I don't know... Should Christmas Maybe be Optional...!!??

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      I don't know...   Should Christmas Maybe be Optional...!!??

Many years ago -- before becoming a curmudgeonly skinflint and a Geezer -- my dear mother asked me to go out and purchase a Christmas tree for her, then repair to her home and erect said holiday shrubbery, complete with stand and appropriate adornments.  (My father would have nothing to do with menial tasks or stoop labor!!)  Being a dutiful son and something of an imbecile, I agreed to the task.

The Infamous Quixotic
Quest:  "Demon Windmill"
of the "Tree Agonies"!...
"Sancho!  My Armor!!" 

After scouting various tree lots containing candidates considered too expensive -- guided by my mother's legendary frugality and explicitly-crafted instructions -- I finally acquired a traditional Blue Spruce that most would have passed by as misshapen, ziggedy-zag angular and somewhat "dented."  I felt the thing deserved either a good home or a decent burial, and thus I effected the purchase.

I lashed it atop my vehicle, ferried it to my mother's home and then -- discovering that the trunk was as large as a full grown pachyderm's leg -- I shaved the lower portion and then created a homemade base upon which it could stand in all of its repulsiveness.  I turned it completely around several times in a vain effort to find it's most pleasing "face" and then began the process of hooking precious heirloom ornaments and collectible gewgaws to its reedy boughs.  I refused to apply the tinsel that mother had saved year after year packed and pressed in old newsprint.  I opted instead for red and green garland, salvaged from needle-less trees discarded curbside in previous years by "extravagantly wasteful and foolish neighbors."  (Dear Ma-Ma' knew how to save a buck, like no one I've ever known!!) 

Now Don't Forget the Elephant
Referred to in Paragraph 3,
Best Beloved!  Uh!...
Why is He Laughing at Us??!!

 

Mother arrived home with a beam of pure delight upon her tired countenance, until she looked down upon the base.  "How is it supposed to get water?" she wisely asked.  

"Wonderful," I said in reply, the word dripping with sarcasm and boiling anger.  "I'm a much bigger idiot that I ever thought possible."     

"It'll be nude in a week," opined Mother...  needlessly adding, "without any water!"  

"I'll fix it," I replied, the phrase drenched in artificial optimism.  I found a bucket, the only vessel that would work.  "I'll have to trim the base," I said.  "I'll conceal the bucket under a shroud or a serape or something.  Just go and relax.  Watch some television. I'll have it right

"Oh Sonny-Boy-Genius, isn't that the
tree you salvaged last year from the
neighbor's curb?...  Oh my!...  Um,
how will the thing get water?"

as rain in a jiffy!"  I found the power saw and began the remedy.  I had no intention, of course, of un-decorating the tree.  No need!  Far too much effort.  (I did have to get on with my own terribly important business, after all!)  The vibration of the power saw caused several ornaments to fall and crash.  At one point, while kneeling and cleaning the carpet of the shattered shards of precious adornments, I accidentally kicked on the saw and watched helplessly as it tore through a portion of fine carpeting before digging a nice hole in the baseboard that had recently been stripped of several coats of hideous paint.

Mother was displeased.  Father suggested I had been sent by a communist cell to bankrupt and possibly assassinate senior members of the family.  It was at that point I began to realize Christmas and I were destined NOT to be jolly good chums over the long haul.  

That episode now just a "pleasant memory," my wife, Sweetheart, and I have been "scripting" an annual holiday battle.  It's become so routine that we are now able to recite our parts without printed copy or cue cards.  

This Guy?  Known throughout the
Land as "Papa Christmas"(?!)

Me:  "I'm embracing my Jewish half this year.  I can no longer stand the orgy of spending that Xmas has become.  I loathe and despise the whole damn business.  Where's my yarmulke?"

Sweetheart:  "You're going to celebrate Christmas and behave yourself.  You have children and grandchildren who love Christmas, and I want them to enjoy the season and our traditions, including Santa Claus, Muppet music, cookie baking, wrapped presents...!"

Me:  "I'm not putting up a tree.  Why can't you use the Sunday Comics to wrap stuff?  I'll have to work endlessly like a pyramid-builder to replace the money we're devouring.  Why can't the children each get a couple of bucks and some fruit for Christmas?!  They like fruit!"  

Sweetheart:  "Just be quiet.  Don't act like such a cheapskate.  You know how much you eventually love this time of year!  And the kids love it...  that's the important thing.  Where are the credit cards?"

And so it continues, year after year, season after season.  I'm thinking maybe we could ignore Christmas, maybe just every other year or something, like it really isn't on the calendar this time!  "They probly just forgot!!"  I'm not really the cheap piker some people think I am.  It's just that it makes me nervous.  Maybe we're overindulging the children.  What ever happened to nice cheap underwear and socks?  A dandy handkerchief?  A bow-tie that lights when you squeeze a rubber plunger in your pocket!!??

Today it's enormous buildings and space vessels made of little plastic bricks...  thousands of them!  Dolls that walk and drool and excrete and speak in complex sentences with a vocabulary as large as mine.  (And for a supercilious humbug I know lots of words!)

I got one of these back in '53 from
my dear old Grandmama...  Can't
see why anyone wouldn't want one!!
Happy Christmas, Everyone!!!

Well, alright, alright...   to keep peace in the family and on earth in general I'll succumb to the Xmas spirit.  I'll open my wallet and become as a sprinkling system showering coinage and currency and credit like water, feeding and nourishing the Macy's and the Gimbel Brothers and the Marshall Fields and the Goldmanns of Mitchell Street and hosts of other needy retailers desperate for cash and pleading righteously, of course, for their massive share of the nation's wealth. 

But next year, my dears, a new paradigm may present itself like a blazing star newly landed atop an Xmas conifer, and everyone gets a recycled rag doll or an old plastic toy truck and a small bag of salted peanuts...   Maybe a kumquat!

And just wait'll next year!  The rabbi will appear on my front porch with Hanukkah candles, matzo or other seasonal gifts, and then and we'll just see who's celebrating what!!...

...but, Hmmm...   maybe I've just been too far down a certain road...  Sleigh bells, drunken-red-

nosed Rangifer Tarandus, shrieking children peeking up the chimney looking for a corpulent, sooty, red-suited, unshaven, Ho-Ho-Ho'ing, bankrupting lunatic carrying a sack full of stuff and we all know who actually paid for it!  Ah, the joys of the Season!  I love it so!  (Or am I thinking of someone else??!)  I can hardly wait!  I'm fond of eggnog, even.  And there's a certain tentative cheerfulness that pervades the human psyche...  "Sweetheart!  Where did we put my Santa suit??!!"    

Humbly Submitted, 12-07-15 -- Joel K.    

      

    

       

    

            

The Complex, Funny and Often Puzzling Legend of Badge No. 1130!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:     The Complex, Funny and Often Puzzling Legend of Badge No. 1130!

No one, I believe, really cares to be identified solely by one aspect of his or her life or specific traits...  occupation, education, physical characteristic, disability, perennial geezer...  to cite a few examples.  (I often wonder if "Gabby" Hayes was born a geezer?!)  My brother-in-law was a cop, a respected and accomplished City of Milwaukee career police officer, but there was so much more to his personality, his life, "legend" and all that made him his "composite self."

Booby and Patty in
happy times.  They
loved a good party!

Booby -- Career Police Officer!  He
was also a Security Guard at a
Women's Dress Shop, a Pizza
Delivery Driver, etc...
(the latter two+ post cop career!)

Our children called him "Uncle Boobers" (the "double-o" pronounced as the "o" in "could"!).  He was christened Robert.  We variously called him Booby (same "o" sound as in "would"!), Boo Boo, Bo Bo, Bobby...  Bob is such a versatile name, but he knew the variations we favored, from time to time, were all delivered with genuine affection.

Bob was gifted with an exceptional sense of humor.  He was truly funny, demonstrating both verbal and physical comedy with equal deftness, and he told wonderful stories, particularly about his experiences as a cop, wearing Badge No. 1130.  Bob was fondest of his time working a police ambulance, with various partners, over the 25-plus-year-span of his career.  Great story about the "slippery corpse."  He and partner, "Wegie," (hard "g" sound!) were conveying a dead man via gurney on a wet, wintry evening.  They hit a bump in the sidewalk and the "stiff" (Booby's word) slid off the gurney, onto a snowy patch of boulevard and into the gutter.  The partners quickly plucked the corpse in its body bag out of the gutter and re-placed it with as much dignity as they could manage back onto the gurney.  (There was also a persistent rumor about another corpse and a long flight of icy concrete steps!  Never really confirmed or denied!  Interesting to visualize, however...)

"How many neighbors witnessed that bit of grisly theatre?" I asked, amid bursts of laughter.

"We didn't stop to count," said Bob, "but both of us noticed light coming from windows where curtains were held open.  We took the poor stiff to the morgue.  Left in a hurry, glad we didn't have to explain to our (shift) captain the dampness and dead leaves stuck to the body bag."

Booby was a drinker.  He drank a lot.  And we're not talking about green tea and fruit juice here.  Many of his stories centered on or involved strong drink.  Toward the end of a particular night shift, he relates, "We stop at Abie's Junk Yard for a visit, and drinks.  It was cold.  We sat in Abie's tiny warm-up hut, all of our knees touching, it was that small.  Abie gave us vodka and

One of Bob's Prized
Possessions...  It
Announced to Would-
Be Miscreants:  "Keep
Away from the
Cookie Jar!"

some sort of orange drink.  I don't know...  could'a been Tang.  I ask, 'So Abie, what's new?' 'Nuttin,' he says.  'It's all junk!' Abie's a wizened old coot, doesn't talk much, but he's always good for a morning pop."

Bob's police career wasn't all "stiffs" and early-morning boozing in junk yard shacks.  It had its serious moments.  On one occasion -- attempting to wrest a "weapon" from a frightened woman --  he was stabbed in the finger with a kitchen paring knife...  a domestic violence incident.  "It was a little embarrassing," he told us.  "I was yelling 'ow-wee, ow-wee' hopping around holding my bleeding finger.  Had a good outcome, though.  I was able to break up the fight, and return the home to a calm, grumbling chaos.  Didn't arrest anyone.  The stabbing was really an accident.  Mrs. apologized nicely.  She even gave me a bandaid.  At home, I told Pat (his wife), 'Honey, I was wounded on the job' as I held up my bandaged finger."

"Hey Booby, while on police duty, did you ever have to 'give chase'?" I once asked him. 

"Oh, yeah.  We were after a runaway speeder and had to drive over a rutted embankment.  The squad thudded and bumped.  My head hit the roof.  It hurt like hell.  I had to wear a neck brace for a few weeks."  It wasn't that episode, however, that caused Bob permanent injury to the vertebrae in his neck, ultimately necessitating surgery.  "We get a call from a pasta-pizza joint.  Big family fight...  more like a small riot.  Just as we came in, I get hit in the head with a plate of spaghetti!  Wrenched my neck backward..."

On ambulance conveyance duty again with "Wegie," one memorable night, "We're called to a home near downtown.  We knock.  A man's voice -- obviously in distress -- yells, "Come in, it's unlocked...  Hurry!  I'm in the bedroom!..."  

"We go in and there's this guy with a coat hanger sticking out of his butt.  He tells us he was with a prostitute and did or said something that really pissed her off.  He says the woman suggests, 'Hey, want me to do something that'll really turn you on?  Next thing I know,' the guy says, 'I get the coat hanger treatment!'  We load the guy onto a stretcher.  He's moaning like hell, obviously in great pain.  We cover him up, I mean he's buck naked, of course, and the coat hanger makes a tent of the blanket.  After he's loaded into the ambulance, door shut, Wegie looks at me and says, 'I guess it's the old coat hanger up the ass trick.'  We stifle our laughter, turn on the siren and race off to Emergency."              

At one of his routine training visits to the Milwaukee Police Academy, Booby tells us, he put lighted cigarettes in the mouth of a moose head on the wall of a meeting room.  "I stand in front of the moose like a drill sergeant...  'At ease, Bullwinkle, Smoke 'em if you got 'em.' "

My wife, Sweetheart, and I formed a great friendship with Booby and his wife, Pat.  Sadly, she died in the mid-1980's, caner of the pancreas.  In mid-summer of the earlier 80'sBob and Pat went on a rare out-of-town vacation, attending a bowling event in Las Vegas.  He asked us to look after his police-issue revolver, and to place the bullets in a different location for safety sake.  Upon Bob and Pat's return, I put the bullets in my pocket so as to be sure to return them to Booby.  I went through a Milwaukee airport metal detector several times, practically denuding myself in an effort to find the source of the beeping!  Finally, I remembered the bullets, and placed them in a tray.  I was sure a sheriff's deputy was set to take me away in chains, but Booby appeared and explained things.  Afterward Booby said to us, "What did that sheriff worry you'd do, put the bullets in your mouth and smack the 
back of your head?!"  

Sweetheart and I, along with other family members and friends, cared for Pat during her hospice period, the most intense portion being the last two weeks of her life.  It was a remarkable experience.  We gave Pat her pain med injections, sat with her, held her hand and spoke quietly of kinder and happier times.   Following Pat's death at just 42 years of age, Bobby took a serious tumble in terms of attitude, along with a dangerous escalation in "self medication."  His drinking became more a pathology than a mere diversion.  His most serious relationship with a woman, initiated more than a year after Pat's death, was steeped in alcohol, the new partner as addicted to strong drink as he was.  She, too, died young.  

Bob with daughter Susie, son Joey
and our daughter, Alie, on Susie's
lap.  1977 summer vacation time
at the Hearn cottage, L. Michigan.
Booby captured a moth, threw it into
the toilet...  It kept escaping.  He
let it live, throwing it out the door,
as another flitted in.  Big fun at
four in the morning with beer and
cribbage and annoying insects!  

In the passage of time, Bob's drinking increased, and his health worsened.  He gained weight and his head took on that "pumpkin-like" shape and size (my daughter's descriptive image) and ruddy coloring of a heavy drinker in decline.  His daughter, son, my wife and I participated in an intervention.  It didn't take!  What did take was a glacial cooling, worse, a freezing of our relationship.  It lasted more than a year, with almost no communication between or among us.  In time a melting began to occur, and Sweetheart and I could once again visit Booby in his Pewaukee home, and take him out for lunch and drinks at one of his favorite haunts.

Lunch for him consisted of scant food consumption -- most of the comestibles taken home in styrofoam cartons -- and usually at least three large tubs of vodka with a splash of something.  Fearing a recurrence of the "ice age" -- and knowing it would be a safer alternative to his drinking and driving -- we agreed to his wishes to take him to the tobacco depot for cartons of "low-tar" smokes, followed by a stop at the super market for two half gallons of vodka.  Then we'd drive him home, make sure he was settled and then do the small chores he seemingly couldn't manage on his own -- change a light bulb or two, put away his Pea Pod delivery, take out the trash...

2012...  Bob at Age 70!

There's little doubt he had a kind of death wish, one that intensified as more and more time passed following Pat's death, deepening gloom and self-pity his constant companions.  We often tried, and with some, albeit, modest success, to resurrect a spark of joy and laughter during our outings together.  The catalyst, most often, was one or more of his "cop stories."  We'd pry them out of him whenever we could do so, and sometimes that old sense of silly humor emerged in the telling.  

In the end, hospital bed-ridden and pronounced "terminal" by the MD's...  "He's not going home this time," said one of his doctors...  he ate some sweet rolls, delighted to do so thanks to our daughter who brought them for her Uncle Boobers.  No sense, then, worrying about his diabetes or hemochromatosis or any other of his chronic ailments.  He died shortly thereafter, having achieved just 70 years and seven months of life.  Too young, far too soon.

Sweetheart's brother, Jimmy, was at Booby's death bed.  "Well, you wanted to kill yourself; now you got your wish," said Jimmy.  Blissfully loaded with pain meds, Booby merely chuckled, most likely certain he was on his way, at last, to reunite with Pat, his high school sweetheart, the love of his life. 

Booby's funeral was an exceptional send-off, as funeral services go, a terrific reunion of old friends and family members, some like Dennis and Carol (long-time friends, he a fellow cop), arriving from far distant locations.  Afterward, we were gathered at the cemetery, waiting for everyone to arrive.  Jimmy stared for a time at the casket inside the hearse.  "Alright, Bobby," he said, "quit fooling around.  This isn't funny anymore.  Get up and get out of there."  We all had a good laugh.  Booby would have enjoyed it.

We may have closed Wolski's...  (None of us
remembers for sure...)  We certainly closed
Zaffiro's...  Had several snorts at the
Roman Coin, et al, et al, etc...!  

In my geezerhood, where I'm often lost in reflection, there's sadness, regret, laughter and memory.  Selective memory being what it is, I choose the happy and funny times, the crazy alcohol-buzzed sessions with Booby at the Koo Koo Club, the Rick Inn, Petroff's and so many more gin houses and kitchen tables.  On a particular Bloody Mary morning, seated in Bob and Pat's kitchen, a police sergeant rang the bell, arriving in person to check that Booby was really as sick as he claimed when he called in unable to report.  Booby went to the door wearing five pairs of sunglasses.  He probably took them off before answering the door...   Didn't he??!! 

Humbly Submitted 11-15-15 -- Joel K.      

(Special Note:    The perpetrator pays homage to law enforcement professionals, those generally honorable and intrepid guardians of our communities and public safety.  His own father was an FBI agent of considerable accomplishment and valor.  The perpetrator is privileged to have known and to count among his friends -- largely through Brother-in-Law Bob -- a number of Milwaukee police officers.  Be safe out there!  And, Thank You all!)    

         

      

             

    

  

                    

Parlez-Vous Footlockaire?... Hable en Escargot?... Come Again??!!...

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Parlez-Vous Footlockaire?...   Hable en Escargot?...   Come Again??!!...

Ambling along the shores of Playa La Ropa, gentle waves tumbled onto bare feet.  A blazing sun dropped shards of heat on my beaded forehead as we moved slowly toward a garden of palapas and their beckoning shade!  Soon our fists were wrapped around cool, revitalizing drinks, the scent of fresh lime

Sand and palapas from Playa La
Ropa in Zihuatanejo, Mexico...
where brilliant linguists have
been known to congregate!

wafting up in a tiny effervescent storm.

"De donde eres?  Y donde vive?" she asked.   She was one of two young women we met under the palapas.  She spoke in rapid Mexican-Spanish; I had trouble receiving the question and plugging it into my mental "Spanish to English" dictionary.  

"Miercoles," I answered with little hesitation.  The two young women laughed merrily.  "You told me, "Wed-nes-day," she said, pronouncing each syllable.  I babbled and blushed and then asked her to repeat the question, "mas despacio, por favor."  We all laughed.  "I'm not from, nor do I live in "Wednesday," I admitted. We exchanged names.  "Yo quiero aprender mas espanol," I said.  "Tratamos de hablar solo en espanol cuando estamos aqui, en Mexico!" (We want to learn more Spanish.  We try to speak only in Spanish when we're here in Mexico!)  Sweetheart -- she's my wife! -- understands spoken Spanish far better than I, but I've been able to speak the language with greater ease.  We're a good team.

Our new-found friends said with ardent enthusiasm, "And we want to learn more English!!  We teach one another!  Yes!  Podemos ensenar cada otro...  maestros!"  And so we did.  We spent a delightful afternoon teaching and learning from one another!

In my geezerhood, I like to think I've picked up, over time, a fair amount of words and phrases in other languages, through travel...  (maybe I'm delusional!)              

See...  here's the thing.  Travel is a marvelous gift, a privilege and a remarkable teacher.  Whenever we travel to other countries, we find the overall experience much richer, far more fulfilling and gratifying when we make an effort to learn and use the host country's language.  In the process, however, we do tend to generate humor, and laughter too, among "el gente" (the people) with whom we converse, or try to converse. 

I love languages; I enjoy trying to learn them, even if just a few basic words and phrases.  But our best efforts don't always serve us as well as we'd like.  Sweetheart and I honeymooned in Greece.  It was a few years ago (well, actually, many years is closer to the truth!).  I tend to suffer from heartburn (now

more than in my callow youth!).  They have what we call "sidewalk emporiums" in Athens, stocked with all manner of sundries, the one at which we stopped staffed by an attractive young woman.  I figured they must have something for stomach complaints.  I looked carefully through my Handy Book of Greek Words & Phrases.  I could find no word for "heartburn," nor "antacid."  Finally, with my stomach on fire from lemon rice soup, peppers, dolmades and other Greek delicacies, I found what I thought were appropriate words to describe my malady, placed my hand over my heart and said in my finest baritone,  Πυρκαγιά καρδιών.  

Sweetheart looked concerned.  "What did you say to her?"  I told her what I said!  "Heart fire!" she exclaimed incredulously.  You said 'heart fire'?!  Are you nuts?  Did you see the look on her face...  shock, fear?  She probably thinks you're some kind of lunatic masher.  Let's get out of here before the police arrive."  

"But I looked it up!  Don't you think she understood what I wanted?  Can't be that big a stretch from 'heartburn' to 'heart fire'...  can it?"

"C'mon," she said, insistently, muttering "heart fire!" and "silly lunatic!" as we walked briskly to avoid the apparent arrival of Greek "masher police."  The next evening, while on an "Athens By Night" tour, we told the story to several companions, with several different translations circulating, given the international flavor of the gathering.  Laughter ignited, in their turns, like spontaneous bonfires among the various ethnic groups.  Eventually someone came up to me and said, "hier bitte."  I looked at my open palm and found three antacid tablets, donated by a sympathetic and, no doubt, kindred soul, a fellow sufferer from...  who knows?  maybe Germany, Holland, Austria...?

 

I've acquired a bit of Russian, too.  My grandparents came from Russia.  I have a few useful and even some off-color words and phrases.  On one occasion in my distant past, having had too much vodka, we were in a Serbian restaurant (where many of the patrons spoke Russian!).  From my limited arsenal, I rattled off a string of short sentences to a nice Russian fellow.  A number of my more familiar phrases.  Accidentally, but stupidly, I inserted a filthy suggestion.  The man hurled a plate of baba ganoush at my head.  I ducked, cleaned up the shattered mess and then issued profuse apologies.  I bought the man a couple of drinks.  We became jolly good chums...  in Russian:  друзьями!

The Bridge Leading into Lalinde!

Not that  many years ago, firmly established in what I'd term my "early geezerhood," sort of the "teen geezer" years, my wife and I were in France.  The airline had lost our luggage, forcing us to spend the better part of a day shopping for basic necessities in Paris department stores.  We had to find and purchase underwear, for example, of an all-cotton variety, navigating entirely in French.  At one point, seeking another type of garment, I asked a sales woman, "Avez-vous un costume pour le plage?"  She looked at me a long moment, and then said in beautifully accented English, "You know, you needn't say 'beach costume.'  We do have a word for 'bathing suit.' "  I smiled sweetly, babbled several "merci's" and followed her to a rack of bathing costumes...  er, that is, swim suits.

We were treated beautifully by the French.  

In Lalinde, for example, I asked a woman where I might find a pizza restaurant, wanting cuisine to please our grandson.  The woman actually came out of her book shop and guided me for two or three blocks to the town's finest pizza establishment, all because I asked her in her own language!  Sweetheart drew a warm hug and

A Street Scene in Tremolat!

exclamations of praise and joy from an older woman in Tremolat (on the Dordogne, the "Smile of France"), because she, my wife, had asked the woman, in French, where the town library was located!  Wonderful moments!  Magical!  

We visited Estonia where our daughter was serving in the Peace Corps.  She mastered and continues to speak it fluently when corresponding with Estonian friends.  There, too, we were treated with great

Beautiful Tallinn in Summer!  (We were there in February!)

kindness and deference whenever we made the effort to speak the language.  Always the same!  Delightful times, magical experiences... when the host country language became a key player in the plot!

In part I credit my early education.  Jesuit Father Rudolph bellowed superbly in Latin.  I endured four years of it in high school.  Russian in the military, and in my college years as well.  Today, my love of languages continues.  I try to learn new words and phrases -- Spanish, French, Turkish (I spent wonderful times in Turkey during my military years!), Italian, Hebrew, Polish, Chinese...

Uvas!  Muy Deliciosos!

Not quite sure why, but I find it fun to use ridiculous phrases and complete sentences taken out of context.  I've had satisfying reactions from native speakers when I've announced in my finest Russian, "Sir, I don't want to go to the barber shop."  In Mexico, when it rains I like to say to anyone within hearing range, "Es buena para las uvas."  (It's good for the grapes!...  especially amusing where they grow no grapes!)     

Language as "ice breaker..."  It knocks down barriers, allows the traveller to make friends of host country strangers, often rather quickly, acquiring invitations to visit schools, homes, too, even meet entire families, a welcome byproduct.

Next stop?  Hmmm...  maybe the Amalfi Coast (if only in my fantasies), described as a treasure among the world's finest culinary landscapes.  Pasta, fresh fish, anchovy pesto, pasticciotti, delizia al limone...!!  Wonder if there's a Pocket Guide to Spoken Italian on my bookshelf?!  HONEY!!!... 

Humbly Submitted 10-16-15 -- Joel K.