BERMUDA SHORTS

How Did I Get here?
Last month, I found myself on the beautiful and touristy island of Bermuda, with my still willing twelve year old child. How I landed on what was for me, an obvious unlikely vacation choice, can only be explained in the context of a year filled with stressful events, too busy a work schedule and a major move into a new home still covered in plaster dust and missing a working kitchen. One week before my scheduled vacation--yes, seriously, this is true-- I found myself without destination.  I was seduced by the hard to believe fares to Bermuda. Unfortunately, my search was less than thorough, or I would have realized that the cost of a Bermudian vacation actually starts, after landing. The cost of living, in Bermuda easily doubles that of NYC, reason why, I quickly realized, there are no hippies on this island. There are no hikers, no backpackers, no alternative travelers, at all. Basically, I was a tribe of one--well, two. This is a tiny but confident first world country. There is no visible poverty here, no haggling over services. What you see, is what you get, and this time around, that was OK with me. We arrive with our usual carry-ons--one for clothing, one for books to last us two weeks. That was, afterall the unusual goal of this year's vacation-- not exploration, but rest.

Room At The Inn
Inspite of my relentless failed quests for available, let alone, affordable beachside resorts, my good travel karma won out in the end. A few days before our flight, I was able to secure a lovely room in an independently run B&B in the wonderfully quiet town of St. George's. St. George's was settled by the British in the 1600's, remaining most memorable predominantly for its timelessly gorgeous architecture, which has secured the town its place on the list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The cotton candy colored cottages and narrow, winding streets, make St. George's a perfect town for those who prefer walking to driving, or riding on pink & blue buses, to taking cabs. Our B&B turns out to be a beautiful 360 year old cottage tucked away on an almost forgotten backstreet, a two minute walk from the center of town. There are two guest rooms, but except for the  occasional one night stay, we are the only guests. We have the whole place to ourselves. A simple continental style breakfast, snacks, water and an occasional glass of wine and ice cream cone, are provided. There are two live 'free range' guinea pigs roaming in the backyard. They feast on the garden greens and mow the grass in neatly even patches. 

Our hostess is a spunky middle aged Canadian living alone with her precocious nine year old daughter. She's running this B&B in an effort to earn her livelihood and maintain this oversized cottage after the passing of her late Bermudian husband, who suddenly died less than a year ago at age 50 from a rare form of cancer.  In the face of disaster, some just grow stronger. Shelley and Avery are the kind who ask if there's anything that they can do for you, and actually mean it. They accomodate our usual pursuit to stay off the beaten path, by driving us to their favorite secret beach. It turns out to be the one and only beach we will return to more than once. It consists of a lone cove, followed by long stretches of private paradise, housed in national park lands.  It is perfection. These are people I'd be friends with, if they were my neighbors. 

Made In Bermuda
The island of Bermuda is actually a number of tiny islands strung together by long, narrow bridges. The entire length of this small island archipelago runs just under 20 miles. This makes the exploration of the entire island, in two weeks' time, an easy task, even while spending the bulk of our days swimming and playing in the turquoise waters & (sometimes pink) sandy beaches. It is a fallacy that Bermuda beaches are pink. I remember my disappointment at discovering this fact. It wasn't until we'd been there a few days, that someone pointed out that we must go South to find the famed pink sands. So, South we head. We visit a different beach everyday. We collect samples of the sands, to bring home. It beats buying small vials of the pinkstuff at the souvernir shops for $2.  I find the concept of paying for sand, even more absurd than that of paying for water, absurdity to which I have grown accustomed. My 12 year old daughter is disappointed that this place is "something like Pennsylvania"--She means, I think,  that it does not feel indigenous or adventurous. It is indeed a very clean and tidy place, a stretch from that of our usual vacations. She does agree that the beaches are heavenly. Bermuda is, in the end, all about the beaches. We take a ferry to the city. The city is Hamilton, where cruise ships the size of twin football fields dock each day. The streets are full of shops. There is nothing I need or want from these places. The many forts of Bermuda bore me, their underground galleries are frightening, their cannons, stale and dead, anger me. I do not like forts or instruments of war. They are skeletal reminders of death and destruction. I don't understand what people find of interest in these places. 

I am omitting any discussion concerning the british legacy in Bermuda, as it concerns slavery, as racial matters tend to be much too complicated to contain in a venue this informal. The Spanish moss tree in the garden is fabulous, though. It was worth the trip here just to see it. We have 30 minutes before catching our ferry back, and it's starting to rain. We duck into The Irish Linen Shop. I swear I've seen those same tea towels in Chinatown for a quarter of the price. I spot a rack of blouses on sale, which upon closer inspection, indeed bear the label "Made in Shanghai". They are coyly advertised as "Hand Embroidered".  Of course, they are.  The one thing that is definitely a Bermudian original, is the Bermuda shorts. They are sported by all, including postal workers, police, waitstaff, businessmen, and are always worn in accompaniment of black knee highs and black dress shoes. 

A mother, a daughter, and twelve beaches

After our days of swimming, our evenings are simple ones. We have our evening meal, return to our cottage, and read. I read The Old Man And The Sea, one of my late father's favorite novellas-- in addition to its inherent literary value, I'm sure that one of its most alluring features, for my dad, was the fact that Hemingway wrote it while he was living in Cuba and that it is the story of a Cuban fisherman no doubt much like those who filled my father's childhood memories. The story is about struggle for survival, compassion and perseverance. The old man's character is so much like my father's was. Reading it made me feel that he was close by-- on the island, with us. I read it for him, for both of us.  I also read Wicked--The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of the West. This I do at the suggestion and insistence of my 12 year old daughter, who introduced her recommendation with the phrase "it's SO you".  This is the third time we've gone on a mom/daughter vacation alone together, and books have always been one of our most natural sources of  bonding.  I have yet to figure out which part she meant, but I did enjoy the book. Inquiries into the nature of good and evil are always good, regardless of whether or not I agree with their final verdict. The meat is in the questioning. Inspite of the annoyance it sometimes causes the parent in me, I feel truly grateful that this budding young woman understands the value of questioning. I think that it is a good recipe for the forming of character, as well as for fostering sound judgement in adolescence--since personal responsibility must directly follow the road of the choices made. Writing is another passion we share. It is a vehicle for questioning, thinking, figuring life out, exploring the intricate ways in which everything is built of multiple layers-- nothing is obvious, or simply deciphered, but for lack of questioning.  The means by which we reach the end, is always, in the end, more important than the end itself.  So, on our little Bermudian adventure, we also write together. I write the better part of this entry with purple ink on real live white sheets of paper--the visceral quality of script flowing from my felt tip pen feels at the edge of becoming something else,  ephemeral and soft, yet powerfully physical and concrete-- like the blooming of childhood into womanhood.  I don't recall the last time I wrote this way.  This part I do just for me.

Oh, and about the shorts...well, they just look, utterly ridiculous.

The Seriously Crooked Way Of The Middle, Before The Cracking Of The Skull

In the last year, I have participated in a disproportionately high number of funerals, burials, shiva sittings, memorials services, gravestone unveilings, baby showers, baby namings, christenings and landmark birthday celebrations.  It has been an overwhelmingly busy year and frighteningly indicative of life at the middle.  Here, I am unfortunately, not referring to the Buddhist Middle Way, but rather to the lifestyle lived by the middle aged middle class, in middle America. The specter of this monster has always frightened me to the core, if only because I am accustomed to dancing a gentle waltz between extremes. I do not favor straight lines, and it has always seemed to me that to mediate the middle road, one must navigate in relatively straight pathways. Yet at this point in my life, I find myself unmistakably in the middle of the middle. How did I get here? I see those around me dying, the other half being born. I find myself thinking about safety, about prudence, about providing for and optimizing livelihood for the next generation. It's a new and strange feeling. Birth and death rituals are important in every culture, as lives leave us and as we welcome new lives into our tribal circles. Our views about human existence expanding all the while, bearing witness to the nature of this complex journey. The middle is a crucial point at which there is still time to turn back and change our choices before proceeding further. My father suddenly died last year. He was diagnosed with late stage lung cancer and passed away within 2 months of his diagnosis. He lived a middle class life punctuated by dramatically radical decisions, that in summary, made his life less than ordinary. The closer we come to one another, the more clearly we are able to see the small and large actions that make a life extraordinary-- all of our lives. My father did not get to live into old age. This seemed to me a great loss, not only because I miss him terribly, but because the integrity of his being was so transcendent--something to be maintained and nurtured as we age. Something, that I hope he passed on to me. At this middle point of my life, I have come to the humble conclusion that everyone's life is in fact, quite extraordinary. Our small actions are large, the actions we perceive as large, sometimes in fact, turn out to be significantly small.

During a trip to the sacred river Ganges a couple of years ago, we stayed at an inn a short distance from the burning ghat. Day and night the fires that consumed extinguished human lives lit up the view from our balcony.  I felt an irresistible fascination with the burning of the bodies, the smoke rising to the skies, the unmistakable scent of burning human flesh. I could still recall that scent, which six years before had for weeks lingered in the air of our Brooklyn neighborhood after the attacks on the WTC towers.  My child was still a toddler then, and I feared for the damage to her developing lungs. Yet, I wanted to breathe in that scent, keep it near, as a reminder of what we are and of how easily it is all consumed into the ether. Deaths and births are always unforgettable events. The lists of names and photos of the victims of the 9/11 attacks posted all over the city, carved a permanent folder of emotions and memories that will forever live in the consciousness of every new yorker I have ever known. To most of us, these people were strangers, yet we were all touched and deeply affected by their lives cut short, by their humanity layed open before our eyes.

The powerful Hindu custom of Kapalakriya involves the eldest son hitting and cracking the burning skull of the deceased parent with a large bamboo stick, during the last stages of cremation.  After the cracking of the skull, the son turns and walks away, never looking back. The symbolic spiritual purpose of this ritual act is to help release the soul of the deceased parent from its entrapment in the physical body.  From an outsider's point of view, and therefore, a less religious and more psychosocial perspective, I think that it is something more. What if the secondary role for this practice is that of forcing the mourner to a definitive severance of all connection and attachment with the physical identity of the parent?  I believe that it is not just for the sake of the deceased that we crack the skull, but for the benefit of the mourner, as well. For if we can detach ourselves from clinging to the physical representation of a loved one, we can hold onto that which is more ephemeral, but much more long lasting-- our relationship to that life, and its significance on the evolution of our own. 

There is no need to look back, for the substance of a life is but what is survived in those who have been touched by it. It is survived in the here and now of who we are and what we do in the world. Death and birth both have the power to awe. The magical appearance and disappearance act they perform always strengthening tribal ties, sometimes only temporarily-- but more importantly, often immediate and reliable at the time when it is most needed.  At this point in my life career, I am starting to consider that perhaps the middle is something to be celebrated, rather than feared or loathed.  It does, after all, confirm that we have survived the beginning-- a delicate and fragile undertaking.

Hippies at the B & B

February is hands down (at least amongst my New York City tribal kinsfolk), the most difficult month of winter. Once that first week of this impossible month, makes its initial turn, panic and a painfully urgent need to escape Brooklyn, irreregardless of destination, becomes my only, desperate obsession.  While most people opt for warm caribbean vacations,  I belong to that group, for whom projecting ahead is not a viable option. So, each year,  I am ready to settle for any alternative to the caribbean vacation I should have booked five months earlier.  For the last couple of decades since I have lived in NYC, I have done the exact same thing. Come February, I take a "wintering vacation". THIS year, President's Day once again came upon me as an unexpected surprise.  A five day weekend was quickly upon us. A wintering vacation was the logical, and at this point, the only affordable option.

Having grown up in warm sunny places, I have in actuality, always found snowy winters particularly exotic. The prospect of sitting by a roaring fire, wrapped in an afghan and warm (preferably red) woolen socks, while sipping hot cocoa and watching snow flurries daintily tumble from the milky skies, warms my heart and soul just as well as any bahamian breeze ever could.  A quick google browse for Bed and Breakfast settings within the 2 hour travel range,  revealed one and only available room in an inn perched atop a hill of a tiny upstate town overlooking the Hudson. The views of the river promised to be splendid.
I'm not sure whether it is due to the fact that rivers are not a significant element of the floridian landscape where I spent many of my formative years, or that my indigenous roots, have subliminally embeded in me romanticized images of local native tribes building fires and fishing along its banks, but I do hold a mysteriously lyrical attachment to the Hudson River. On Friday afternoon, we packed into our ambiguously colored and cosmetically compromised 1994 Buick Century and began inching our way up the East River Parkway toward the town of Milton--a place about which we knew nothing.
After an arduous 7 hour ride, we arrived at the bottom of the hill where began the driveway of the B&B.  As we began our ascent, tired and famished, we were soon to discover that our brakes had not held up any better than we had. Frazzled and bewildered by both the length of the trip and now the irreverent behavior of our voiture, we parked and proceeded to enter the inn through the first obvious door we could readily identity. From behind this opening, we heard the gentle, welcoming protests of our inn keeper as she, a little too late, tried to intercept our snowy muddy entrance into her kitchen.  Our hostess, attired in a beige leather elbow patched sweater, is a demure proper lady doning a neatly coiffed french twist. She explains to us that the usual entrance is out and around the house and that next time, an appropriate path along the property will surely lead us there with ease.

I have always thought the word appropriate to be a highly versatile, practical and extremely useful term in matters that require delicate maneuvering.  Our hostess is an appropriate lady, dressed appropriately for both her surroundings as well as her role. She looks age appropriate, acts age appropriately, and behaves in an appropriately reserved manner. At this point, it can safely be said that this appropriate lady possesses, in her appropriate form and style, some characteristics suitable for appropriate tribal labeling.
No, I don't think it at all inappropriate to note that when one tribe meets another tribe, a heightened state of bilateral suspicion quickly ensues. This initial reaction appears to be universal and can be expected in cases from the most rudimentary to the most complex of tribal encounters. This was no exception.
Two long haired and dreaded, haggled looking, middle aged urbanites with long haired, ipod plugged tween renegade in tow, could also be considered, at least by some, somewhat of an identifiable tribe.
This is the moment when the two tribes meet.
Proper lady-- hippie brooklynites.

Well, I have never felt altogether comfortable with the term 'hippie" though I have been identified this way more than a few times before. Once a client, upon our first meeting, practically yelled out to me "Oh! You're Hip!" Hip? I was more than a bit taken aback, but what could I say?-- Would it have been alright to ask her to elaborate on her diagnosis?--  Should I have feigned ignorance as to her references?-- Is it not obvious that I have unusually long hair when this style has been officially out of style for more than a few decades? that I don't use, nor have I ever used blow dryer or hairspray?-- Is it not conspicuous that I improvise my wardrobe and utilize my body as a canvas on which to shamelessly flunt my need for expression?! --Oh, but I do digress... Yes, I may not be altogether comfortable with the 'Hippie' label, but it has been cast, struck, stuck and for lack of a better, more descriptive and accurate alternative, I must succumb, if only temporarily and for the sake of contrast--which is really, my ultimate point here.  Apparent  contrast.

We enter the premises, yes, through the wrong door--my pre-adolescent daughter dragging her overstuffed rolling bag across the oriental carpet, which begins uncomfortably to retreat along with us into our room as it is dragged in by the weight of her pack.  I am feeling cranky, tired, horrified at the awful first impression we have just bestowed on our hostess, with whom I am now sure  --given our newly discovered malfunctioning car brakes-- we will be spending plenty of idle time.  As I glance at my spouse, who is busily engaged in explaining our car troubles to our lady, I notice that he is wearing oversized striped paperclips on the lapel of his hooded jacket... new fashion statement or forgotten closures from our half consumed travel snacks? I assure you, the latter.  With severely knitted brow,  I lean over and remove them. We chuckle uncomfortably.  I roll my eyes.  I am too tired to explain. Our hostess offers that we choose a time for breakfast the next morning. Trying not to inconvenience, we suggest 9.  I want to say noon- I am exhausted. I want to sleep--late. This will never happen, I think. That's one thing about B & B's you can always count on.  Breakfast or sleep,  never both.  Our hostess suggests 10-- I am surprised, and relieved.
Morning comes. Now we can see out the windows of our room, and confirm that the views of the river are indeed breathtaking. We descend to breakfast. We are all alone. None of the other guests have yet arrived. It is only Saturday morning. Our breakfast consists of a delicate and ample assortment of various delicious courses. The coffee is strong, the cream fresh. I savor its complexity, bask in its warmth.  Along with our hostess, there is also a host.  He is gentle and soft spoken. He delivers our dishes, then silently retreats. A perfect breakfast.

We have the car towed and discover that being that it is a 3 day holiday weekend, the one repair shop in the vicinity is only working a few hours today. We will not be seeing the EpsteinMobile again until Monday morning. We wave goodbye to our car and resign ourselves to exploring the town on foot, and to enjoying the inspiring views.

The center of town consists of a post office, a "Free Library" (is there any other kind?...), a brewery named after the town I just traveled here 7 hours to escape (huh?!), a church with an ancient graveyard, and a mediocre cafe that serves good coffee and excellent apple oatmeal, but which closes at 2pm. We have the oatmeal and some more coffee and continue our pedestrian exploration to the further fringes of the town-- abandoned farms and intricate victorian homes, both providing ample photo opportunities, an abandoned railroad station.  In fact,  it appears that most of the town is just barely hanging within a threadbare cobweb of uncertainty. Even the properties which are still inhabited,  appear to be in a state of extremely poor to nonexistent upkeep. The entire town is in a  perpetual state of progressive  abandonment.  How do people make their living here? They become inn keepers? This too, seems to be a dying prospect. What draws travelers to a sleepy town with barely any amenities-- not even a hiking trail to speak of?  --Desperation in deep winter.

We return to our inn, aware now of how rare this setup actually is. A beautiful victorian home, immaculately kept by an elderly couple who appear to be, outside of their relationship, completely independent.  How and why are they doing this? By this time, it is time for dinner and we are all too aware that there is not a single restaurant within walking distance of this place-- but out of necessity, we still inquire. We are told of the two closest eating establishments, both only accessible by car. We are offered roundtrip rides to dinner. We gratefully accept. On the ride our hostess is cautious, but in the stilted conversation, reveals that she suffers from wanderlust-- I am easily impressed by people's dreams and vulnerabilities--especially if they mirror my own.  I begin to understand.
Now sitting by the fire, well wined and dined, three of us snuggle with respective reading material.  Always in a functional marriage, there is a yin yang that goes on. The interviewer and the interviewee, the abstract thinker and the concrete calculator, the chef and the gourmand, the gatherer and the reaper-- both members of the team can share said qualities, but they are not to exercise them simultaneously--or all hell will break lose--resulting in an abstractly verbose superfluous undigestible disaster. My betrothed and I work well together in this way. We have learned to balance the scales of excesses.  During this particular event, my husband is the interviewer. While I discretely lounge in the adjoining room, he chooses to interview our hostess about all manners of things that I would never dream of bothering with. He uncovers that she is planning a trip to Costa Rica.  To my great chagrin, I overhear him sharing that his wife's family has been living in Costa Rica for many years and that she is in fact, somewhat of an "expert" on the subject, having traveled there countless times...! I cringe,  and cower deeper in my afghan.

He also uncovers that our hostess owns a farm several towns away, which she manages and rents out to vacationers...hmmm..., I'm thinking....  He discovers that this is our hostess' second marriage and that her new husband has suffered a history of strokes. In the time that we spend at the inn, we learn other interesting facts that help put together the puzzle about how this woman came to be our hostess. How she has survived an apparently dying town. She bought this property in the 60's and has made this place her objet d'art in progress. She is familiar with all of the major and minor art centers in the area. At one point she reveals  that her social needs are largely met by her guests. Some guests have even maintained contact for many years after their departure, she tells me. Running this inn is both her work and her play. It pains her to consider what her life would become if she were ever to become unable to run the inn. Her casual chat feels like a confession.

I do offer my assistance advising on the prospective Costa Rica trip and am impressed to learn that our hostess has well researched her trip. She already possesses a listing of all the places I would have recommended she visit. Some of these are quite off the beaten path. I also feel alarmed to hear that she will be renting a car and driving many hundreds of miles from coast to coast.  I try not to sound overly concerned, though i am,  knowing full well how potentially dangerous an undertaking this plan is, in a country where unfortunately, crime statistics targeted specifically at tourists, have tripled in the last ten years. I do not want to sound condescending, but supportive. How often does it happen, after all,  that a couple in their 70's plans a driving vacation in the backroads of a central american country-- and decides to leave the tour bus at home? I do, however, strongly recommend they arrange for a foreign GPS.

The morning we are to depart, we wake up to an enchanting and intimidating snowstorm. Over six inches already cover the ground and the fall is quick and steady.  At breakfast we enjoy a lively chat with the other various guests. The theme of this morning's discussion centers around public exposure on social networking sites. We share our work, where we live, our car troubles. These are themes that I usually find agonizingly dull. Most of these are not people I would pursue to be my friends. The likelihood of a future reencounter is nearing zero. But here we are. We have all somehow ended up in this quiet, nearly dried out, barely existent town, vacationing in the dead of winter, at this anomaly of an inn... Strange.
We mention our intention to drive back to Brooklyn in the late morning while the storm may still be manageable. Our hostess heads out of the house, shovel in hand. She proceeds to clear the steep and icy driveway--an intimidating prospect, all on her own. We watch her from the upstairs window of our room. She is agile, quick and efficient, and within a quarter of an hour has completed this arduous task.

We bring our bags out to the car and begin to wrap up our business dealings. There is a slight but bittersweet tension in the air. Our hostess walks us out to the car and bids us farewell. As we close the doors behind us, she requests we send an e-mail message to confirm our safe arrival. The parting feels awkward. We have shared these people's home. They have cooked our meals, neatly tidied our room each day while we visited abandoned orchards, collected slate. We have shared our morning coffee and theorized together about what creatures might have left their tracks in the snow. The ones by the large evergreen behind the compost heap look like bear tracks, we think. They differ and propose they might have been made by squirrels jumping from the trees....hmm....a possibility. Possibilities are like that. Things happen that you never imagined. Things are different than what you once thought. Your preconceptions are disproven.

Spring has now arrived. Impossible February has been survived and now seems far behind us. I am already thinking about Summer.

And That's The Thing About Tribes...

I have always been interested in tribes-- ancient tribes, urban tribes, culturally defined tribes...
But this blog is not about those, though it is also about them.
It's not about the noun, but about the verb. To tribalize, as opposed to tribialize (? )-- the action of thinking tribally, I do believe can only lead us into greater awareness, not only of our differences, but of our sameness, our relatedness and interdependence on one another.
We all belong to a tribe, or tribes. Willingly or unwillingly, knowingly or unknowingly. We are not only born into a tribe or tribes, but most importantly, we create or choose our tribes. Sometimes our tribe is easily and readily identifiable--sometimes it is less defined--a more elusive concept. Our tribe can be large, or small--maybe just a handful of local members with perhaps a larger and more broadly ranging membership worldwide. It is this, in particular that is the most exciting thing about tribal thinking.
The unofficial character of tribal belonging, must forever force us to question our defined limitations for identification of and requirements for tribal membership. But aside from these somewhat esoteric and intellectual concepts, there must be fun and lightheartedness, for a tribe must never take itself very seriously or it will surely die out, wither, dry up like shriveled kale... and THAT would be a great loss, because as I see it, we need tribes--many tribes, a multitude of tribes to keep it all interesting-- and working.
So, in the spirit of human planetary survival... let us share our tribal lore.
What's your tribe?