On this birthday I will make my usual wish: hard times come again no more.

UPDATE: A pretty good birthday. When it began, at midnight Wednesday morning, I was still awake writing a paper. In the morning I had to give a presentation on said paper. In the afternoon I had to give another brief presentation for a different class. But while the morning began with high winds and dark, cloudy skies, by five o’clock in the afternoon it was beautiful outside, and had gotten much cooler. I enjoyed lunch at Leo’s with my friends Anthony and Jessica, then dinner with Miriam, plus the Martinos, the Fagans, Kat and Harris, Leslie and Andy, and other GRRs. Everyone I saw was exceedingly kind, and the well-wishes on Facebook were touching. Then, when we got home, Miriam made me a big chocolate chip cookie shaped like a heart. And tomorrow we are going to Disney World. All is well.

Something had happened by the time I was a teenager, however. I had lost faith that I would ever travel. I remained fascinated by the world’s monuments and natural  wonders, but I doubted I would ever see them in person. I simply couldn’t imagine a scenario in which I would behold the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican, or the Alps. My doubts may have stemmed from my limited experience. While I had, as a boy, been to Atlanta, Chicago, Miami, and even New York City, I spent most of my time very near home. Indeed, years would pass in which I would not travel more than fifty miles from my home. Between 1986 and 1998 I left Florida one time.  So, I was, perhaps, understandably skeptical about my potential for future travel, particularly travel to exotic destinations. I simply couldn’t imagine having the opportunity.

Ten years ago today I stood in the middle of Piazza San Marco in Venice, “the drawing room of Europe”. Before me was St. Mark’s, consecrated in 1071. Nearby were the ancient Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile. Standing beside me was a beautiful girl who, I’ll confess, interested me more than whatever magnificent landmarks surrounded us. I had known her for barely six months that day, and had known her for as few as three months at the time she invited me on the voyage of a lifetime. Together, between May and June 2001, we visited a dozen cities and towns in five countries. Places I had only read about in the my Childcraft Library stretched out before me like a vision.

In Paris we stood atop the Eiffel Tower, and strolled the broad avenues designed by Baron Haussmann in the mid-nineteenth century. We crossed the Rhine and admired vast sunflower fields of central Germany, interrupted only by the occasional castle or village. In Leipzig we listened to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach in the church where he worked for the last decades of his life, and where he is buried in honor. In Munich we gazed with wonder at priceless art, including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. In Salzburg we saw Mozart’s own piano, stood on the stage at the Großes Festspielhaus, and strolled the indescribably charming baroque streets. In Vienna we toured the gardens of Schönbrunn and watched Tosca at the Staatsoper, which remains among the most perfect musical experiences of my life. We paid our respects at the graves of Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert, Schoenberg, and Wolf. In Rome we wandered about the ancient ruins. In Florence we ate the best ice cream we’d ever tasted. In Milan we dined in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. In spotlessly clean Switzerland we watched in amazement as a railroad worker scrubbed the track with a toothbrush. We stood atop a high mountain gazing down upon the unbearably lovely town of Chamonix, where one of us saw snow for the first time. In Normandy we walked across Omaha Beach, and saw the evidence of the enormous sacrifices made there, in the form of thousands of white marble crosses. We slogged through the mud around Mt. Saint-Michel. We were constantly in motion. And when we weren’t, we slept in fancy hotels with magnificent views of glaciers, and in run-down dumps with views of other run-down dumps.

The beautiful girl who stood beside me ten years ago today in Venice, and who slept beside me in luxurious hotel rooms and miserably uncomfortable train cabins, is asleep next to me right now. For over ten years she has shared with me nearly every experience in my life, both good and bad, and for the past six years she has shared my name. Today is her birthday.

Happy birthday, Angel. You are my rose, and lily, and dove, and sun.

 Also, I only heard “Felíz Navidad” once, and then it was performed by the finest group of musicians I have ever heard, Mariachi Cobre.

On another note, the biggest Christmas hit of 2010 was “Little Drummer Boy”.  It isn’t a carol I care much for, but it was simply bizarre how many times I heard it.  I asked around, and other people also noticed that “Little Drummer Boy” was everywhere this season.  Alas, nearly every version of the song I heard this year was terrible, and failed in one crucial respect: they lacked a drum.  The song’s title has the word “drum” in it; the speaker mentions that he is a drummer; the narrative hinges on the idea that he played his drum for the baby Jesus, and that that was his gift.  Forget for a moment that a drum would likely send a baby into a screaming fit.  The song makes no sense whatever if it’s not performed as a march with a prominent drum. 

This year I once again renew my call for a moratorium on new recordings of Christmas carols and songs.

In Gainesville, 3 July is a big day.  Since so many people are out of town in the summer, and those who are left often travel, the big fireworks display is held a day early.  Two years ago, in the midst of huge budget cuts, it was canceled, and only saved at the last minute by an anonymous donor who ponied up so everyone could enjoy a spectacle.  Last year, though, no savior came forth, and the town was silent and dark.  Since fireworks were scheduled to return this year, there was excitement all over town, and especially in my heart.

In the afternoon we were invited to a pool party out in the country near Newberry.  We drove way out of Gainesville before heading north on a narrow two-lane road, and finally an unmarked dirt road.  Posted signs led us to the party.  All the derby girls were there, many with their significant others, and some even brought their children.  It was a huge crowd.

Everyone brought some food or drink.  Since the party had a luau theme I took Hawaiian Punch.  Sara made Jell-O shots–dozens of them–and they were wildly popular.  As time went on the girls went from eating them individually, to eating them in unison, and finally to feeding them to one another.  Eventually though, it turned into a game of catch, albeit with limited success. Everyone seemed to enjoy all the food.

The weather was hot, of course, but mostly overcast.  It seemed as though it might rain at any time, and for a little while it did sprinkle a bit, but not for long.  And whatever rain and occasional thunder there was didn’t keep anyone from swimming in the pool.  At one point there were twenty-five people in the water.  I was more excited about the homemade slip and slide.  Kaylen brought plastic sheeting and baby shampoo, and I helped lay out and spray down the plastic.  I hadn’t been on a slip and/or slide in years and I was really looking forward to it.  It was fun, but the ground where we set it up–the only place available–wasn’t especially soft or smooth.  As you slid you could feel every bump.  But a lot of people tried it out, and the kids loved it especially.

By the late afternoon it seemed like the storm clouds were gathering in the east, and with the Jell-O shots depleted people began to depart.  As we made it into town the sky was black.  We met up with Robin, Sarah Jean, and Kerri back at Kerri’s place.

The fireworks on campus begin at 9:30, and we hoped to get there before nine o’clock to find a good place on Flavet Field to set up our blanket.  Two years ago, at the last Fanfares and Fireworks, we had all met up and enjoyed the music and fireworks together.  This time, though, the rain that persisted well into the early evening meant that the field would be wet, so we also had some plastic to put beneath the blanket.  We arrived on campus shortly after 8:30, and I hoped that the rain was done for good.  But the storms that afternoon were not like the typical summer storms that come in swiftly, rain violently for an hour, then move on leaving clear skies.  This storm rained slow and steady for hours, not looking to let up.  We parked initially behind Weil Hall, but as no other cars were parked there, we thought perhaps other people knew something we didn’t, namely that the fireworks had been postponed due to rain.  The radio provided no information at all.  So we drove over toward the the Keys Complex across from McKethan Stadium where we found a police officer directing traffic.  She told us that no decision would be made until after nine o’clock.  So we drove back and parked again, and began walking.  But by the time we reached the corner of Gale Lemerand and Stadium Road the skies opened up again, and it began raining so hard that it was nearly impossible to see.

It was not quite nine o’clock, but the weather was so bad that all of us–including me–thought there was no way they could put on a fireworks display.  We decided then and there to cut our losses and go home.  Of all people, I am the most in love with fireworks and would be the last to be convinced that they might be canceled, but I saw no way that they could go on in that weather, and I did not doubt my conclusion for a moment.  On the way back to the car, as the deluge reached absurd proportions, we covered ourselves with whatever tarps and blankets we had.  When we reached our vehicle and I fumbled for the car keys, Kerri stood with her arms akimbo and asked me to take her picture.  I snapped a quick photograph, which involved the camera experiencing no more than three or four seconds of direct exposure to the elements, but that turned out to be a bad idea.  The picture you see here was the last my Nikon D70 would ever take.

The next morning I awoke and hung my flag on the house outside.  I read the newspaper which contained the shocking news that the fireworks display had, in fact, gone off as planned, though with a slight delay.  I couldn’t believe it.  Evidently there had been a brief window just before ten o’clock in which the rain subsided and they could uncover the pyrotechnic machinery.  I was, of course, sorry that I missed the fireworks, but I couldn’t feel sad about it.  The rain the night before had been so extreme that my very best judgment concluded fireworks were impossible.  I had not been talked into giving up, nor had I felt there was even a small chance.  In any case, I was actually glad that the few intrepid souls who had braved the weather were rewarded for their efforts.  They deserved it.

We had been invited back to Matt and Kerri’s house for barbecue and fun that evening.  Matt had kindly provided IBC cream soda again, which was a delightful treat.  I didn’t eat anything, but there was a whole buffet laid out, and, if I recall, everyone brought something.  Sarah Jean was there, of course, and Kat and Harris came, too.  After dark we set off our own cheap fireworks.  Sarah Jean made the most ghetto pyrotechnic display I’d ever seen, which consisted of a flaming black plastic trash bag hanging from a branch that dripped boiling liquid plastic onto the ground as the fire burned its way up the length of the bag.  We all had sparklers, and Kaylen brought some more impressive Roman candles and bottle rockets and such.  We did all of this in Matt and Kerri’s front yard along Northeast Ninth Street.  My camera was broken, so I was sad to only be able to capture the goings on with my cellphone camera, but that’s all I got.

Back inside the house we played the original Super Mario Bros. on Nintendo, and it was great.  I had never had that game, which was included with each Nintendo game console, because my system came with a book instead.  So I never got good at Super Mario, either.  That hasn’t changed.  Harris was expert.  We had a lot of fun.

And that was Independence Day 2010.

Miriam is obsessively thorough in her research of hotels, so we knew in advance that our room in Richmond contained a small refrigerator.  This was good news, since she always has leftovers from dinner, and getting two meals out of one is a good way to save money on the road.  Alas, we awoke to the disappointment of finding our room’s refrigerator not cold at all.  When we went to the desk to complain the clerk explained that they unplug the appliances when guests check out to save energy.  That’s a fine idea, but I wish they’d told us in advance.  Miriam’s breakfast was lost.  Fortunately, the regretful clerk offered us their buffet for free.  I made my own waffle, and placed it atop a mountain of bacon.  And, in spite of the refrigerator blunder, the hotel was quite nice and a good value.  By the end of the day, however, we’d be sleeping in a hotel so opulent that it would make even the fanciest of hotels seem like a Bangladeshi sewage treatment plant.

We were packed into the car and heading back north on I-95 as soon as we finished breakfast.  Our destination was Washington, D.C., but in the mean time I was excited to be traveling through the real heart of the Civil War.  The names of towns, counties, and rivers that we passed along our route stood out to me as landmarks in some great historical atlas.  I vividly recall the roadsigns for battlefields seeming like a chronicle of the War’s progression: Fredericksburg, Gaines’ Mill, Wilderness, Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and so on.   I remember looking out the window as we crossed the Rappahannock River.  The highway went from maybe six lanes to at least a dozen as we approached the Beltway encircling the District of Columbia.  In the middle was a lane that can be used for traffic going in either direction, which can be changed depending on the time of day.  We crossed the Potomac and got our first look at Washington.

I have driven a car in Puerto Rico, so almost no amount of traffic or dangerous road conditions can upset me too much anymore.  That said, Washington is a frustrating place to drive, if only because unpredictable road closures render almost any system of navigation, old-fashioned or electronic, useless.  Miriam is fond of using the GPS device on her phone.  In many places that gadget would suffice.  In Washington, however, it will say, “Turn right at Pennsylvania Avenue”, unaware that attempting to turn right at Pennsylvania Avenue would result in a significant Department of Homeland Security incident.  We had a hotel reservation and a car.  But we didn’t want to valet to park our car at the hotel because that would be absurdly expensive.  Finding a reasonably-priced garage near our hotel was challenging.  Meanwhile, Miriam was nervous that the hotel would demand a substantial deposit above and beyond the price of the room, which was already paid.  In Puerto Rico last year, the resort there demanded many hundreds of dollars as a deposit, which significantly depleted our walkin’ around money.  The price of our room in San Juan, however, was a bargain compared to the price of our room in Washington.  If we had to pay a thousand dollars as a deposit in D.C., our time there would be significantly less lavish.  I could not imagine how they would expect guests to front so much money, so I was not nearly as worried as Miriam.  And, thankfully for both of us, no unreasonable deposit was required.

The Willard Hotel is historic.  There is no disputing that fact.  Every important political figure of the past two centuries has either stayed there or visited.  The original building has been replaced by a far more grandiose one, which would look quite at home in Paris, but the new building has a legacy almost as rich.  The lobby is opulent, with the seals of the fifty states painted on the coffered ceiling.  Behind the reception desk are old fashioned slots for room keys.  The Pennsylvania Avenue side of the hotel is one floor lower than the F Street side: to get up to F Street you pass through a long corridor and up some steps, where there is a second small, but still fancy lobby.  Our room, No. 914, was on a high floor facing east.  You can see our room’s window, surrounded by fluted stonework, directly above the very center of this photograph.  When we first got to our room a tuxedo-clad man was exiting, having just left a basket of fruit on a table by the window.  The radio was on, and I took it as a good sign that Schumann’s Konzertstück for For Horns was playing.  The furnishings were elegant, and the bed was comfortable.  The bathroom appeared to be made entirely of marble.

We didn’t stay in the room long.  In fact, we put our bags down and almost immediately took off for the Mall.  On our previous trip to Washington, the National Museum of American History was closed.  We were so disappointed to miss it then, and our return trip was prompted, in large part, by our desire to see the treasures that great museum holds.  We walked briskly down 14th Street and entered the building along Constitution Avenue.  Inside the lobby, long glass display cases hold assorted neat things: fancy jars for leeches, pretty kitty dresses, C-3POs, shirts for Magnum, P.I.s, and so on.  The Smithsonian exhibits are arranged by subject, with a “featured artifact” displayed prominently.  At the transportation exhibit, for example, a historic locomotive sits on rails.  In that area they had an old car from the Chicago L, a D.C. streetcar, old automobiles, a ship’s engine, and several locomotives, including one spectacular early-twentieth century engine with wheels as tall as me.  The first ladies’ gowns were extremely popular, and people pressed their faces against the glass to get a look.  Everyone who passed it stopped and stared at Mrs. Obama’s dress.  Another star attraction at the Smithsonian is Julia Child’s kitchen.  We spent so much time looking at every little thing that the museum closed and we had to leave.  We weren’t willing to rush it and miss things, so we decided we’d come back the next day.

We still had hours of daylight, and I thought we might check out the view from the tower at the Old Post Office, but, alas, it was closed.  So we took a leisurely walk back to the hotel to get ready for our night out.  We were looking sharp.

I had made us reservations at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street, just a half block from our hotel.  It’s an old place, and remarkably popular.  The bar is legendary.  It had a great atmosphere, and, to my great relief, Mrs. Hill was very pleased with the menu.  She loved her meal; I loved mine.  The service was impeccable.  The prices were not obscene.  Sure, it was more than we usually spend on a meal, but it was special.  They had a painting hanging on the wall there that I loved, and were it not larger than me, I’d have been tempted to snatch it off the wall and abscond with it.   All together, the dinner was an experience we won’t forget.

Though it was after ten o’clock, we weren’t ready to turn in just yet, so we took the short walk around the White House grounds.  The skies were cloudy, but the temperature was comfortable, and the walk back to our hotel was pleasant.  The lobby was quiet at that hour, and we took the time to explore more of the hotel before heading up to our room.  Once there, we found little chocolates on our bed, and the covers had been turned down.