Random Thoughts and Potpourri Spring 2015

April is when I generally post my spring potpourri of tidbits I’ve found in various media. This year I’m adding some random thoughts, with which I’m beginning this essay.

The  April 19 New York Times had a piece titled “Reclaiming the Age-Old Art of Getting Lost.” My first thought upon seeing the title was that it would be a treatise on growing old, since getting lost is one of the things most of use get better at as we age. Author Stephanie Rosenbloom’s subtitle was “Ditching modern-day navigation apps in favor of wandering and discovery.”

As it turned out, she wrote an essay for everyone. I put a link to it on my Facebook page. It elicited many comments from friends who’ve been practicing getting lost in foreign lands for years. This made me yearn to travel again as I did in my twenties. Eurail pass, youth hostel card (OK, forget that) and a set of sheets (cancel that, too). Sigh. At least we can still take advantage of the affordable and flexible train pass. A quick look-see turned up four options priced from $67 (1 country) to $338 (28 countries).

Somewhere along the way in following this thought train (not a literal train, and hold that thought, please), I came across a scribbled quote from John Steinbeck in Travels with Charley. “I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found.” I’m saving that as a potential motto for when I reach my eighties. I may need it.

That issue of the Times provided fodder for other random thoughts. An op ed by Ross Douthat (opining about critics of Charlie Hebdo cartoonists) noted that “critics… need to realize that satire isn’t just for ‘suitable’ subjects.” I get his point, but I prefer to keep my satire relatively tame. I have few enough loyal readers as it is. I’m still struggling to get some of them to understand that my columns are, in fact, satirical and not, in satire, factual—not a train meant to be taken literally.

My last tidbit to share from the April 19 Times was about a trend in Afghani weddings. The culture has a tradition of hospitality, which means even wedding crashers must be welcomed and fed. A typical event might have 600 invited guests and 700 other folks popping in for the free banquet. One of them was quoted as saying “With a wedding every night, there is no need to go hungry.” Maybe also no incentive to get married.

A few potpourri items from Time magazine 1/26/15 have to do with numbers. Cadbury reduced the egg count in its Easter-favorite Creme Eggs pack from 6 to 5. Distraught fans were described as "basket cases." A man in Hong Kong tried to smuggle iPhones into mainland China by strapping all 94 of them to his body. No doubt one of his trips to the loo gave new meaning to “butt dialing.” In a major accident in South Dakota, a truck dumped 500 pounds of McDonald’s French fries onto the Interstate. Motorists definitely were not "lovin’ it."

From that same issue of Time, some state of the art technology. The French have developed a belt that loosens automatically after you’ve had too much to eat. Seems like that must be targeting the tourist trade, or made for export. Those skinny frogs can’t possibly have a use for it. I’d rather have one that tightens itself, making me feel full.

Here’s something from Time magazine 4/20/15. Apparently, turning those number cards on The Price Is Right is more challenging than it appears. One of their models revealed a correct price before the contestant had a chance to guess it. Needless to say, when he made his guess, the price was right. The cost to TPIR? $21,960. It was a Hyundai Sonata. The model was heard mumbling afterward, “Why couldn’t it have happened with the damn washing machine?” Why indeed.

Finally, a not completely random observation. The moniker “dames” has been creeping into the news lately. The aforementioned Time of April 20 had an article about fashion that featured older models who are more and more in demand. “Grand dames are redefining beauty with their senior chic,” trumpeted the piece. The same week, Cokie Roberts was stumping for her new book Capital Dames, about the contribution of women in Washington, D.C. during the Civil War.

This leaves me wondering: Is “dames” the new term for “babes” (especially for seniors)? Probably not. After all, two data points do not a trend make. Not even in satire.

Retirement Transitions - An Archaeological Dig

My first weeks of retirement have been spent filing for social security and preparing the house for sale. Both of these projects had me digging through years of accumulated paperwork and belongings, much of it dating back 20 years or more. Several times I went on a quest for one item, only to turn up something else important that I’d given up on. It’s as though I’ve been on an archaeological dig, working my way through layers of past civilizations. Each new level sheds light on my previous lives.

The oldest age I’ve been able to identify in my dig is what I’ll call “The Formative Years.” I uncovered my grade school report cards, the booklets with my PSAT and SAT scores, my band letter and all three graduation tassels. The band letter is like the ones that athletes earned, but in the shape of a lyre. My report cards reminded me that the only C that I ever received was in fourth grade, for singing. It was not an unfair mark, as anyone who has stood near me at a birthday party during the cake ceremony can attest.

Just above that level, I uncovered memories from my “Rebel without a Cause” period. There was my entry for the Mademoiselle guest editor competition for college women. You had to create and produce a new magazine. Mine was titled Cyclefemme and featured motorcycles and helmets designed especially for women. I didn’t get to be an editor, but I did win a free subscription to Mademoiselle for a year.

This overlapped with my “Hippie” period, as documented by a photo of me in my Jesus sandals. They had crisscross laces up to my knees and my parents did not approve. One of my aunts had a fancy 50th anniversary party in New Jersey during my senior year. I dressed properly for the event, but I changed into traveling clothes for the bus ride back to Rhode Island. When I came out of the rest room to say goodbye, I was wearing my Villager suit with tiny flowers and those sandals. My mother about had apoplexy.

My dig also uncovered “The Peripatetic Era,” which occurred mostly in the years right after college. The artifacts from this era included my old passport with all its visas and border crossing stamps. I remember that I had learned to say: “I have nothing to declare” in three languages. I also found my travel journal, documenting the places I went with my Eurail Pass, and how much I spent. I lived on an average of $3.40 a day. (It was the late sixties.)

One of the almost forgotten layers was The Jock Age, as documented by the forms certifying me to sail solo at the Club Meds in Playa Blanca and Turquoise. Also from one of those vacations—a tank top with a word puzzle on the front and the explanation in French on the back. It got me way more action than my band letter.

Just above that layer, I uncovered the hand-crocheted bikini and gauzy sarong from my “Exotic Phase.” You’ll be forgiven if you confuse this with my “Gypsy Experiment.” Both involved a lot of head scarves, flowing skirts and large flowers worn in my waist-length hair. (Pictures available for a fee…)

One thing became clear to me as I excavated through the various levels of my existence: the earlier eras seem more interesting than the recent ones. As I look through the layers I’ve identified, I’m forced to face reality. I wouldn’t have the patience to lace up Jesus sandals today. Although I’m still partial to scarves, especially at my neck, my hair is too short to hold flowers. The closest thing to a string bikini that my body could accommodate would be a unitard crafted from compression bandages. (Pictures NOT available, no matter how much you’re willing to pay…)

On a brighter note, I expect my retirement years to be full of adventure and excitement. My passport is up to date. I’ve mastered the art of traveling light. Eurail Passes are still available. I think it may be time to learn to say “I have nothing to declare” in a few more languages.