My first gig with The Castaways is January 29th at C&P Coffee in West Seattle.
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We were supposed to fly to Kantishna, but the sky was heavy with rain. Too low, too low, with no visibility, we were not allowed to fly. Instead, we drove two hours to the gates of Denali National Park where we boarded a rattling school bus piloted by a guy with a perfect radio announcer voice and 30 plus years of living in and around the park. The seats were hard, the heat was weak, the windows fogged when shut and dripped when slid open just enough to keep the fog away.… continued…
She was shaking. I thought she was cold.
It was less than half an hour before sunset. I’d already snapped a picture or two of the group of girls mooching about the old Roman theatre at Sebastia. The incomparably knowledgeable and insightful George Rishmawi had been guiding non-stop since breakfast time atthe other end of Palestine. I didn’t want to drop the pace. I was desperate to put my eyes in the way of Sebastia before the light went altogether.… continued…
There’s the usual scrum for the Exeter train at Waterloo. It’s always announced very late, and you can spot the people waiting for it. They stare hungrily at the departure board, poised to leap into action every time the board is updated. The collective adrenaline is enough to kick start a whole carful of elephants into action. There’s a tangible slump every time the board changes and they realise that the platform still hasn’t been announced.… continued…
“It’s like we’re high,” said my friend Eileen, and I laughed because she was right. We had headed out for a walk in my neighborhood but it was impossible for us to move forward, everything was wrapped in a sparkling clear layer of glassy ice and we needed to look all of it. Twice. Up close. We gawked at the little black berries on the hedge that lines the west side of my yard — they were like eyeballs on stalks.… continued…
Sunny, our affable hiking guide, told the Brazilian Princess (BP) and me we had two options: spend the first trek night in a local villager’s home, or sleep over in a Buddhist monastery.
Immediately visions popped into my head of spunky young novice monks waking us with gentle Burmese chanting in a bright, sunlit building domed with flowers and bells gently ringing in the breezy courtyard under frangipani trees. Elders would meditate with us, peacefully emancipating our attached western minds and inviting us into an enlightened state of nirvana – all before breakfast!… continued…
