When the going gets tough, the tough go traveling!
An excerpt from Adventures By Sailplane
B.S. (By Sailplane) B.C. (Before Cancer)
New Orleans 1988
The Zoo To Do is a huge party to raise money for the Audubon Zoo. Local restaurants and entertainers are staged throughout the zoo grounds, and you eat, drink and dance yourself silly ’til dawn. With the exception of the alligator pits ( for obvious reasons) much of the grounds are open and young docents wander the crowds introducing a range of docile creatures to potential donors. It’s a great evening for everyone.
Not to be eclipsed by the celebrations of a mere institution, Monsieur le Doctor offered pre-party nuptials and hired private transportation for the evening. In this manner we would not have to deal with the indignities of public parking, nor would the ladies needlessly expend their energy hobbling on fashionable high heeled shoes from some remote parking locale.
So in our finery, we were delivered to the ZooToDo and we played in the steamy evening air. We ate bananas foster, jambalaya and trout meneure under the stars. We danced, we drank and we had a wonderful time. And at the end of the evening, we were driven back to Henry’s house on the park for the obligatory nightcap.
In the wee hours of the morning, filled with food, drink and exhausted by dance, we piled out of the house, profusely thanking our host for a memorable evening. Henry climbed drunkenly onto his front stoop singing the French anthem, the Marseilles. It was time to call it a night.
We started to search for the car. Where had we left it? Would it still be there?
Just as this quandary permeated our sluggish brains, John appeared from the shadows.
“May I help you find your car sir?” he asked in his unmistakable New Orleanian drawl. And he escorted us to our vehicle and made sure we got headed off in the right direction. The rest was up to us.
There is a lesson in this story of NOLA fun and excess circa 1988 or so: Apparently in New Orleans, if you can find your car, you are not considered too drunk to drive.
When the going gets tough, the tough go traveling!
An excerpt from Adventures By Sailplane
B.S. (By Sailplane) B.C. (Before Cancer)
I think some of my most joyous days flying were early on, when everything was fresh and new and full of potential It was all such incredible endless fun. First to fly, then to solo, then to fly new airplanes. I felt invincible as I moved from one task to another.
Same for flying cross country, to a destination away from my home field. I took off, sure that I would go wherever it was I intended. I had no doubt that I would find the lift I needed or that I would return to my home field at the end of the day. I soared the air, oblivious to any consequences. Consequences were not yet a part of my vocabulary.
Of course my wanderlust was tempered with some awareness. A strong headwind would absolutely prevent the small sailplane I flew from making any headway and I factored that into my consideration. A day of bad weather dictated the soaring possibilities. A big deck of clouds meant no lift and there was no arguing with that. But all in all, if there was even a bit of lift, I was game to go fly.
As long as I remained oblivious to reality, the reality of the weather, the risks, my own skill level, I moved forward. I knew no fear. I had no experience. I knew no bounds.
What is #CancerRoadTrip and how did it come to be? Read this post to get the backstory!
Once upon a time, decades ago, I graduated from Wharton. I worked in the private placement market in New York–the smallest deal amount was a quarter of a billion (that was real money in those days); I worked on the first billion dollar leveraged buy-out (Congoleum).
I rather got Gordon Gecko. After all, I moved in that amoral world of money and finance. There was no room for feeling or care. Numbers, numbers, numbers. No room for error. No need for human contemplation.
I’ve been away from the corporate world for a long time now, but it seems nothing much has changed. The numbers have gotten bigger. The leverage greater. I wonder if it isn’t all primed to blow like the building in my dream last night.
If it is, it’s a good time to sell the house. If it isn’t, oh well! I’ve never been very good at tactical decisions. Strategic movements and trends are more my forte. I listened to an interview with Jim Rogers the other day.What an interesting life he has led. His aw shucks southern drawl may mask a brilliant mind to those not in the know, but his reputation precedes him. I admire him. If you don’t know who Jim Rogers is, here is the interview (Jim Rogers comes in at 13:22):
Jim Rogers has had two amazing #RoadTrips. One around the world on his motorcycle: Investment Biker: Around the World with Jim Rogers; the other around the world in a bit more comfort via automobile. An adventurer, in capital markets and in life.
“Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.” ~William Dement
I wake up terrified. A heaviness sits on my chest. I feel paralyzed.
In the dream, a team of men in black run through a building laying small charges along the floor, then splashing everything with some sort of flammable liquid. The building is empty. Concrete floors and metal furniture.
I see this happening yet I am at an outdoor cafe with friends. One of them had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and she was sitting, topless, enjoying the sun. She swung her beautiful long hair from side to side. I clamored out of my seat. I had to go. I had to leave.
I collected my things in a brown paper bag and I started walking away. I left behind a blue and white chinese porcelain pot that I just love. I couldn’t carry it with me. I could just see it sitting there, one of my favorite possessions, and I had to leave it. I crossed the street, walked along side of the stone building and quickly turned the corner.
I walked more quickly; I ran; another block and another, putting buildings between me and the coming explosion. When the building blew, I wanted to avoid the debris that would fly through the air.
But nothing happened.
We were expected to go back to work tomorrow in the building that was primed to blow.
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What is #CancerRoadTrip and how did it come to be? Read this post to get the backstory!
When the going gets tough, the tough go traveling!
An excerpt from Adventures By Sailplane
B.S. (By Sailplane) B.C. (Before Cancer)
New Haven, CT 1981-1987
If I could put my finger on a time when things were good, it would have been the days in Connecticut, at Yale, when we were young and all powerful, out untested futures unlimited in our limited egocentric minds. The path was straight and clear. The arrogance of youth is such great, self absorbing fun.
Fun may not be quite the word one associates with a surgical residency, but coastal Connecticut was probably about as good as it gets. Yale-New Haven Hospital is an inner city hospital, with its share of gunshot wounds and drugs, but it’ s not quite as brutal as say Bellevue in New York or Charity in New Orleans. Enough gore to learn surgical technique, without your patients being a constant threat to your life. Except for AIDS. That threat was a continual apparition never far from mind.
We lived in a rented condominium near the water. (Michael told people we owned it; we didn’t) Our deck faced a marsh which swayed with the seasons, harboring wildlife and served as a passage for their migrations. The view off land’s edge was simply spectacular.
Just down the coast the Yale Yacht Club ( a misnomer if ever there was one–it was a somewhat run down seaside structure where sailboats are available on a first come, first served basis) sends its regattas off into the water. It was inexpensive sailing, and if you didn’t mind the wait, it was a great way to play on the water.
Our friends in New Haven formed an interesting circle. Authors, academics, students, Chinese exchange students and my favorite neighbor, Eva. Eva was a big girl-over two hundred pounds-and a bit on the garish side. But lovable and fun beyond reason. We were exact opposites and we soon became fast friends. I have one picture of the two of us in Newport. It was a beautiful clear Saturday morning and we’d driven up to see the mansions. I was rather blasé about the whole trip, but Eva, who had grown up in Czechoslovakia, left in 1967 and emigrated to Canada was life’s perpetual tourist and I had to honor her enthusiasms. There is a picture of us- it is a study in contrasts and I love it dearly. I am standing oh-so-preppy-proper in my boots, herringbone skirt, turtle neck and tweed blazer. Eva is towering over me in stretch lycra, leather and hair. We both smiled for the camera under blue skies. I will always remember that picture when I think of sunny Connecticut days.
Overall, New Haven life seemed to agree with us both. Connecticut was a wonderful combination of people, places and events. I think of those days as eclectic, but proper, preppy protected days. Evenings at Griswold Inn in Essex, munching popcorn and ordering carpetbaggers (filet mignons, grilled, split then stuffed with deep fried oysters). For New Year’s there was champagne along the Connecticut River with Chip and his girlfriend du jour; island parties for the fourth of July; boating and squash; football games and tailgate parties; and a wonderfully isolated world of privileged young adulthood. If only those days could have continued. But all things end, and with the completion of Michael’s residency, people dashed off in different directions to start fellowships. Having selected the locale exotique of the class, everyone promised to visit in New Orleans.
Inspiration, joy & discovery through travel. Oh, did I mention with supposedly incurable cancer?
What's on your bucket list?
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CancerRoadTrip is about making lemonade out of lemons.
As you read my story, you may want to start at the beginning to "grok" how CancerRoadTrip came to be. You can click here to start at the end (which is actually the beginning) and read forward! The posts are chronological, with the most recent posts appearing on the front page.
Jim Rogers has had two amazing #RoadTrips. One around the world on his motorcycle: 
; the other around the world in a bit more comfort via automobile. An adventurer, in capital markets and in life.
