A Shrine To What Is

 A week in Japan. Three days in Osaka. My twenty-seventh country and—how many cities, monuments and faces have I seen?  Yet I feel I am experiencing everything for the first time.

This has been my first trip to a place I hadn’t previously seen since I went to Greece six summers ago, a few months before COVID changed the world—and me.  (In early 2023 I went to Paris, where I lived years ago and have visited several times since.) Tokyo, Osaka and Japan certainly are different from other places I’ve seen: The qualities of light and color, and even of time and space, are as unlike others I’ve felt as takoyaki is from a jambon-beurre sandwich or a hamburger. Yet I can’t help but to feel that the real differences between what I have known and what I am learning lie within me and sometimes within my body itself.

For one thing, I notice that I am more tired at the end of a day of cycling, walking and sightseeing. Mind you, I have long realized that wanting to end a day of any journey—whether in a place I am seeing for the first time or a place to which I return nearly every day—by laying down my head is usually a good thing:  It means that I have lived that day, if not fully, then at least to the best I could.

The bike I rented in Tokyo.

Of course, some of my fatigue has to do with age: While I am in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when it will end, I cannot pretend that my body is what it was forty years, or even minutes, ago. That, I realize, is also the reason why I could—and, I admit, do—wish I could have taken this trip earlier in my life, I am glad I am on it, and that it still lies ahead, now.

Then there is the weather: I landed in a heat wave. Or so it seems. Every day I have been here has been as hot as the steamiest days of any summer in New York.  That makes sense when one realizes that Tokyo and Osaka are on the same parallels as the American South. But it seems even hotter here than in Cambodia and Laos, which are undeniably tropical. 

I am not complaining: If everything is exactly as you expected, you aren’t traveling.

Perhaps that previous sentence seems smug or sanctimonious. Perhaps it is. For what it’s worth, it’s something that made sense to me today when I visited the Sumiyoshi Taisha shrine. (Hmm, maybe there is something to those shrines and temples after all!) Yesterday, after touring Osaka Castle, I wandered into NHK World. Not surprisingly, there were screens everywhere showing various Japanese TV programs—and Jaws with Japanese subtitles. I saw that movie the summer it was released and thought back to that movie time when I was pursuing the dreams of my father and a few other adults in my life. I thought that if I hadn’t pursued what they envisioned for me—mainly, their own unfulfilled wishes—my life would have been what it was “supposed to be.” I utterly failed in most of those pursuits because, I was told, I didn’t try or study or Jesus hard enough and that I should just “snap out of “ my “moodiness.”

But today I realize I hadn’t failed, although I couldn’t have known it all of those years ago. If nothing else, I learned that those dreams and goals—such as going to West Point or Annapolis and embarking on a military career, which my father wanted for me—simply weren’t right for me. Perhaps even the dreams I had, like being a marine biologist, were not meant to be even if I blamoed my father and a buddy of his for hijacking them.

As for what any of this has to do with cycling: It’s probably one of the few passions I’ve ever had that nobody could change or destroy.  So here I am, in midlife, cycling in my 27th country.

Anyway, I realized at the shrine that my failure—if indeed there is any—was in believing that my life was “supposed to be” a certain way, whether in line with my own or other people’s wishes. Rather, I need to acknowledge, if not embrace, what is and journey through whatever will be.

Front and side view of one of the shrine’s sanctuaries .

After leaving the shrine, I entered a cafe—“Vie de France”—for a cafe au lait and to use their internet connection. I called Callie, Sam’s significant other, who is looking after Marlee. “I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too. And Marlee?”

I met her—and “Sam”—just over a year ago, when I moved to the place where I live now.

From One Connection to Another?

 Today, for the first time in a week, I took a ride that didn’t involve errands or some other purpose. I pedaled, into the the wind, to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, the wind pushed me on my way back.

As I munched on the chips and salsa (homemade—in my home) I brought with me, a lady asked whether I minded sharing the bench with her. “Of course not!” The man who accompanied her said, half-jokingly, “I trust you with her.” 

“You don’t know me!” I joked back.

Vera is a delightful conversationalist. After an hour or so, she invited me to her house—only a block away—for iced tea. Her dog Willie greeted me at the gate and she introduced me to her husband, sons and grandson.

COVID, it seemed, turned many people inward, or caused them to tune out. But Vera said it had the opposite effect on her: After seeing people die, she “came to appreciate “ that she’s still here—at 92 years old. I never would have guessed.

So I got home quite a bit later than I expected. I felt a little guilty about that because ‘it’s the first time I’ve left Marlee alone for a whole day since I brought her back from the hospital. Before I left, he was trying to rub his face on me but the “Elizabethan collar” got in the way. 

We will have our connection soon enough, I hope. But for today I made another connection—or, to be exact, Vera made one with me. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and asked me to call the next time I’m out that way.

Marlee’s Home

 

After The Ride

 So why, dear readers, have you not heard from me since the Fourth?

(You might also be wondering why I’ve started this post with a question that sounds like something from an 18th Century epistleary novel. But I digress.)

No, I didn’t spend the past two days recovering from a wild birthday bash. 

Saturday, the day after the Fourth, could hardly have been better for cycling : temperatures reached the low 80s (27-28C), the sun illuminated high cirrus clouds and moderate wind blew in from the southeast. And surprisingly little traffic claimed the roadway. 

So of course I rode. On such a day I expected to see more people than I saw on the sand or in the water at Rockaway and Long Beaches and Point Lookout. One section of Jacob Riis Park was full, but there was some sort of gathering or celebration in progress. I didn’t see anything like the crowds I expected (and feared) until I got to Coney Island, where it seemed that nobody went home after the previous day’s fireworks and hotdog eating contest (of which I never understood the appeal ).

As the day—Saturday, the day after the Fourth —had grown late, I knew that even if the volume of traffic didn’t grow, the level of alcohol consumption would . So I took the train home, happy with the 85 mile (140 km) ride I’d taken on a beautiful day .

My great mood ended when I got home and saw splotches—of blood?—scattered across the floor and Marlee lying in a small puddle, acknowledging me only with her eyes. No veterinary offices or clinics were open, so I left a message with Bronx Veterinary Center, the first to open yesterday morning .

After spending most of the day there, I got the prognosis: kidney stones and blockages in her digestive and excretory systems. She underwent surgery and will be there until tomorrow.

Last night was lonely: It was my first at home, in decades, without her—or any other cat.

Rainy Day Voyage

 Rain, drizzle, mist, rain. That was today’s weather sequence. Rain when I woke up. Drizzle through my commute. A  curtain of mist when I entered my workplace. And rain cascaded me exit.  

I wimped out and took the train home.  But I got back in time to spend a couple of hours in the Botanical Garden.

A show about Van Gogh and nature will begin Friday. I plan to attend: Flowers? One of my favorite artists?  What’s not to like?

I figured, correctly, that if nothing else, the aftermath of the rain that had subsided by that time would enhance the flowers’ and trees’ scents. It also seemed to amplify birds’ songs. Perhaps I heard them so clearly because they had to share the park with so few visitors.

Even though most of the lilacs—my favorite flowers—are gone, the scents of those that remained found my nose even before I reached the lilac garden.

On my way back to my apartment, I detoured to visit a friend.

Maria. She and other New York bodega cats are a species of their own.

Marlee didn’t seem jealous. They rubbed against my ankles as I walked through the door.

Say “Hello”’To Boots

 Today I won’t do my usual “Sunday funnies.” Don’t worry: There won’t be any bad news today.  Tomorrow might be another story…

Anyway, while this will be a “happy” post, it won’t be related to bicycles or cycling.  Not directly, anyway.

Whatever relation this has to two wheels and two pedals rests with “Sam,” my new neighbor and cycling buddy.  I’ve been spending off-bike time with him and his girlfriend “Cora.” 

Well, if you’ve been following this blog, you know that one of the few things I love as much as bicycles and bicycling is cats. So I was as happy as they were when they welcomed “Boots” into their home.

Marlee is taking the news in stride.

Rearguard Marlee?

Hmm…Perhaps Marlee can ride with me after all.

I wonder how the woman feels about the arrangement.

Through Her Eyes

 Could it be that even Marlee couldn't believe what she was seeing last Tuesday night?

They Prefer To Ride With Their Own

 I tried, really tried, to get Caterina, Charlie I, Candice, Charlie II, Max and Marlee to ride with me.  I even promised to get a recumbent bike so they could curl up in my lap as I pedaled. Alas!

Now I understand the problem:  It’s not that they didn’t want to ride with me.  They wanted (and Marlee wants) to ride with, shall we say, their own!

Happy Mother’s Day

 Some would argue that I have never been a mother because I have never had human children.  I wouldn’t argue with them.

Others, mainly people who have pets, would say that I am a mama, or at least a parent, to Marlee—and that I was one to Max, Charlie II*, Candice, Charlie I, Caterina and Sara*. I often refer to the six cats and one dog I’ve housed, fed and loved as my children or “babies.”

There is at least one thing, though, I couldn’t do with them that, perhaps, I could have done with a human child: ride a bicycle. Perhaps even more important, I never could have taught them how to ride one.

In any event, to all of you who are moms (Your children are always your children even after they move out—or, felines forbid, die) : Happy Mother’s Day.

Check out this image, and others, here: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-board-print/Mother-s-Day-Bicycle-Ride-by-kilkennycat/47181892.TR477

*—Sara was a beagle-hound pup I had briefly, before any of my cats. While out for a walk, a man petted and played with her.  “My grandkids would love a dog like that.”  They played some more. “They could play with it in our backyard…”

“Your backyard?”

“Yeah, in my house in Pennsylvania.”

I let them play for a moment. “How would you like to take her?”

The man’s eyes widened. “How much do you want for her?”

“Nothing. She’ll be happier in your house and yard than in my apartment. She gets to go outside only when I get home from work.”

The following weekend, he took me and Sara to his house, where I met his grandkids. She was happy to meet them. And I was happy for her.

Who Copes Better?

What did I see this morning, as I began my fourth week (!) in my new apartment?

Marlee has been cuddling with me even more than she had been in the old apartment--and that's saying something.  I wonder whether she's scared about being in a new and possibly strange place.  Or does she like my body more because I've gained weight? At least, I feel as if I have.

As you might imagine, I haven't done a lot of cycling, at least compared to what I normally do.   If I have gained weight, however, it may have as much to do with how I've been eating.  Last night, I realized that because I've been so busy, most days--including yesterday--I've been eating my biggest (or only) meal at the end of the day.  

Will Marlee still love me--or, at least, my body--as much when I get back to my normal cycling and eating habits?  And will she like this new place when it's all neat and arranged? 

What Did He Say?

Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous weather forecaster, has made his prediction:  He didn't see his shadow so, according to folklore, an early Spring awaits us.

While I don't mind winter--and this one hasn't been especially cold--I would welcome an early Spring.  Whether the temperatures remain low or rise well above normal, the days are growing longer.  But Spring-like weather makes the skies seem brighter and blooms more vibrant.  Plus, I would be happy to ride with fewer layers of clothing.

Neither Marlee nor any other cat who's been in my life has been able (or willing?) to ride with me.  I've seen people ride with their dogs. I wonder what it would be like to cycle with a ground hog--if such a thing is possible.

From Bike Walk Wichita

What I Woke For

 People in Miami are as unaccustomed to snow as Harpo Marx was to public speaking.

Likewise, most New Yorkers aren’t used to earthquakes.  In a way, ground-shakes are even stranger for us: When white flakes fluttered down to the sands and palm trees of the Sunshine State, folks knew what they were looking at.  On the other hand, most people here in the Big Apple thought the rumbles came from a truck or subway train. Or, like me, they slept through it—even though the epicenter was just a few blocks from my apartment.

I am sure that countless Californians have slept through much stronger shocks. Still, it’s hard not to wonder whether an earthquake—in a city that experiences them about as often as the Jets or the Knicks win championships—on the second morning of the new year is a harbinger of what awaits us.

What finally woke me up? The helicopters that circled over the neighborhood.  Marlee ducked behind the couch. I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep. So I got dressed, hopped on Tosca—my Mercian fixie—and pedaled into this:

I hope that’s more of a foretelling of the year to come.

After pedaling out to Flushing Meadow-Corona Park, I stopped at Lots ‘O’ Bagels for two whole wheat bagels. In my apartment, I enjoyed them with some English Blue Stilton cheese. Some might say that no true New Yorker would eat a bagel that way but I like the way EBC’s creamy texture complements both the cheese’s pungency and the bagel’s chewiness. I can, however, still claim to be a true New Yorker because I’m not accustomed to earthquakes but got through one, however minor it was. And I started my day with a bike ride. 

On Wheels or Paws

Happy Halloween!

I have had six cats, including Marlee, in my life.   I love Marlee and miss the other five.  Each was beautiful and sweet in his/her own way.  

I must admit, however, that I've never had a black cat.  It's not a matter of fear or superstition:  All of my feline friends, except for the first Charlie, were rescues.  And he was part of a litter of kittens born to the cat of someone with whom I was taking a class.  So, in a sense, he, like the others, found his way into my life.

One of my few regrets is that I've never figured out how to ride with a cat.  Oh, when the first Charlie and Marlee were kittens, I could have carried them in a knapsack or something, but I'm not sure they would have liked it.  In a way, that might have been a good thing:  Having Caterina, Charlie I, Candice, Charlie II, Max or Marlee home while I was out--whether for a spin around the neighborhood, a day trip or a longer trek--gave me something to look forward to at the end of a ride.

Still, I wonder, what would it have been like to have one of them--or a black cat--on a ride with me?

 

Taking One For The Humans

I don't drive.  So, if Marlee has ever been in a car, it was with her rescuer.

And I've tried taking her on rides with me.  If yo have a cat, you know how well that worked out.

Therefore, I have no idea of how she'd react to a pothole.  But she might know a thing or two about how we, as humans, might respond:

(By the way, those photos are not of Marlee.  She's been in other posts!)

A Surprise During A Ride Without A Plan

Errands and things that weren’t so complicated that a politician or lawyer couldn’t further complicate them took up my morning.  

So, by afternoon, I wanted—and needed—to ride  I had no destination or route in mind.  I didn’t even know which bike I’d ride.  For some reason, Marlee sniffed around La-Vande, my King of Mercia. For some other reason, that was the reason I wheeled her out my door.

I zigged and zagged along waterfront promenades and side streets from my Astoria neighborhood to Williamsburg. From there, a detour led me into industrial areas of East Williamsburg and Bushwick where I found myself following a string of graffiti murals that seemed to unfurl like a videographic collage along my ride and led me to this:

The word “truck” over the window hints at the building’s former role as a tire shop.  Given the location, drivers or owners of those hulking industrial vehicles were no doubt most of their customers.

The new clientele, I imagine, are more likely to be fixing or fueling their psyches and, perhaps, accompanying friends, dates or partners than to be hauling steel stock or power tools.  The Bushwick Triangle—where Johnson and Scott Avenues intersect with Flushing Avenue—is a lounge.

Even with its new look and purpose, its shape reminds me of a much larger and more famous structure:  the Flatiron Building, often cited as New York City’s first skyscraper  Somehow, though, I can’t imagine it adorned with a mural like the one on the Bushwick Triangle—even if the Flatiron’s owners were inclined to, and the city allowed, it.

I am glad, however, to have encountered a fun and interesting visual surprise during a ride for which I had no plan.

Leading

 Have you ever heard your bike calling out to you?

Well, I can’t say I have—at least, not literally.  But when I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Greenwich, Connecticut on Saturday, she seemed to be leading me there—the way Marlee does when she rubs against my ankles and steers me toward the sofa.

Well, Saturday was a nearly perfect day for a ride of any kind, of any length on any bike.  But I think La-Vande had ulterior motives.

She wanted to pose against a backdrop she knew would flatter her.

Sunday was almost as nice a day for a ride. So to Point Lookout I went, this time with Vera, my Mercian mixte. She didn’t seem to be “leading “ me there, but I believe she enjoyed the breeze off the sea, and the sun.

Oh, and when I got home, Marlee “led” me to the couch, and curled in my lap.

A Ride From Astoria To Denmark, Via Atlanta

I have a confession:  I rode a bike-share bike the other night.

No, I wasn't in some faraway place without one of my bikes.  I was in my home city--New York, where I live with almost as many bikes (and Marlee) as I lived with family members when I was growing up.

So what was I doing on a CitiBike?

Well, I went to some place where I wasn't sure I could park any of my bikes safely.  A phone call confirmed that there is no on-premises bike parking. And, while there are on-street bike racks-- in addition to sign posts, railings and such--I didn't want to lock up my bike for the three hours or more I expected to be at my destination.

This image will give you an idea of what the neighborhood is like:

All right, the whole neighborhood isn't like that.  It's actually one of the more affluent areas of the city.  The crime rate is lower than in most other neighborhoods but, as in similar neighborhoods, a fair amount of that crime consists of bike theft.

That semi-submerged house is, as you may have surmised, a prop on a stage--specifically, in the Delacorte Theatre, the home of Shakespeare In The Park.

There I saw a very interesting production of Hamlet.  All of the major soliloquies (speeches), and most of the original language, was intact. But it was set in suburban Atlanta, and some liberties were taken with the chronology.  

Whenever I've assigned the play, I've told students that there are really two Hamlets in the play. The one who delivers "To be or not to be" and those other immortal lines is really Hamlet Jr. or Hamlet II, and he is brooding the death of his father--Hamlet Sr, if you will.  In this production, he becomes the patriarch of a mixed-race family. The play opens with his funeral, which includes soul and gospel songs and dance. 

For me, the cast (Ato Blankson-Wood is one of my favorite Hamlets!) helped me to see something that has been in the play all along but what is seldom emphasized:  what we now call "intergenerational trauma."  It also conveys the effect of murder and other kinds of violence on families and communities.  And some of the "tweaks" to the original dialogue--such as "Denmark's a prison" becoming "this country is a prison" (so powerfully delivered by Blankson-Wood)--makes the play almost scarily relevant.

Those who insist traditional, period-correct productions may not like this one.  And I'll admit that some attempts to transpose a contemporary Black/mixed-race American milieu with medieval Denmark don't always work.  But this production "hit" far more often than it "missed" for me, and I recommend it. Oh, and if you need an excuse to ride a Citibike even if you have a few bikes of your own, here it is.

Happy Easter/Passover/Ramadan!

 Today is Easter Sunday.  It's also the fourth full day of Passover and the eighteenth of Ramadan.

So, to be fair--and because I'm non-religious and love cats--I am posting this springtime image:

Image by Kilkennycat.

All praise be to Marlee. And thanks to  Max, Charlie, Candice, Charlie (Yes, there were two Charlie-cats in my life!) and Caterina for the memories.   

Fear Not: I'm Still Here!

 Dear Readers, I am still alive--but not well. That is why I've been posting less frequently.

My illness isn't life-threatening or disabling.  But it has drained, seemingly, all of my energy.  

As I recounted a few posts ago, I started to feel congested and tired near the end of my Paris trip.  My former religious self might've said that I was being punished for having too good a time.  Truth is, the only possible connection I can see between my sojourn and my illness is the Munch exhibit I attended with Alec and Michele at the Musee d'Orsay.  It was one of the most crowded exhibits I've ever attended:  We, and other visitors were literally shoulder-to-shoulder.  It was all but impossible to move individually and independently.  

(That, by the way, was my only complaint about the exhibit, or any other I attended while in Paris:  I thought it was well-presented but I couldn't linger at some of the works, as I often do when I'm interested.)

I came home just in time for a long weekend. (Monday the 16th  was Martin Luther King Jr. day.) Surely, that would give me time, aided with copious quantities of chicken soup and orange juice, to recover my energies for the beginning of the semester on Tuesday.

My body--specifically, my respiratory system--didn't get the message. I felt as if I were being submerged even deeper into a sea of phlegm.  My routine has included going to classes, answering only the most urgent emails and curling up with Marlee.  

I figured--correctly--that whatever I was suffering wasn't COVID or the flu, as I was vaccinated as soon as the jabs became available.  Finally, I called my doctor who believed I had a respiratory infection and advised me to go to the nearest City MD center rather than to make a trip to his office.

His hunch was correct.  All I can do now is wait this thing out.  Then, I hope, I'll be back to my regular habits of cycling--and blogging.