Tag: travel

January 16, 2026

~ 690saintpaul ~ Leave a comment

There was a plan. It worked; a decent sort of ‘end of the day’ dismissal plan for all the students in a sprawling urban school.

Students riding the bus, exited separately from those who walked home or were picked up by family members. The walkers went to the gymnasium where they sat patiently in a line on the floor with their teachers hovering nearby. The man responsible daily for opening the big metal school doors, turning on the microphone and conversing with parents, arrived by 2pm and got the whole process started.

There was a plan.

That was last year.

This year, an administrator decided things should change.

‘Some people were not doing their jobs’, was the rather ominous and vague explanation as to the necessary adjustment thrust upon staff and students.

No one was happy. The new dismissal plan launched.

Instead of lining up in the gymnasium, entire clusters of walkers and disgruntled staff tromped outside to wait in bunches, sandwiched haphazardly between the greenhouse and garden, the large parking lot and an even larger playground area, half of which belonged to the school district with the other half belonging to the city.

Hastily printed cardboard signs pointed to where classes should congregate and hold in place. Some children wandered off in the direction of the park. Others ran off to meet confused parents and caregivers who upon seeing that the children were outside, sat in the parking lot and honked their horns. A few students wandered into the greenhouse and had to be rescued. A couple miscreants threw dirt at each other from the garden. The autumn wind whipped the cardboard signs mercilessly so that it was hard to tell where one’s grade was standing.

It rained.

Then came the winter winds and the bitter windchill and after a few days of frozen misery, and more dirt throwing, the unwieldy circus moved back into the sanctuary of the gymnasium.

Blessedly and just in time, the Christmas holidays arrived.

In January, the heavy hand of change lifted a creative finger once again.

Paper rosters with student names were deemed no longer valid. A quickly generated google chart, supposedly accessible on everyone’s phone fanned out into cyber space with not all teachers managing to successfully locate the appropriate application. Some miniscule boxes were checked. Some lists were abandoned and paper rosters were temporarily reinstated.

The microphone did not work.

On Monday, it was determined that the doors where the man with the non-working microphone waited, were no longer valid. They were closed and locked.

We dismissed horizontally; every student exiting one at a time; off to the far left door at the front corner of the gym.

One at a time.

All of them.

Blessedly, the next day school was called off due to excessive cold and slippery roads.

It’s a work in progress…

January 5, 2026

~ 690saintpaul ~ Leave a comment

I glance at this new group of children planted in a neat and gentle circle around me. I look down at my paper. There are nine names on a list. Five students stare quietly at me. Four are missing. I don’t know any of them. They have no idea who I am. We are nearing the end of September and it has taken this amount of time to meet them.

Their lunch schedule was set and then altered and then an additional school meeting was added and the schedule changed again just for Wednesdays…and then one more burdensome change piled on because of logistics and support and crowding and the usual ‘what all’. ‘What all’…that beleaguered phenomenon which leaves everyone exhausted and young innocent bystanders under educated.

So here we are on a cold Friday afternoon in the final days of the month, all looking at each other.

A half hour earlier, I waited at the edge of the door and heard the name ‘Maria!’ float out of the classroom. I chose not to help myself and I immediately broke out into song. ‘Maria! I just met a girl named Maria!’…the classroom teacher, a pleasant newcomer from Brazil glanced nervously over at me; very puzzled. I attempted an explanation. ‘Do you know that song from ‘Westside Story’? It’s very famous’. He shook his head quietly and continued to call out the names of those students condemned to follow the strange singing teacher out into the hallway.

I continued to try. ‘I can break into song, anytime, anywhere and I don’t care what anyone thinks’. ‘Ah’ he responded simply. Too much. Too many hurdles and crossed wires for this new teacher to grasp. I gambled with creative social interaction and lost.

A little one joined my growing line of children and said softly, ‘I’m Maria’.

Finally seated at the circular table in my room, my eyes fall on two beautiful boys whose appearance is significantly different than the others. I prod carefully, stepping cautiously through and around the English language to figure out where they are from. ‘No Puerto Rico…Ecuador. We are from Ecuador’. They look so similar and I inquire again. ‘Are you brothers?’ The one wearing the grey sweatshirt takes the lead in speaking for the duo. ‘No, we are friends’. ‘Friends!’ repeats the other. The thicker one points to his chest with his thumb. His eyes are onyx and his hair jet black. His buddy has a shockingly thick black curl in the middle of his forehead. The two boys share mountain blood; thickened with cold, pristine air, climbers…ancient Andean highlands….such a long, long way from home. Brothers indeed.

I’m searching madly for a point of connection. I look at Maria and burst out into song again. She grins shyly. ‘You sure you never heard it?’ She shakes her head and I continue. ‘Well, if you go to New York you can see it in a show. You’re famous, you know’. Bingo. I’ve found the connecting thread between all of us…all of a sudden. She looks up at me and responds with enthusiasm. ‘Hey. All of my family lives in New York’. ‘They do?’ I inquire. ‘In Washington Heights? Brooklyn? Manhattan?’ Her eyes light up. ‘Yes! Yes, Manhattan!’ The boy with the onyx eyes jumps in, ‘Brooklyn!’ I look at him. ‘You came from Brooklyn?’ He places his chubby, strong thumb on the table. ‘Ecuador. Brooklyn. Ro CHESTER’. He looks much more secure and comfortable now that we have this geographic question cleared up. I look at the others and we go around the circle…’Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Puerto Rico…’ The children have visibly relaxed and settled in their chairs.

We have everyone labeled now…the briefest glimpse into how they are here. In my circle. On a cold September Friday afternoon when the sun has turned into amber shades and the sweatshirts have come out. ‘I used to live in Manhattan, too’ I smile. ‘So now we are all friends…brothers’ and we begin the lesson…

January 4, 2026

~ 690saintpaul ~ Leave a comment

‘Mrs. Algarin! Mrs. Algarin!’ I hear a small voice screaming through the wind across the parking lot as I exit my car. I turn around. I see him, this chunky wonderful little boy on his bike. It is an exceptionally cold day to ride a bike.

He wobbles and propels himself forward on his machine. The bike is a bright green hornet sheen. He uses training wheels; a third grader with training wheels. But then, he is new to all of this.

He’s landed here in the midst of a stranger world; the world of Campbell Street and urban chaos and the failing vagaries of public education. He comes from far, far away. So far, far away.

‘Good morning! How are you?’ I call out. ‘Yes’ he answers. His father, small in stature and bent over his phone, holding up mightily against the wind, this man who only recently resided in mountainous lands with the winds and skies of a thousand years, greets me carefully. ‘Good morning’.

I hold my breath as the little boy teeters on the edge of the sidewalk, coming far too close to the edge where cars slide quickly by. The drivers see him but it’s still unsettling for me to watch.

He speeds up, peddling as fast as his chubby legs will carry him and he careens into the school parking lot.

Now he’s to the right of me and I get a better look at him. He’s wrapped up well against the cold. He’s wearing trendy sneakers, a down jacket and he is riding that cool bike. This family appears to have blended quickly into the new and strange culture; for survival and pleasure.

‘Hello again!’ I say. ‘Is that a new bike?’ He looks directly at me and answers, ‘Yes!’ ‘Well I really like it” I answer. ‘Thank you’ he responds. So we have obviously made some progress with English.

I look back and wave to his Dad before I head to the entrance door; but he is still hunched over his phone, this man from the mountains and a thousand years.

The boy steers left with the bike, heading toward the fence which opens onto the playground; so, so close to where there was a deadly shooting last weekend.

‘See you later, alligator!’ I yell out and against the early morning dank and the cement and wind and the empty playground with the swings.

He is silent. Why would the teacher be talking about an alligator?

January 2, 2026

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In the icy cold dawn, I dreamt of Norway and found myself suddenly, willingly back on that train.

And you were there, of course. Opening and closing your wallet. The leather billfold shifting between your hands, as you kept us nervously in hand. Cajoling, convincing us to eat the freshly prepared reindeer in the dining car; meat marinating in gamey red peppers, and we could barely bring ourselves to do it.

And then, as the train rumbled along the length of the slowly rising mountainous track you called out, ‘Look! Look over there. Look!’ And we two siblings shoved over to the window and there in the middle of a brilliantly sage kiwi grassy meadow, rising out of sunny mists by the fjords…those stunning fjords…there was a child standing and waving madly at the train.

A blond headed cherub wearing a bright red woolen sweater; stood firm in a ray of Norwegian sunshine, watching and waving madly with abandon.

‘Wave! Wave back!’ and we obediently motioned back with all our might. Our happy efforts flowed out to him a split second before our long black train slid deftly into the cavernous mountains and I knew then as I know now that it was a snapshot I would never take.

I will never see that child again.

And as for you…well, for now you are gone; resting quietly on the other side of the veil and the darkened mirror.

But this is temporary of course, and the long black train still runs.

I reside in the Empire State, but I would rather be, for all the world riding on that line winding between Oslo and Bergen, waving madly at the child in the bright red sweater; the little one I can no longer see.

Homage #2…

~ 690saintpaul ~ Leave a comment

The summer was quiet, a necessary healing place safe from the rancor, discord and upset of the recently concluded school year. Nothing, and no teacher or student remained unscathed. The annual educational cycle could be described in simple terms; toxic and anxious. It was manifold, exhausting and downright ugly.

Our building played the role of a decrepit theater; a place where there were so many stories told, untold, imagined, regretted…endured. We waged a bitter war against the obvious and we all lost. When all the final test scores were collected, tallied and announced, our district was found wanting and crawled around miserably, apologetically at the bottom of the swamp.

It was that kind of school year.

Summer. At first it needed to go, that loud creaking noise in the upstairs bathroom, that hidden joist where saddened wood met human weight and slightly mal-aligned boards and screws complained bitterly. It was the perfect summer project.

But then, I was told it could not be fixed. That was that. I sat quietly on the porch and chose to look out at Heaven in the afternoon and watched a soaring, silent bird gliding over the shadow of the creatures which pass unnoticed through our yard at twilight and I finally thought better of the creaking noise upstairs.

The creaking meant someone other than myself and the variety of woodland creatures was home.

It was that sort of summer.

Heat. In the warmth of the buttery sunshine, I watched the neighbor teach his small son to ride a bike while I observed out of the corner of my eye the enormously obese bumble bee tilting wobbly around my porch. The fat insect was harmless, drunk with sun and pollen and summer air. He wove heavily and flitted around the flowers, buzzing half-heartedly.

I heard, ‘Drift and hit the peddles, drift and hit the peddles! No! That’s the wrong driveway!’ I watched the duo, the exasperated father and struggling son disappear at the sidewalk’s edge.

Who was wobbling? The bee? The child? Me?

Summer was like that.

Was there anything more glorious than sitting on the porch in the warm air with a bowl of cold, fresh chicken Caesar salad topped richly with heaps of pickled red onions? I didn’t think so.

From deep within the house drifted the faint strains of Bach’s double concerto, talented hands drove their rosined bows over the strings, coaxing life’s beauty and essence out of cat gut and wood. Marvelous.

I tried envisioning J. S. Bach eating salad topped with pickled red onions. I could not knit that image together in my mind. I placed my bowl carefully on the table next to my chair. The porch was so cool and the neighborhood so very, very quiet.

It was that kind of summer.

January 26, 2026

~ 690saintpaul ~ Leave a comment

Up and up and up…straight into the sky. He guns the straining engine as we ride the edge of the precipice; empty air filled to bursting with thick, dripping foliage…the mangoes, avocados and coconuts hang heavily…weighting down the branches and I can almost touch them as we sail by on this green, damp laden stretch of black tar called ‘Road 53’.

‘It’s mountainous here’ he explains. ‘I’m not exactly sure where we are; it’s changed so much since then’. A band of warm fog shudders slightly, revealing a tribe of ruffled roosters crossing the road ahead. They are not concerned with us. They are peckish with the dirt by the side of the ruined roads and they’ve seen us before; these humans climbing to the top of the world with an engine.

He stops to ask directions of a lone man standing outside a house which clings to air and thickly poured cement. ‘Where is the house of Daniel?’ Apparently we have missed the crucial neck wrenching turn midway down the hill. We reverse and retrace. And then suddenly…a driveway widens at the edge of the air and earth, shooting straight up into the rainforest foothills and there are two people watching us ascend from their perch on an enormous porch. He exits the vehicle and yells, ‘I’m here! It’s me!’ We climb a number of steep stairs which rest in the clouds above dozens of potted pepper plants with shiny leaves and the avocado tree with a ladder perched at a perilous angle dropping off into nothing. ‘He tells me he’s careful’ when I inquire about picking avocados at that angled height. ‘Oh well then…’ I respond and clutch the porch railing a bit more tightly.

After decades, the conversation begins again where it once left off. Who has died, who still resides nearby, whose children now live on the mainland braving cold winters…which business has gone under. The rainforest watches us silently. It is busy with plans for another thousand years of growth and water and it does not care much for our presence; letting out a steady roll of rumbling thunder. Then the rains fall again and far, far in the distance, I see a man running down the road with a multi colored blanket over his head. He is trying to beat the rain.

If wishes were horses and beggars could ride…upon my word I would never leave this porch. There is cold water in crackly bottles, old powerful friendships, bright red peppers and we are hanging in the sky where nothing bothers…except for the rain, and thunder and the avocado tree where life and death hang on the ladder’s edge and the eye of the rainforest…

June 4, 2025 ‘A Day in the Life’

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At approximately 2:30am, the Heavens opened a window and threw a large bucket of water out over us. The deluge was short-lived, a thundering cavalcade across the roof and up against windows. I awakened, heard the sound and thought, ‘oh good, this will break up the heat’.

The heat yesterday was beastly. Not beastly like the reddened land, burning up, lung searing, bury oneself in crusted sand heat; that’s the temperature the southwest endures. Our heat, the heat in the northeast is the kind which makes one stand at the end of the driveway, arms akimbo and say things such as ‘huh’ and ‘wait until February’. It sets us back a step or two. We don’t fight it. We don’t join it.

My Mother admonishes us as children on our annual westward trek to South Dakota, ‘don’t fight it, it will make you hotter!’ We wail from the back seat, ‘but look, the entire box of crayons has completely melted!’ She nods. ‘Shhh…don’t move. It makes you hotter!’ We cry out from the back seat, ‘but the seat belt buckles are branding our legs!’ ‘Shhh…hush. Read a book, crank open a window, be quiet’.

In the living room, I look curiously out of the window. The street is empty. There are a lot of children in this neighborhood. They will come out later as the evening shadows draw down. I have not seen our neighbors who live behind us for days now, it seems. Then at twilight, I witness her with the dog and the family together creep quietly out of the house and head up the cooling sidewalk. The huge, white furry husky looks bedraggled and generally disappointed with life.

I move to the porch, wave from the corner railing and say, ‘Hello, how are you?’ ‘Oh’…she sighs heavily. ‘We are finding things to do’. I nod and chuckle. ‘Huh’ I offer helpfully. ‘Huh’ she responds in kind.

They wander quietly away, the dog still grieving his fate…

May 18, 2025 ‘A Day in the Life’

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So what I thought I heard her say was…’Oh, do you like hot dogs too?’ It didn’t seem quite right that this overly chatty clerk helping customers at Sterling Optical was asking me about hot dogs…but given the way the day had already rolled and my general malaise and knowing the world is often more weird than not…I ran with it. ‘Oh yes!’ I replied. ‘I love hot dogs. Who doesn’t love a good hot dog?’ I considered going further and mentioning my favorite condiments, but I held back.

She smiled brightly and said to another customer, ‘We just built a new deck so now we’re really all set’. I sat there and thought about all the hot dogs soon to be grilled on the deck. This was a happy conversation which suddenly slid slightly sideways when I heard her say cheerily, ‘Of course the weather needs to be right around 60 degrees. That’s ideal’.

This gave me pause. Of all the hot dogs I have ingested over the years, never once was 60 degrees held up as the ideal eating temperature. 20 below in February…chili dogs with onions. 100 degrees in July…dogs with mustard, ketchup and relish at the ball park.

I looked at her, confused. She chatted on happily…such a non-stop chatter, this one. She turned away from the customer at the counter and addressed me again. ‘You know…when you have to get out and go right in the house, 60 degrees is just about perfect!’ The customer standing there nodded politely in agreement. I looked away and swallowed carefully. Hot tubs. Not hot dogs.

I shifted in my seat and stared vaguely in the general direction of a pile of glasses frames lying on the table in front of me. Considering my aforementioned malaise, the trick now was to extricate myself from this conversation without having to explain anything…hot dogs, hot tubs, condiments, my inadequate hearing.

I stirred slightly, edging ever so slowly in another direction, away from the clerk, the counter and the general business of buying new glasses.

She didn’t miss me.

Overall, the visit to Sterling Optical was a success. I ordered bi-focal contacts and new glasses. They don’t sell hearing aids. She thinks I own a hot tub. I know she owns one and likes to talk about it. What I don’t know is if she likes hot dogs. I’m not sure whether the other customers own hot tubs or eat hot dogs.

I’m glad I did not mention condiments…

March 2, 2025 ‘A Day in the Life’

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Struggling in the dark space of worrying about tomorrow; an anxious place too small to cuss a cat, I awaken to the slightly disturbing sound of late February rains…the ice flows in chunks out of gutters and down to the frosted grass. Will the edge of the roof jam up and leak? It did that a couple of years ago and there remain two delicately shaped brown spots on the ceiling. It was a half hearted attempt at leakage…just enough to remind us of who and of what is in charge.

The old strands, the tired spirit of spring is resting out there, somewhere. This is the teasing thaw of February and March is soon upon us. The longest month of the year…31 days of ‘will it rain? Will it snow, sleet, thaw, flood or ice?’ Some brave robins flit in and about and their numbers will soon expand. One morning they spend inordinate amounts of time and energy scurrying around the large tree by the porch…then three mornings in a row, they are gone and the tree stands silent.

After strong coffee and rain watching, some music serves purpose and various versions of Amazing Grace and idyllic Irish tunes soon pour out over the kitchen. March is upon us in sound, if not in exact date. The light in the window begins its slow transformation…from damp greying to more hints of gold and yellow and something akin to sage. Even for a bit, I catch glimpses of it on the glass pane…a surge mid morning, before everything sinks back down in wet fog.

‘I feel so Irish, now…I do, I do!’ he calls out as he heads down the stairs. He sees me in the living room and tips his head back laughing. ‘But I’m not! I’m not!’ and he keeps laughing.

I hand him a thick mug of freshly brewed coffee. ‘You’re just jealous that we tell better jokes than you do!’ I retort. He laughs again. ‘Yes, you do. But we’re still going to Spain first before we make any trip to Ireland’. He takes a swig and sits down to watch the rain. ‘Oh sure’ I concede and look out of the glass, now shimmering again in sage as the damp outside powers forward in a fleeting surge. ‘Oh yes, indeed’. And…the glass winks back at me.

The same ship, the same ocean, the same fierce winds…only the height and measure of the sails differ…’who bids the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep…’