Indulge me. Three weeks ago I returned wounded. Coincidentally the precise duration our
Kos Operations Manual specifies for sharing this form of cleansing “auto-intervention.” Luckily, it no longer hurts when I laugh; although it may again when and if you do disparagingly.
The most interesting qualifier there would be the gerund “snorkeling.” We’ll get to that later, I promise. First I’d like you to consider the preceding adjective “another.”
To be technically accurate, it wasn’t another rib. It was the same rib (right posterior #10) that I had broken much more severely two years ago, in tandem with the immediately adjacent #11. Unbeknownst to me it was, as they say in Sochi, a pairs competition. If you choose to read on -- and in the unforgettable words-to-live-by of Dayton Allen, most remembered as one of Steve Allen’s hilariously quirky men on the street, “Whyyyyyyy NOT?” – you may detect a certain pattern.
And now for something completely, OK relatively, different.
Given the title of this diary, I hope you won’t mind that I have a small bone to pick with Daily Kos. Does being a liberal diarist entitle one to employ the word “diary” itself so liberally? I know I have, right here, in fact.
Most of what we hop onto this blog for aren’t really “diaries.” Journals, yes. Editorials, opinion pieces, yes. Commentaries? Reviews? News? Philosophies? Instructional, informational, educational? Reactions, rants, musings? Expressions of support or opposition? Crusades? Calls to action? Soul searching? Art? Entertainment? Making a connection? Feelings? Self-affirmation? Getting your motor running? Blowing a good part of the day? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
But diaries? From the Latin, a daily allowance , descriptive chronicles of specific personal experiences and events over a day or series of days -- and of how you feel about them? Not so much. So I hope you might find the attempted humor in these true personal accounts over the next 4 days to be sufficiently, uh, “diaritic.” In other words, enough of a a real pisser that I shouldn’t have just tried to hold it all in.
From the title you already know it was a cracked rib, which sounds too much like an entree to connote at least the potential level of discomfort. However here's where "another" develops its almost existential connotation.
I have a friend John Dewey, who insists I am nothing less than the Tim Whatley of self-inflicted personal injury. If that name rings a bell, but not quite loud enough for actual identification, Dr. Tim Whatley was the Seinfeld dentist who converted to Judaism – just for the jokes. This Dewey fellow insists I must subconsciously inflict these unusual mishaps upon my person – if only for the story lines.
Most story lines follow what they call an arc. My arc characteristically begins someplace like the top of a stairwell, and concludes in a sordid heap at the bottom, with all the twists and turns of your traditional gothic novel. However, to pick an unbroken bone with my friend, I also actually have been known to be so risk-averse, that, if I were ever to participate in anything approaching the category of
rough sex, my safe word would be “ouch.” Furthermore, it’s not necessarily just the story line per se, but, as you will see, frequently the backstory to the climactic event, or even the epilogue that provides the ultimate satisfaction, at least for me, the teller. You’re on your own.
While some might describe an individual with my particular health history as accident prone, I prefer the broader term accident accessible. After all, if you accept the Dewey/Whatley paradigm, there have been many situations where I could have very easily also injured myself under creative circumstances, but apparently elected not to. If you choose to continue, you can be the judge.
As I had requested in making our Key West reservation, Laura, our grown daughter Haley, and I were lodged in a very nice standard room on the third and top floor of Albury Court – one of those charming Key West boutique hostelries consisting of either a single or several, conjoined, historically preserved 18th and 19th century residences. Frequently, the original occupants had been sea captains, whose road to riches had been of a unique nature, paved with the misadventures of less fortunate peers – salvaging the content of, yes hundreds, of ships wrecked in the shallow waters off the South Florida reefs, and therefore providing extremely convenient access.
You might see some of their descendants on “Antiques Roadshow.” However in terms of the amount and source of this almost instant wealth generated, their nearest equivalents today would probably be subprime mortgage lenders. At one point, per capita, Key West had been the richest city in the United States, and that wasn’t achieved through the exportation Key limes – which, from all appearances, may just be garden variety limes in a state of arrested development.
With 4,000 designated historic homes and sites, the island’s Old Town boasts the largest collection of wood framed buildings in the National Register of Historic Places. This is probably more than you bargained on learning here, but at least if any of this comes up as a question on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” you will be spared the embarrassment of having to call a friend.
Historic preservation requirements sometimes lend plenty of age evidence and a certain simplicity to the exteriors of some of these homes and hostelries -- as, in our case, a coat of fresh white paint, clearly supported by many, many previous, equally formerly fresh layers. Yet on the inside, rooms were immaculately revitalized, updated, and maintained, obfuscating that occasional B&B feeling that, over a span of some 150 years, at least one or more of the original family members must almost certainly have died in that very room, perhaps even in the very bed, you had booked?
Unexpectedly configured so the two queen beds occupied spaces with the feeling of two completely separate rooms, this reasonably priced hotel allowed me to work a little later into the night, without disturbing the others asleep. In addition to a bath and enormous glass-walled shower that could accommodate a cub scout troop, there was also a fireplace, a private rooftop porch overlooking pool and courtyard, a kitchenette with microwave, sink, trendy glass-doored, undercounter refrigerator, and a coffeemaker, with, for a welcome change, enough coffee packets so you don’t get stuck with nothing but decafe until housekeeping arrives the following morning. (Well, I told them I might find myself up late.)
Sufficiently caffeinated.
Even not under those circumstances, I would have been constitutionally unable to make it to the continental breakfast downstairs without my morning cup of Joe. Paradoxically, in the evening, I find a spot of Irish coffee to be of salutary influence on sleep patterns — conceivably because, by definition, the beverage always nourishes with your four basic food groups: caffeine, sugar, alcohol and fat.
Now I’m thinking, is Ireland really KNOWN for its coffee? What kind of beverage goes best with potato famine? Wait, are Brussels and Vienna really known for their “chocolate” orchards? Does something that grows on a bunch of bushes really count as an “orchard?” Now I’m thinking of those Vienna kaffee hauses during its belle epoch of geniuses and artists – and, if I’m not mistaken, also a young and promising Adolf Hitler. But you’ve got to take it “mit schlag” and a walnut torte.
Slightly off the beaten track, our location was ideally still within walking distance to the more popular destinations, including the excitement, hoopla and hucksterism of the fashionably unfashionable Duval Street entertainment district. Yet we are spared the unwanted noise and commotion of Duval’s concentration of some 150 bars within a 10 or 12-block area, facilitating the atmosphere of Bourbon St. during Mardi Gras– although quite possibly with a larger permanent contingent of hairdressers, decorators, choreographers and florists – not that there is anything wrong with that.
Another contribution to our peace and privacy was the additional absence of unwanted hotel hallway noise and commotion – or, as it is otherwise known, raucous extended families with teens and preteens, or worse, Spring Break. All the rooms in these buildings were accessed only from their porches outside, two to a porch, over a rustic, yet ample set of exterior wooden stairways and landings. Within about two blocks in different directions, the slightly neighborhoodish location also offered a small market, liquor store, and bakery to wrest fuller value from a room with a fridge.
This practice of stocking up on consumables has been a hotel holdover from a past life amongst rotating business travel associates. A five minute supermarket detour on the way can help avoid that minibar extortion shock, often viewed as the #3 hotel guest crippler, behind legionnaires disease and an in-room movie rental accidentally showing up by title on your bill.
The others would snag a six pack, maybe a soda, donuts or peanut butter crackers. My shtick consisted of joining the gang at the checkout register, with some of the usual, plus a full shopping cart, of other sundries and notions, like a 16 lb. frozen Butterball Turkey, a box of light bulbs, six pack of paper towels, a cabbage or two, a container of car wax, a sack of dog food, and one of those plastic pantyhose eggs. Yes they had to go back, but some good times. The kitchenette setup and free breakfast more logicaly expanded the concept..
Key West chickens crossing the road.
So, like the hundreds of Key West roosters, which, in these post-cockfighting years, are, by law, famously granted unrestricted freedom of movement anywhere on the island, I am up and out at the crack of dawn, while the two others slept in. Incidentally, is it just me, or has this “free range” concept gotten a little out of hand down there?
The breakfast in the peaceful courtyard was delightfully tasteful and un-gimmicky. I don’t know about you, but whenever I’ve found myself in one of those chain hotels where the spécialité de la maison is a huge contraption with which to “make your own breakfast waffles,” my first thought is usually, “Why stop there? How about growing your own wheat?”
Slowly coming to what others might describe as normal consciousness, I Ieisurely partook of the most important meal of the day (unless one of the others happens to be a date or for business), and for entertainment, attempted to ascertain the specific nationalities of a considerable percentage of European travelers quietly planning their day at the other small tables.
Being in the Sunshine State also had its advantages. Counterintuitively, I have found locally grown fresh fruit and vegetables are not easily available on some subtropical islands. The real estate is simply too precious to waste on cash crops -- with the possible exception of Pacific destinations like Hawaii; where an inordinate amount of arable land seems still devoted to the cultivation of taro root for the production of tapioca and poi. The latter being a sort of porridge which, to anyone’s knowledge, has never earned the accolade “refreshing.” Legend has it the only structures known to have survived the catastrophic 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami completely intact were constructed with poi-based, adhesive blocks.
With the distaff vegan members of our party unlikely to make the 10 a.m. breakfast curfew, I thoughtfully scored an assortment of fresh bagels and croissants, fruit, juice cups, tea-bags, and small cereal boxes “to go” for them.
As a matter of personal dignity, I have always for some reason considered it important to conduct such activity in a determined yet selective, and above all uncircumspect, manner. Thereby, one would be making it absolutely clear to any potentially judgmental onlooker that this is something of an assignment, and not just your mother’s cousin Helen popping dinner rolls into her purse at the wedding.
As though the payload were not ungainly enough to balance up several flights, for some reason I found it necessary to also juggle a series of rationalizations. The additional victuals had already been paid for in my roomies’ portion od the hotel bill; this was not a smuggling operation to some unregistered deadbeat out in the alley. It was no act of personal gluttony and, in fact, likely equivalent to what my roomies would have consumed had they made it down in the flesh. If any morsels happened to remain leftover for a small afternoon or evening snack, well, that was still sort of a grey area, possibly based on the mean consumption volume of not just our particular sample, but of the typical guest.
While the question has now doubtlessly popped into your mind as to what kind of person goes through this much introspection just on something like breakfast, let me explain that, in my own particular case, karma doesn’t always harbor this same ambivalence.
Let us also pause here to introduce what may be a somewhat arcane medical term to many, “proprioception.” This is the unconscious perception of movement and spacial orientation arising from stimuli of nerves and systems within one’s own body itself. When in working order, without looking or thinking, a person can usually be fairly confident he has, lifted his left or right foot just high enough to sufficiently clear, oh say, the next rung of a ladder or staircase, without the embarrassment of overreaching, like a Coldstream Guard or one of the players in that “Niagara Falls” vaudeville act.
Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch....Three Stooges, 1944.
If, for example, one were to be sufficiently proprioceptionally challenged, the toe of one’s running shoe might conceivably come up short, stubbing the stair riser or nosing, instead of landing on the intended tread. This would inevitably result in a potentially injurious stumble and fall,
such as the one that did, in fact, next occur in my own situation, which has by now become fairly familiar.
Teams of scientist have as yet failed to arrive at a consensus as to whether, at this age, I have developed a minor deficiency in the proprioception department or just don’t pay a lot of attention to anything I’m doing. Did I mention another contributory element could have been that, just to keep things interesting, I may have been, simultaneously, mentally lining up the fruit in a whimsical slot machine formation? This was as a visual assist in the process of working out some clever reference to our proximity to the Bahamas, when the door was opened for my hands full entrance. “Hey, look what I just won at the slots!”
This, in turn, may have triggered my internal “fact checker,” located somewhere in the vicinity of the Amygdala, introducing consideration as to whether bananas were even part of spinning slot machine produce imagery in the first place. Don’t hold me to this; I was not the neurologist in our party, but I do not believe any member of the family has ever been particularly exceptional at multi-tasking?
The thud with which the “groceries” and I hit the wooden deck was enough to cause an occupant in the room I happened to be passing to rush out in alarm with an offer of triage. Having apparently experienced only minor abrasions of the forehead and elbow, and with the rush of adrenaline and embarrassment masking any pain that might have been associated, I scoop up everything and proceed onward and upward, while assuring the still concerned gentleman, “I’m O.K. , stuff happens.” Excelsior.
However, there would then be the need to fend off inevitable patronizing questions within our own party, related to the slight amount of bleeding front and center. This was avoided with a timely cold compress from the ice machine and attributing the forehead abrasion to an earlier encounter with the nook in which our luggage had been stored -- of course, an entire fabrication. Under such circumstances, I have learned a first grade teacher for several decades needs no additional training to address her spouse as if he were a five year-old.
(By the way, not exactly on topic, but can someone please let me know if, in fact, on air presenters are required by the Federal Communications Commission to somehow work the word “toddler” at least once into every single half hour newscast? I truly cannot remember ever hearing the designation in any other context.)
THE FULL SERIES (all same title)
Part 1 (the hotel breakfast tumble/proprioception part) Fri. 2/28
Part 2 (the snorkel part) Sat. 3/1
Part 3 (sofa relocation/Arthur Loew/Oscar Levant part) Sun. 3/2
Part 4 (floss toss, district court, KW travel) Mon. 3/3