we were having. Mom, being mom, couldn’t leave things alone and had to start asking questions about what was, to her, our cooking experiment. Had we washed the turkey, had we wrapped it in foil or a roasting bag, had we made stuffing, had we gotten the giblets and other parts out of both ends.

Wait a minute, I said, both ends? Turkeys have two ends? I know they do in nature but in the supermarket? I had pulled some extra body parts out of one end, where was this other end and what was supposed to come out of it? Humbled and desperate, we dashed to the oven and yanked the damned bird out of the heat. The cavity was empty, as it was supposed to be. We pried open the other end, having discovered that indeed there was an opening there too. That’s when we realized we were in trouble. The back side, or maybe it was the front, was still frozen solid. I neglected to mention that we had gotten a frozen turkey and had given it what we thought was a proper 2-3 day thawing, but the damn thing was still ice inside.

We threw it back into the oven, cranked up the temp and hoped it would cook. Guests were due to arrive soon. Turkeys are slow birds, especially in the oven. Hours seemed to go by and it was only warm.

Since we’d planned a leisurely meal, we told people to come over early so we could nosh. We did just that. Guests and their dishes arrived to great cheer and our anxious announcement that dinner might be a little later than planned. We did not elaborate.

We opened the wine. We ate the appetizers. We ate the salad. We opened more wine. The turkey was gradually getting warmer, even starting to cook.

Then the second disaster of our elegant holiday feast arrived. The friend assigned to bring a nice dessert showed up late, though that was no problem compared to the one in the oven. “What did you bring for dessert,” we asked. He proudly pulled out a five-pound bag of apples, just apples, like from a tree. He said it would be a healthy dessert. I said, let me show you where the flour, butter and sugar are and you can bake a pie, like now. Or, I gave him a choice, I could put one of his apples in his mouth and throw him into the oven so we could have two turkeys. He opted instead to go out and buy something.

We were just about ready for dessert by then anyway since we had consumed the entire meal including sweet potatoes and vegetables when at long last the fucking turkey was ready to eat.

We did have our lovely Thanksgiving dinner though the order was slightly reversed with the main course last. I’ve never again purchased a frozen turkey but have successfully cooked fresh, never frozen birds to the delight of hungry guests. I do not recommend buying frozen turkeys.

© March 2014



About the Author


Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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I Used to … but Now I … by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Posted on

A Civilized Way to Travel by Nicholas

One day Jamie and I drove out from San Francisco to the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento where we rode a very, very slow vintage train that was about 200 years old, maybe older. As the train circled its little course of 2 miles of track, the conductor tour guide filled us in on the details of what was for its time an engineering marvel. He boasted that this steam engine could achieve speeds of up to 35 miles an hour—about the average speed of Amtrak today—and people feared for their lives in getting into a contraption that could move that fast. I chimed in that I’d just been to France and travelled on the TGV at a smooth 186 miles an hour from Paris to Lyon. His eyes glazed over as if to say, so what—this one, whose horn actually went toot-toot, was a real train.

I like riding trains, especially if they’re not in a museum but are actually taking me somewhere. I am not a train buff; I’m a train traveler. I don’t care how many wheels a train car has as long as they are moving. The faster the better.

One of my all-time favorite train rides was the Eurostar high speed train from Brussels to London, the Chunnel train that reduces crossing the English Channel from hours to minutes. It flies. The train seemed to float with hardly a sense of moving. But when I looked out the window at the landscape, I saw only a green blur flash by. Then sudden darkness as it entered the tunnel and 20 minutes later I was in England, where thanks to old Maggie Thatcher, trains have to slow down (to maybe 100 miles an hour). Britain’s once pre-eminent rail system has suffered from underfunding for decades now, leaving the UK behind other nations in rail development (though still way ahead of the US).

Traveling once from Venice to Rome, I was on a train that would have taken off airborne if it’d had wings. In fact, it was a little frightening as the train rocked on the rails like maybe the driver was pushing the limits to make up some time on the schedule. Train schedules are taken seriously in Europe. In Norway, Jamie and I were returning to Oslo from the fjords on the west coast and the conductor apologized in three languages for the train arriving three minutes late due to some track work on the line. A six to ten hour delay on Amtrak is not unusual and no apologies are ever offered.

Train travel is comfortable, sleek and sophisticated. Compared to airplanes, trains are spacious. You can really relax, sit back, read, watch the scenery—all things that few people really care to do these days. Even at 200 miles an hour, trains are too slow for many.

But for me, train travel is living out a dream. It’s fun. It harkens back to an era when travel had some glamour and travelers didn’t go about in their pajamas and flip-flops. Train stations are much more interesting than airports and far less regulated. I’ve never had to remove an article of clothing to board a train. There’s no point to hijacking a train; it’s still going to the same place.

I feel free on a train. I can get up and walk around at anytime. I can go get something to eat. Instead of a tiny bag of peanuts, I can have a full course luxury dinner. One time I was traveling out of Italy to France heading to Paris at a time before euros were the standard currency. Changing Italian lira to French francs would get me almost nothing so I spent my remaining lira on a fabulous plate of beef stroganoff in an elegant dining car before we crossed the border.

Unfortunately I live in the US, where Amtrak trains rarely attain the speeds or offer the comfort that American passenger trains had in 1930—in fact, they’re slower.

But I still recommend travel on Amtrak which despite all its flaws from a disregard for schedules to lousy food, is still a great way to travel. Of course, it has to be pointed out that Amtrak’s cross-country lines run at the mercy of freight haulers who own the tracks and care little about maintenance and derailments. From Denver, the California Zephyr glides through the Rockies, then speeds across the Nevada desert, and finally goes through the gorgeous Sierra Nevada. It’s worth the headaches. Just be sure to bring extra food.

© 25 August 2014 

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Bathing by Nicholas

I like bathing. I like luxuriating in a hot bath after a vigorous bike ride or before going to bed. It’s relaxing, soothing, and comforting in ways that showers aren’t.

I like bathing at baths even more. It’s always nice to bathe with other bathers. At communal baths, like Lake Steam Baths on W. Colfax Avenue, tubs or pools are bigger than mine at home, the water hotter, the sense of luxury greater. Sinking into hot water to completely submerse my body feels absolutely primordial. To adapt the common Biblical phrase: From water I came and to water I shall return.

My favorite bathing establishment is the Kabuki Spa in San Francisco and I was there just last week. It is one of the must-do things whenever I am in San Francisco. The Kabuki is an old Japanese-style communal baths in the heart of an area in SF called Japantown. Japantown used to be a thriving Japanese-American community until the U.S. government rounded all Japanese Americans and sent them to concentration camps in Colorado and elsewhere in 1942. But some of the community returned and the neighborhood is still called Japantown.

When I first went there, the place had all the tackiness of post-war Tokyo—cold tiles, garish colors, 1950s modern décor; cheap looking like a Japanese monster movie. Then it got bought up by some New-Agey California operation and became a spa, not a bathhouse. All the lights were dimmed and colors softened to mellow earth tones and though it was quiet before, now quiet became meditative silence with meditative music in the background.

The new owners spruced up the place but kept all the main features—the hot pool, the cold pool, the steam room, the sauna, and, best of all, massage. There are alternating men’s and women’s days but clothing is not optional, you go naked once you hang up your clothes in a locker.

I must point out that this is not a sex palace. Sex is prohibited and staff (i.e., monitors), while they refill water pitches, trays of fruit, and towels, are constantly bustling about to make sure nobody is misbehaving. This is not to say that the atmosphere is not erotic. I mean, you can’t put 20 to 40, naked, wet, steamy men (or women on other days) in one room and not have certain interests rise. Once in a while, one man will discreetly touch another but no sex ever happens. It’s kind of refreshing.

But I digress. I have my ritual at the Kabuki. First, I take a Japanese bath. I sit on a low stool and pour buckets of water over my head, soap up and then pour more buckets of water over my head. Then I head for the steam room to warm up and loosen up and breathe hot humid air to clear out my sinuses.

Then the main attraction. After a little break, I step into the hot pool and suddenly every inch of my skin tingles as I slowly slide down into the hot and wet. It’s big enough to stretch out in and even do some bending and stretching. It is the most totally relaxing feeling I have ever had.

Usually when I go to Kabuki, I sign up for a half-hour refresher massage. You can get all sorts of massage and other body treatments lasting forever and costing a fortune if you want. I used to request this one woman masseuse because she had big soft hands that kneaded my flesh like bread dough. The massage usually takes me past the relaxation phase and into the re-invigorating phase with a calm energy returning.

When I walk out of the Kabuki two hours later, I feel not only rested but energized.

This bathing establishment is all about the real pleasure of bathing—washing, soaking, steaming. Getting clean is a pleasure all its own. Getting wet is truly a sensuous gift to your body. Water is an amazing substance. It is plain but powerful in its ability to stir our senses as well as ease our minds. Water, that most pliable of substances, can also be a source of strength and vitality. Try it. I think you need a bath.

© 22 Oct 2012

About the Author 


Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.