The Journey by Jet

 

peregrination - noun - a long, meandering journey. Google

Although I fear that I might have blogged about this subject before, I am going to take a stab at it again since I might have been overly critical initially regarding the topic. And I am also thinking that some of you missed the original essay.

Journeying by jet may be the most expedient, safest means of transportation albeit it is no longer 100% enjoyable like it used to be, let's say, in the early 1960s when topnotch airlines, such as Pan Am and Eastern, dominated the skies. With the onset of People Express in the 1980s, practicality and affordability replaced stylishness and comfort. People Express gave passengers the options of paying for food and taking their carry-ons on board. It also employed men as well as women in the cabin so that the "sexist" label "stewardess" graduated into the P.C. "flight attendant." (There might have been other airlines that did this around the same time as well. I am just relying on my own memory, which may or may not be accurate.) 

It goes without saying that 9-11 made things tough at the airports. Before the terrorists attacks, security was loose and family and friends could accompany travelers to the gates or meet them there armed with affectionate signage as they disembarked their planes. I have to admit that this is the one thing I truly miss: the ease of entering and exiting air terminals with or without family and friends.

But despite the desperately disappointing changes, no one is staying home. On a recent trip to Raleigh-Durham from LAX, I had to change planes in Chicago. On a Wednesday in mid-May, all three airports were packed to the gills with travelers so that the flow of people reminded me of a salmon run in an Alaskan river. The planes themselves were also full so that tensions were high and the F-bomb bombings booming as extra space in the overhead bins was nonexistent. I also noticed that on the 737-8MAX jets, there is no such animal as first class, making me feel like I was on a city bus but with two additional seats per row. Squeezed tightly into our seats, we became unwillingly upfront and personal physically with each other. I actually felt sorry for the passengers with a few extra pounds as there was no room for them.

I know what you are thinking. Where is the part that includes the praise?  Okay, here it is. In the midst of the chaos, there is often calm. Every once in awhile, the stranger sitting intimately close to you is not only talkative, but interesting. On my Southwest return flight from RDU via Phoenix, a kind gentleman of approximately my age sat next to me and proceeded to fascinate me for the full hour and a half trip to Los Angeles. An international fish monger/importer (first I've ever met), he regaled me with pretty personal tales involving his Brazilian ex-wife, talented children, exotic girlfriends, place of birth, familial history, etc. T.M.I.? Maybe. But after going through the motions of driving two-point-five hours that morning, returning the rental car, negotiating stuffed airport terminals and security, hopping on and off and on planes traversing the country, I craved the diversion. And you know we authors love to draw any reality from life and then fictionalize it. Unbeknown to him, Mr. Fish might just become the romantic love interest in a salacious beach novel that I'm hoping to begin as soon as I sell the dramatic tome I just finished writing. Yes, there is always a silver lining in the clouds jets populate daily.

Happy trails and peregrinations to all who travel in the friendly or unfriendly skies more than they would like. 

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #jet travel, #air travel, #social commentary

Elegance on the Inlet

 

elegance - noun - the quality of being graceful or stylish

Although most of you know what "elegance" means, it is not a word that you hear much lately. Unfortunately, in everyday life, "elegance" has taken a backseat to "shabby chic" (another term that could just be outmoded). On the other hand, if you look hard enough, you'll be able to find it among the relics of the past. 

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of experiencing what elegance looked like in the 1930s. For Mother's Day, my daughter treated me to a tour of the Queen Mary, a seafaring vessel much larger than the fabled, ill-fated Titanic and much faster. Originally named Queen Victoria, the suffix ia in keeping with Cunard line's tradition, the ship was renamed after King George V's wife Mary ("Queen Mum"), not quite as grand a monarch as Victoria, but you couldn't sway King G; his queen was nonpareil. As the cruise ship is permanently moored in Long Beach, California, you can book a stateroom for as little as $130 a night, not a bad deal considering the high price of time travel these days. (Of course, I'm joking.) 

Our tour's docent, a retired history teacher, presented us with myriad facts, enough to fill the captain's quarters sans him in it. What I'll always remember pertains mainly to World War II. The vessel had been freshly christened when the U.S. military commandeered it to transport 800,000 soldiers and personnel to the battlegrounds of Europe from New York. (Churchill had quarters on the ship. His bed was terribly small, poor man.) The initial bunch of soldiers that were dispatched numbered over 16,000. Considering the ship was built for only 2,000 passengers, it was a tight squeeze for the men that had to rotate bunks every eight hours. Sheets were rarely changed. I kept thinking the whole time that my dad who had been drafted into the infantry of the U.S. Army in the early 1940s might have been one of the thousands who didn't have an opportunity to experience the original elegance of the ship as it had been stripped down entirely to accommodate all of the brave young and painted gray to camouflage it from German submarines. Even the murals were covered so that the anxious passengers would not be tempted to leave marks of immortality on them. 

At present, the overall tonal effect of the ship's interior is a subdued sepia like a tired photograph, which the wooden paneling and veneers, deep, albeit faded browns of fall, and tarnished golds create. The only bright colors emanate from a few oil murals depicting subject matter leagues from anything having to do with the sea. 

The most memorable room on the Queen Mary, an Art Deco ballroom complete with a stage for the privileged first class few, has been a favorite of Hollywood location scouts looking to recreate the time period. For example, on its teak floor slow-dance Robert Redford and Kim Basinger in "The Natural," a fantastic filmic ode to baseball based on Bernard Malamud's short story. A actor friend of mine, who was an extra in the scene, told me all were transported back to the romance of the time and held breathless for the hours it took to film the scene. I can only imagine how elegant the elegance of those recreated moments were.

After making sure we saw every inch of the ship, my daughter and I disembarked only to sail off in our Uber, glancing over our shoulders to hold the last few glimpses of the radiant black, white and red Queen Mary in all of her royal majesty in our minds. The tasteful elegance of the Queen Mary (1936-1967) will never be surpassed.  

#personal essay, #QueenMary, #elegance, #blog, #blogger

Anomalies: Nothing Is As It Seems To Be

 

anomaly - noun - something that deviates from what is expected.

Life is filled with errant anomalies. Just when you think you have it all down, you don't. The norm is no longer normal. Nothing is what it seems to be, especially not here in La La Land.  For whatever reason, Americans are in love with celebrity. The celebrated are placed on pedestals and worshipped like Greek gods; however, they aren't. Most of them run opposed to expectations. The more biographies and autobiographies of celebrated people I read, the more convinced I am that somehow these very ordinary folks have had to pay a high price for fame. And the more monetarily fortunate people I come into contact with in Hollywood, the more I realize just how true the adage is. 

Case in point, a good friend of mine, a former actor, is a storyteller, an award-winning one. Last week, I attended her one-woman show at what looked like a former gift shop in Laurel Canyon, a former bastion of musical creativity. A fan of truth, V. opened the flood gates and inundated us with honesty. A few short decades ago, her former husband had been a top Hollywood sitcom writer. He had one hit television show after the next. Soon his coffers were overflowing with extra capital, which he invested in race horses, trotters to be exact, not like the thoroughbreds you saw running through the mud for the roses today at Churchill Downs. The man had fifty, all housed at various stables throughout the country. But they weren't winners. Before he knew it, he was in debt almost a million dollars. He couldn't sell the horses, nor did he want to; so without a second thought for his young daughter who idolized him and his wife who pretty much despised him (for his selfishness mainly), he put an end to his Shakespearean tragedy in Greek fashion by taking his own life. All of the aforementioned V. exposed to us in sixty minutes of articulate, oral, literary prose, memorized painstakingly. As it has been said before, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. 

Another case in point occurred just last night as I was volunteering at the BeachLife music festival in Redondo Beach when I offered to assist a forlorn, albeit very well-dressed, woman in her quest for the VIP restrooms. After announcing for no real reason her unfortunate plight (she had lost her mansion in Pacific Palisades to the L.A. fires), she caught my attention and my sympathy so that I became her personal escort and unlicensed therapist for the next ten minutes. Apparently, she had been married and divorced from a very well-known, high-powered Hollywood producer who assuaged her resentment at his departure by buying her and her children the dream house lost in the conflagration. At present, she and her brood are renting an economical ranch-style home in Santa Monica, something she described as being quite the nightmare. (Most would not think so. I'm guessing.) Before leaving her to return to latrine duty, I hugged her, falling into the velvet softness of her black mink jacket that masked the fragility of her soul. She didn't seem to want to let go, poor thing. (In hindsight, I'm thinking she might have been a tad sauced. No matter.) As I pushed through the crowds toward the food court, it occurred to me that money and fame can't buy happiness. In fact, they often buy misery instead. 

The gossip tabloids pen what they want you to hear, and most of the time, the writing reveals the gloss only. Which is why readers formulate opinions that are inaccurate. No life is perfect; no individual is perfect. Celebrities feet touch the ground like those of ordinary people. Because of the complexity of their lives, perhaps they experience more pain. The takeaway here is that happiness is something that emanates from within and cannot be bought. The next time you feel envy for a celebrity whom you don't know at all, remember the theme of this blog: Nothing is as it seems to be. 

#blog, #blogger, #celebrity, #personal essay