Tag: life

Every journey begins with the first step.

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So my friends, how did I get to writing about travel, memories, and my experiences around the world? The answer is in the famous quote from St Augustine: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

I’ve always felt that life becomes even more beautiful when it’s driven by curiosity, creativity, and a touch of wonder. Whether I’m jotting down ideas in a notebook or simply watching the clouds drifting by, I truly enjoy dreaming about what’s possible and finding magic in everyday moments. Travel means the world to me—I love discovering new places, meeting interesting people, and gaining thoughts on how different cultures celebrate life in their own special ways.

I’ve been amazed, delighted, and yes, on occasion, frightened at what I’ve found. Yet I continue to peek around corners and into things that seem interesting to me anywhere and everywhere. Every single experience has been memorable. I’ve met people from every walk of life, tasted food that I loved and hated, traveled luxuriously on Concorde, Cunard, and my all-time favorite, Pan Am’s 747 services. 

While I love to roam, my heart always circles back to what matters most: the people I care about. I cherish meaningful conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments with those I love. Life is an open book—and I’m grateful for every chapter written with good company. Truth be told, I know I never want to reach the end of the line.

I went to school for 5 days to learn how to pump gas.

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As I was climbing the ladder of success in San Francisco, my dad helped me secure a job at Standard Stations (Standard Oil). The experience was unimaginable, especially in light of recent events. The company maintained a school for the new service station recruits, located right across the street from one of the leading vehicle entrances to Golden Gate Park. That guaranteed constant business.

It was a 5-day course over one week, with a structured curriculum that included courtesy, speed, a standard repertoire to people, how to check oil and tire pressure, and, yes, pump gas in an approved manner. It also required classroom time and graded results. Amazingly, it also included a company uniform precisely like the ones the team in the photo is wearing (including that snappy white hat). They issued two uniform sets, so we all looked perfect despite the inevitable oil spill.

I was about 17 years old during this brief but memorable experience. I went on to some even more incredible work experiences that, even now, I wonder how in the world I was hired.

Today I was thinking of memories of 911.

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When the tragedy happened, people were stunned. For those who worked there or had friends, it was unimaginable. Although I didn’t live in New York at the time, for a moment, we were all New Yorkers. As the years passed and the museum and new development progressed, I often thought of visiting, but didn’t want to, perhaps because my memories of the buildings were too strong, making it hard to believe they no longer existed. 

For a couple of months, I worked temporarily in one of the towers. Coming and going was a mad rush of people going in and out. Our offices were on the 90-something floor. Going up was unusual; we could hear the whooshing of air as the elevator flew up to our floor.

After putting it off for years, on a visit to New York City around my birthday, I did head to the museum for a long-overdue tour. It was time. As I visited the museum, the buildings’ memories, the vibrancy of the activity in and around them, and the subsequent devastating loss of life were overwhelming. There are so many memories – and they all came flooding back the second I walked into the exhibits. The young and newly married husband of my daughter’s high school friend was memorialized there forever. She was 3 months pregnant with their daughter when he died, and while their lives have gone on without him, his name is carved in stone as a constant reminder of horrific and unnecessary loss.

There are artifacts, remembrances, photos, voices, clippings, steel pieces, and concrete at every turn in the museum. In the background, through the silence, everyone hears the song “Amazing Grace” played softly and so well by a bagpipe musician. It isn’t a museum of paintings and sculptures created hundreds of years ago — it’s a living, breathing, and powerful reminder of people, places, and an event that was (and is) unimaginable to everyone. Please don’t miss this experience. It will remain in your thoughts forever.

The Postal Service needs help, now.

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Our United States Postal Service is in a jam, and we all need to help them. I read recently (and should have remembered it) that Benjamin Franklin was our first Postmaster; he was an innovator and revived the then-Colonial Postal Service to increase efficiency and profitability. We need you, Ben, right now. Nearly every resident of The United States is involved with the USPS and with their carriers, and station staff. People in small towns, large metro areas, every state, and US Territories depend on them. Military and government personnel worldwide rely on the USPS to facilitate the delivery of their mail. We all need their services.

I’ve am a life-long user of “real mail.” Even before the pandemic, and despite the emergence of new ways to communicate, my respect for the USPS remains solid. Nearly everyone I know in business, family, and social circles is aware of (and has received) real mail from me. I prefer hand-written notes and actual postage stamps; each envelope I drop into a USPS mailbox is a personal message from me to another. Today, I read an article about the USPS financial dilemma; people using 1st Class mail is way down, which creates a huge revenue problem for the organization. In my view, now, more than ever, people need to be in touch with family and friends.

Buying and using a postage stamp to send a greeting is a super investment in our USPS. Just imagine this: if 1% of the Nation’s population started buying and using stamps to aid communications, the USPS might be out of their downward spiral. I’ll send a few notes out today, so count me in. I’m happy to help.

The 3 most powerful words used in the South are: “Bless Your Heart.”

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If you live in any Southern State, you’re probably familiar with hearing this phrase almost every day. People of all ages and genders in the South often use it, and it’s seen as a classic example of social commentary—something that can be personalized in many ways.

For instance, you might say: ‘Bless her, his, their, and your hearts.’ This phrase is a way of expressing your thoughts, which could be anything from: “That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen” to “That house is painted the worst color, ever.” The key is to quickly add the “Bless” word, which gently softens your comment and keeps everyone feeling good.

Living and learning in the south is a challenge, especially for a boy born and raised in San Francisco. However, after 20 years here, I have been able to blend in quite well.

My dad’s ’39 Chevvy sure made memories for me.

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My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevvy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like this image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of the vehicle.

My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded away; the seats were covered by a light tan, fuzzy carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.

Certain features of the car are so clear to me. The starter pedal was on the floor; once my dad turned the key, he had to mash this giant button to start the engine with his foot. At the same time, the gears were neutral. It ground away until the engine caught on; after a few more noises and gear shifting, we were off and rolling.

Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. One memory stands out. My dad had a canvas water bag he filled for us to use on the trip. This bag had a rope handle and a sort-of clip-up opening for when you wanted a drink. The secret to keeping water cool was to hang the bag (by the rope) over one of the car’s front bumper guards so airflow would keep it cool. Or, so he claimed.

My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.

This encore took 30+years to happen.

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More than 30 years ago, I walked my daughter down the aisle on her wedding day. Not long ago, I walked the same aisle of this church to honor my eldest granddaughter on her own wedding day. It was an immediate flashback to many years ago; many of my daughter’s friends, bridesmaids, and guests who participated in her wedding were back for her daughter’s. I’ve known several of her friends since they were in 2nd grade through high school.

I must confess, more than one of her friends recognized me before I clicked on who they were. Seeing them was so much fun: little girls at first glance, beautiful moms with grown children of their own a moment later. As I watched my granddaughter and her now-husband go through their ceremony, I couldn’t help but smile at what they will experience in years to come. They have a wonderful daughter now; I know, one day Olivia will walk down that very aisle in her own beautiful wedding gown. I love that thought.

Stuff changes over time.

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When I was a kid in San Francisco, we got through life without being concerned with the things that are around today. Now, every day I read about people’s current concerns that were unheard of when I was growing up. I didn’t know a single person then who was a vegan, lactose-intolerant, concerned about GMO issues, or allergic to gluten products.

We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles). At home, we had tap water in the kitchen and bathroom, and best of all, we drank from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I knew died from contaminated water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for future airplanes. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job of protecting them. They actually protected passengers and prevented significant damage to the vehicle. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant-quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores emerged. Our corner grocery store was the equivalent of a modern-day Kroger. It was about half a block from our house, and my mom dispatched me regularly for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch was a gas flame resembling a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We had never heard of packaged chicken.

We used to have this amazing social media platform—imagine a 4-party telephone line! It was just wonderful; four families sharing one phone line, each with their own distinct ring. It’s funny to think that everyone was listening in on each other sometimes. That was like instant social media, way before the 5G speeds people are eager for today. I could go on and on about thoughts like this. I know many others have similar childhood memories, and it warms my heart to see how small things can create such meaningful connections. To everyone who has supported me along the way, I truly appreciate you!

Every journey begins with the first step

~ globalwhiz@protonmail.com ~ Leave a comment
P1100700

So my friends, how did I get to writing about travel, memories, and my experiences around the world? The answer is in the famous quote from St Augustine: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

In April of 1966, I began my first overseas job. I’ve always believed that life is richer when fueled by curiosity, creativity, and a sense of wonder. Whether I’m scribbling ideas in a notebook or watching the clouds roll by, I find joy in imagining what’s possible and chasing after the magic in everyday moments. Travel is one of my greatest passions. I love exploring new places, meeting new people, and learning about the diverse ways different cultures celebrate life.

I’ve been amazed, delighted, and yes, on occasion, frightened at what I’ve found. Yet I continue to peek around corners and into things that seem interesting to me anywhere and everywhere. Every single experience has been memorable. I’ve met people from every walk of life, tasted food that I loved and hated, traveled luxuriously on Concorde, Cunard, and my all-time favorite, Pan Am’s 747 services. 

While I love to roam, my heart always circles back to what matters most: the people I care about. I cherish meaningful conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments with those I love. Life is an open book—and I’m grateful for every chapter written with good company. Travel is one of my greatest passions. I love exploring new places, meeting new people, and learning how different cultures celebrate life. Truth be told, I know I never want to reach the end of the line.