Sleepless Night

in the dream I fall into the sleepless sea
with a swell of panic and pain
my veins are aching for the distant reef
in the crush of emotional waves...

hey, can you picture the sight
the figures on the beach in the searing night
and the roaring hurt of my silent fight...
can you pull me out
of this sleepless night
can you pull me out?...

King Crimson

A View from the Cocoon

“When you get right down to it, what we all need is a place to go... A place where we can escape the noise of our lives and just relax.”

Takayuki Ikkaku

Gordon & the Party Pig

“What men call good fellowship is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter which lie close together to keep each other warm.”

Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)

Deep in the Alaskan wilderness I have rediscovered a long forgotten masculine culture of vibrato, camaraderie and unabashed verbal torment. In my present lifestyle of receptions and committee meetings, the essence of the exclusive blue collar boys club has disappeared from my lexicon. I traveled to the fringe of humanity with my brother who had not been outside a house filled with small children in seven years only to find how rusty and atrophied our masculine social skills were. Rather quickly I picked up my old New Jersey swagger, while my brother seemed to require more time to shake off the stench of domestication.

Male culture appears on the outside to be a cruel, punitive verbal assault based on intense competition which attempts to exploit perceived weakness of the individuals of the group. Under the surface is a genuine sincere team building process in which each individual is challenged to exceed personal limitations in order to gain rank in the group. The primary tool in this process is humor, whether targeted at an individual or more commonly self deprecating and targeted at one owns weaknesses. The topics of ridicule haven’t changed since my youth and remain manhood, femininity, homosexuality, sexual prowess, physical endowment, physical ability, mental ability and the most dreaded attribute, the lack of dominance in your personal relationships (commonly referred to as pussy whipped). Within these topics most verbal taunts are fair game with the objective of getting the largest rise from the tribe. To the uninitiated the language can be shocking and exceptionally offensive which actually delivers a higher score whenever you can make this jaded group of male apes cringe.

Fishing for salmon and halibut in the ocean may sound like a leisurely excursion, but it is exceptionally strenuous and physically demanding. It challenges every ounce of your conditioning and fortitude. Typically the group arises at 3:45 in the morning for a large country breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. The group gets fitted in waders and rain gear as the fishing equipment is hauled to the dock. The boat pushes off at 4:50 am for what can only be considered as the most spectacular one hour boat ride to the fishing grounds. Low hanging fog and clouds cling to the mountains as the sun rises burning openings in the cover revealing brilliant colors of red, orange and blue. The air is crisp as it chills one to the bone. Approaching the open ocean the boat encounters rolling surf which turns the vessel into a violent cement mixer. The violent thrashing of the boat requires everyone to brace themselves with considerable exertion as you are physically lifted 12 inches off the ground only to return to the vessel with a brutal pounding. The experience reminded of me of what World War I veterans must have endured while being shelled in the trenches. At the end of three days the heels of my feet were covered with bone bruises from the violent collisions with the steel deck of the boat, not to mention the constant aching of my knees, hips, kidneys and liver. I felt like I endured twelve rounds with a Mexican fighter that focused his attack on body punching. During a day of fishing one experiences this physical beating for about two hours in 30 minute increments as we reposition ourselves to where the fish are biting.

The vessel consists of our captain named Carrington, a first mate and five fishermen. Our captain was in fact our first mate during the last trip three years ago so we ready had a warm friendship with the skipper. The first mate is the boat grunt whose exertion exceeds everyone’s plus some. He is responsible for baiting hooks, hauling up the anchor, untangling knots, gaffing fish into the boat, gutting the fish and cleaning the deck. Our first mate is a sixteen year old named Gordon who is on his maiden voyage as a deck hand. We asked the girls that work at the lodge about Gordon. They said he was sensitive, quiet and frail. Our first question was “Do you think we can make him cry? Do you think we can make him quit?” The girls were confident he would hang in there and pass the male test. The way life on the water works is that the second you push away from the dock all laws of humanity are suspended and feudal law starts with the captain in charge.

The fishing boat is simple without any comforts such as seats or cushions. Typically everyone sits on fishing coolers or tackle boxes. The gunnels on the side of the boat are solid aluminum that extends only to slightly lower than your knee so that there is nothing to brace yourself with as the boat rocks and rolls in the open sea. Your knees and legs are constantly battered by the gunnels. This is not a trip for the girls, for the restroom is a five gallon plastic bucket that is placed on the forward deck. The easiest way to become the target of verbal abuse is needing to “hit the bucket”.

Fishing is accomplished for the most part while standing with heavy tackle to overcome the sea currents. The captain notes on the sonar “Ho’s (Coho Salmon) at 195 feet.” We drop the weighted line to 210 feet then immediately reel it up allowing the bait to spin and flash silver as you pull through the school tempting the salmon. The physical exertion is continuous as you drop the line and reel it back up on a shifting unstable platform. It did not take long for my forearms, biceps, shoulders and back muscles to begin to burn and cramp. The first day the captain did not know I was left handed so I had to reel in a crossover position with a right handed reel. For it, I garnered my share of attention as I heard “What the f--------. You work that reel like a girl.” At one point my forearm cramped so badly that for the next 45 minutes the cramps would return whenever I bent my elbow. The following day the captain took my left handed reel in order to pull the line up for another fisherman and remarked “Damn your one tough son of a bitch! I can believe how f------ hard it is to work a reel in reverse and you did it for an entire day.” There was only one standard male response to such a compliment “F---- you. You're just a pussy.”

All of a sudden the reason you have endured all the pain and discomfort becomes apparent as a thirty pound king salmon strikes your bait and the fight begins. King salmon will struggle some as you pull them up from 190 feet of water, but all of a sudden they realize they are approaching the surface and takes off like a rocket. The reel screams with a shrill whistle as the salmon rips off 300 or 400 hundred feet of line and all you can do to hang on to dear life as they head for the sea floor or tail dance across the surface on the horizon. After the run concludes you begin to slowly pull the fish back toward the boat reeling two feet at a time using every muscle in you upper body. After 10 minutes as the fish approaches the boat again and teases you with a fuzzy glimpse of silver when the reel screams again as another 300 to 400 feet of line is ripped off. The largest salmon I hooked ran four times and took about 45 minutes to get in the boat.

King salmon won’t allow you to stand on one place on the boat and reel them in, they run in every direction even under the boat so you are constantly lapping the deck attempting to keep your line perpendicular to the vessel. You may end up lapping the deck eights times crawling over and under the lines of the other fisherman, anchor and propellers. You can’t imagine how exciting it is when three fishermen are working king salmon at the same time screaming running around the boat trying to keep the lines untangled. About half the time they spit the hook out and the fight is prematurely over. Finally you are able to get one in the boat to the sound of the guys congratulating you “Not bad for a girl with a peg leg! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were gay.” There you stand drenched in sweat as every muscle is burning from exhaustion and the senses in hyper drive. In some instances I’m so spent that I’m unable to lift the fish up on the gaff in order to get the obligatory photo. The limelight pales quickly as you reach into the cooler for another beer and immediately drop the line for another round.

When the fish are hitting the captain is controlling the activity, yelling instructions to the novice fisherman. He is usually responsible for getting the big fish in the boat. Halibut over fifty pounds are so dangerous that they are shot with a shot shotgun before they are pulled into the boat. The tail slaps of Halibut are so powerful that they can easily break leg or even kill someone. What could appeal to the male mind more than fishing, beer, cursing and shooting something with a gun? In the process of running around the boat with a gun attempting to subdue a 127 pound halibut the captain tripped over some bait buckets and screamed “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the Hell are you doing? Clean up this f------ mess.” A short time later one of the fishermen was working a king salmon while the captain was in the cabin. During a forceful pull of the rod the salmon spit out the hook rocketing the eight ounce lead counterweight at the boat at a horrific speed. Before anyone knew it the lead counterweight slammed into the top of the metal cabin with the sound of a grenade exploding surprising everyone aboard. Suddenly a voice erupts from the cabin “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” It didn’t take the group long to pick up on the theme of this trip “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?”

It probably didn’t help that Gordon didn’t take to the sea well and in a short time he was seasick and chumming off the bow. This was all the more reason for the boys to help young Gordon to work on his weaknesses and offer some support helping him become an esteemed member of the tribe. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? I need my hook baited”

Poor Gordon not fully familiar with male rituals actually attempted a reply “I’m sorry I’ll be there after I’m done vomiting.”

Needless to say it provided too easy of a retort “God Damn it Gordon!!! You can vomit later there are Ho’s waiting for me”. The entire group took some pride in educating Gordon on the male rituals of manhood. After Gordon disposed of breakfast we offered some manly support “Gordon you look like shit, you better drink a beer.” That consoling gesture was followed with “God Damn it Gordon, my f------- grandmother can vomit better than that.” The male equivalent of “Go walk it off.”

After a few moments of silence you would hear the mindless banter “I’m having so much f------ fun with you girls that I think I’ll commemorate the experience when I get back to port by having a little butterfly tattooed on my ass.”

“Oh yeah, I think I’ll have my nipples pierced for nipple rings.” Someone else jumps in.

The captain offers his insights “Why wait until we get to shore, I’ve got some big Halibut circle hooks. We can do it now if you like.”

“That would be nice. Do you think you could hang some of those big 16 ounce lead weights off the hooks too?”

Gordon decides to wade into the conversation. He opens with “Yeah we could call you nipples hooks.” It was a fairly weak retort by male standards which is countered with the standard “F--- You Gordon. You decide to get a pair of balls from the tackle box? Why don’t you go chum up some more fish.”

We all had to smile that Gordon began to step up and play with the boys. He was starting to earn his stripes. We were pushing Gordon to come out of him shell and take a few swings at the plate. Gordon struggled the most at pulling the anchor from the ocean floor which required some substantial upper body strength. The first three of four attempts he was relieved by the captain with the now routine “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Pull harder it will build your shoulders.”

Over the three days Gordon developed a comfort level in understanding the male banter and playful joking. Only once did we really catch him off guard where he did not know if we were joking or not. During one of Gordon’s attempts to pull the anchor from the ocean floor someone yelled at him “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Take off your shirt so we can watch your muscles ripple.” Gordon immediately froze and stopped pulling on the anchor chain. Slowly he turned and looked at the group with an expression of surprise and confusion. It was priceless, for a second we crossed over in Gordon’s mind from joking about being homosexuals to actually being homosexuals. By the end of the three days Gordon was a cherished member of the tribe. He had stood his ground and been pushed to the point of total physical and metal exhaustion as had the entire tribe. Although all the attention did not relive Gordon of hearing “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” well into the night.

The fishing would conclude about 2:30 pm each afternoon and be followed with another spectacular hour drive back to port. Exhausted and bruised we would climb the dock as Gordon with the help of three high school students would fillet and vacuum pack the fish. Not more than 60 minutes after hitting shore the fish was in the freezer. Most of the time the group would barely drag themselves to the store for something to grill and replenish the stock of bourbon and beer.

The most memorable evening was with Carrington and one of his friends that brought along the Party Pig. Apparently this guy would raise pigs and then slaughter them for the pork. This one particular pig was the runt of the litter and would not fatten up fast enough so it became a pet, at least for the short term. While I was taking a shower I kept hearing some raucous partying downstairs occasionally mixed in with a squeal. I didn’t think much about it until I arrive downstairs to find a small twenty pound pig drinking beer. It was at that moment I wished I had a pet Party Pig myself, for it was the star of the show. Someone would place a bottle of beer open on the floor and the pig would squeal while running to pick the bottle up with its mouth, tilt it back and guzzle the entire contents in the blink of an eye. Men in the wilderness are so easily entertained. No one could leave a beer unguarded on the floor because the pig would run over and drink it. What was really funny was that they needed to cover the pig’s eyes when ever someone opened a beer or else the pig would freak out and rush who ever was holding the beer.

During about 90 minutes the pig drank six beers keeping up with fishermen and mountain men alike before waddling over to a corner of the living room and passing out. At which point the owner which was on the verge of passing out himself picked up the Party Pig and went home. I began to think about the financial opportunities of having a personal Party Pig. I bet you could make three to four hundred dollars a night in the bars. “Oh yeah you think your so tough? I bet this little twenty pound pig can out drink you!!” It’s a sucker bet. Just think $2500 a week or $120,000 a year trotting the Party Pig around the bar scene. The only down side would be the travel required since the Party Pig would gain a reputation rather quickly and you would need to travel far and wide to hit bars where the legend of the Party Pig was not known. I can hear it now “Don’t mess with the Party Pig, he’ll kick your ass.” Eventually the evening concluded with a familiar rant “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You can’t even out drink a twenty pound pig.”

It did not take long to decide that 3:45 AM is coming quickly and my body is shutting down. It is time to call it quits but not without a warm felt goodnight. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You should be asleep so you can keep up with us homos tomorrow. Hell I bet that even that little Party Pig could kick your ass out on the boat tomorrow.”

The Wilderness Boys Club 2007 Edition. Photo by God Damn Gordon

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Off to the Fishing Grounds

Dawn rising over the mountians of Baranof Island in the Alexander Archipelago in the Gulf of Alaska. Photo by Mr. Blue

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore
Blowing over a silver sea,
There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide
That calls enticingly;
The mist of dawn has taken flight
To the dim horizon's bound,
And with wide sails set and eager hearts
We're off to the fishing ground.

Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings
Like a great sea-harp afar!
We whistle its wild notes back to it
As we cross the harbor bar.
Behind us there are the homes we love
And hearts that are fond and true,
And before us beckons a strong young day
On leagues of glorious blue.

Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,
A song of the orient sea!
We are the heirs of its tingling strife,
Its courage and liberty.
Sing as the white sails cream and fill,
And the foam in our wake is long,
Sing till the headlands black and grim
Echo us back our song!

Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing
To wake ere the night be done
And steer the course that our fathers steered
In the path of the rising sun.
The wind and welkin and wave are ours
Wherever our bourne is found,
And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep
When we're off to the fishing ground.

Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874–1942)

16 Hrs + 2997 Miles = “Rain City”

Capitol Hill, Seattle, Washington, Photo by Mr. Blue

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”

Nelson Mandela (1918 - ), 'A Long Walk to Freedom'

Ignorance is Bliss

I have finally topped my all time stupid move in an airport. Feeling a little smug I was reading the paper this morning about how July was the second worst month for delays in the airline industry since they started keeping score. During this epic carnage I’ve been able to dance around delays for the last couple of months. It would be ingratiating to attribute it to my exceptional knowledge of the airline industry, but in reality it is just random luck. The article indicated that in June 367 flights endured more than a three hour runway delay. With a great sense of accomplishment I’m happy to state that not one of those flights was I a passenger on. The airlines must be distributing the punishment to some other deserving folks and leaving their old whipping boy alone.

Here I am sitting in BWI happily reading about what will be considered by travelers as the worst travel month in airline history waiting for my flight home. Early completion of my business meetings facilitated a four hour early arrival to the airport. During a leisurely stroll to my gate I noticed an earlier flight home leaving at 11:40 am connecting through St. Louis arriving at 2:10 pm. My direct flight was scheduled to leave 12:55 pm, arriving at 2:30 pm. Briefly I considered the potential for delay in St. Louis for only a 20 minute arrival advantage and decided to pass on the first flight for the safe bet of the direct flight. All seemed smooth sailing with blue skies from coast to coast.

I started the computer and got involved working on some reports. Checking my watch occasionally the hours passed quickly. I watched as the gate attendant asked for volunteers to give up their seat on the Kansas City flight in exchange for two hundred dollars and a round trip coupon. Gradually they loaded up the plane and pushed off from the gate. Heavily focused on the work at hand, I didn’t pay much attention to the activities surrounding me at the gate. As the watch crept closer to my departure time I put away the computer and began to get ready to board the flight home. Funny I thought the gate was A2 right where I was sitting. No need for concern they change gates all the time. The alarm went off when I looked at the status board and my flight was not listed. Oh No! My watch was still set on Central Time and my flight was Eastern Time.

Then the realization struck me like a car wreck. I just missed my flight after getting to the airport four hours early. It wasn’t the normal missed flight where you are stuck in traffic or at the other concourse with a broken tram shuttle. I was sitting at my gate not 20 feet from the door. What I assumed to be the first Kansas City flight was my direct flight. If I have actually been on the earlier flight they would have been boarding St. Louis not Kansas City. The simple facts never dawned on me. In the process the entire aircraft of passengers had to walk around me to get onto the flight and I sat there smiling at them stone cold brain dead. I continued to sit there watch them close the door and push off the gate. At one point, I actually smiled at the pilot as he called for the tug. Since they needed someone to miss the flight to get all the standby passengers on board, they never called my name to board. Someone should have taken pity on the poor retarded person sitting in bliss at the gate but it never happened.

Funny you know a missed flight looks like just every other flight leaving the airport when you’re sitting watching it from the terminal window. Nothing really out of the ordinary as it rolls away without you. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought “Suckers, I bet I’ll still beat them to Kansas City. They’ll certainly take a hit in St. Louis". The insult added to injury was the fact that they were asking for people to volunteer to take a later flight for 200 hundred dollars and a free roundtrip coupon. In my best Forest Gump impersonation I smile politely as they begged for people to give up their seat. No not me, I’ll wait until the offer expires before I realize that is my flight. Not only did I give up my seat but I failed to even get compensated for it. For my ignorance and the heavy summer travel schedule I was unable to get on the 2:30 through Chicago, the 4:35 through Chicago, the 5:05 through St. Louis and the 6:05 through Nashville, all of which I waited at the gate as a standby passenger. After mugging some poor elderly gentleman in the restroom I was able to obtain a seat on the oversold 7:30 direct flight. The day turned into a 10 hour delay. It serve me right to tempt fate and make fun of the travel gods.

“Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.”

Will Durant (1885 - 1981)

Restless Spirit of Fells Point

Fells Point Harbor. Photo by Mr. Blue

“God created man and, finding him not sufficiently alone, gave him a companion to make him feel his solitude more keenly.”

Paul Valery (1871 - 1945)

As the taxi drives away the sullen air has a promise of rain deadening the sound like a heavy grey cloak hanging from the rooftops. With each breath you can imagine your drowning in the copious summer humidity. The perseverance of rich organic decay reveals the closeness of the harbor. It is a scent that frees my inner child as I inhale the ripe pregnant air deep into my breast. There is a raw worn traveled feel to the century old granite cobblestones as I stumble on the irregularities as hundreds have done before me. The streets and buildings are strained with a thick patina of sweat, muscle and hard labor that clings to the every object.

The area is steeped in a rich history as noted by Jacquie Greff. “Baltimore’s original deep-water harbor, Fell's Point dates back to November 8, 1730 with the original land purchase by its founder William Fell. Fell's Point shipbuilders were so successful turning out their famed Baltimore Clippers that this “nest of pirates” became a major target of the British in the War if 1812. Its efforts helped turn the tide after many early British victories and the burning of Washington, D.C. itself.”

“Fell's Point is one of our country’s few intact historic working class communities. Many of its tiny houses, taverns and shops date back to the 1790’s and early 1800’s, after a series of plagues had driven out the wealthy, leaving sailors and immigrants and poor folks. One of its most famous resident, Frederick Douglass, was a slave in Fell's Point before he escaped and went on to lead the abolitionist movement that helped end slavery in the US.”

Climbing the steep flight of worn granite steps I enter the lobby of my hotel which includes a 1700th century ghost which is holding court during an afternoon tea with a mesmerized group of visitors. His accent is thick as he extols the language of a bygone era of sailors and shipbuilders. The property is on the National Register of Historic Hotels and is furnished with period antiques. The hotel I’m staying apparently has a long history of ghosts. My room overlooks the marketplace and the harbor through the wavy pitted glass panes of two symmetrical moss green windows. I stay in the room only long enough to drop my bags and grab my camera.

I will have ample opportunities to discover the hidden gems of the area in due time. Baltimore will become my second home for the next four years as we were fortunate to be selected for our first million dollar commission. It is what is called an indefinite delivery and indefinite quantity contract or IDIQ for short. Under this type of procurement one firm is selected from a public process and all work for the agency will be given to the firm during the term of the agreement. There is an option to extend the term contract for an additional two years if the agency desires. All we are required to do is exceed everyone’s expectation and they will continue to funnel work through the contract. The only negative comment during the selection process was “is this small firm really capable of executing the volume of work we are planning to run through this agreement”? There was one firm locally that started as a small seven person office and after six years of a NOAA IDIQ term contract, they no longer qualified since they had grown to 125 people.

The opportunities don’t end there. Maryland is unusual because of a particular law and the extreme complexity of the public procurement process. According to Maryland statute any public agency is allowed to “ride” a publicly procured contract without undertaking a procurement process itself. The theory is that since the fees and rates that are established by the procurement process are inherently competitive the second jurisdiction does not need to duplicate the process and can opt to amend their work to this original contract. In other words every public agency in the state can hire use without going through a public procurement process. We have already been contacted by three other public agencies that would like to ride the agreement. I have a very difficult time getting my arms around this opportunity. I decide to think about it later, it is Sunday and I’m on a mission to visit one of my favorite restaurants for a leisurely early dinner.

The Black Olive is a small Psarotaverna or Greek fish tavern hidden on South Bond that make a lot of their food from scratch using only organic produce and the freshest fish flown in from around the world. In a rare occurrence Zagats survey of 2000 listed the restaurant as one of the best Greek restaurants in America as well as one of the best Seafood restaurants in America. This exceptional gem has earned my respect in both categories for its simple purely organic and fresh daily menu.

A warm rain begins as I approach the door of the restaurant. Passing through the door the wonderful aroma of the grill fills the air with perfumed scents. I am seated on the open air patio under a canvas awning surrounded by flowering plants. I lament the fact that there will be no one to share this delightful indulgence with. What could be more perfect a warm sultry rain on a lazy Sunday afternoon with a glass of chilled wine and one of the nation’s most talented chef at your beckoned call. Being alone tends to diminish the experience as it becomes more of a selfish indulgence instead of a special gift to someone that could really appreciate the offering.

A long time ago I got past being uncomfortable while dining alone. I have to admit that it was one of the last obstacles to crossing over to life as a road warrior. Business travel on Sunday was another obstacle, but the conversion is complete as I once again dine alone on Sunday. In the past I was content to be hidden in the corner so that my loneliness would not be visible to the smiling couples and families as I quickly consumed my meal and scurried out the backdoor. Today no one’s opinion has any relevance to me. I have dismissed any concern for what I appear to be. I wish to be seated in the middle of the action where I can observe in detail the complex human drama that unfolds in public spaces. Not confined with entertaining or conversation, not required to observe rules of engagement, I’m free to do what and say whatever strikes my fancy. While everyone surrounding me is tethered by social etiquette either business or personal, I get to decipher the subtle patterns which are as mentally stimulating to me as the New York Times crossword puzzle. I have come to believe that the true human condition is one of isolation and solitude. Only seldom do we open ourselves up to allow some to penetrate the world of solitude, and then only briefly. The rest of the time we are rooted in the safe patterns of our existence, fearful what change might mean. It manifests itself in a hunger and restlessness, a yearning for what we do not know. Some people recognize it in themselves, others will forever wander confused and misguided, but I have never met an individual that did not reveal it to me if only for a moment.

The rain picks up as small rivulets run off the canvas awning onto the wanting flowers. The air is breathless and still as I grab the waiter by the cuff and order an obscenely expensive half bottle of French Riesling from the northern region of Alsace. This particular wine has a powerful and distinctive floral and apple-like aroma that frequently mixes in mineral elements from its vineyard source and is often described as "racy." It represents the perfect compliment to the delicate favors of grilled seafood.


As the waiter returns with the wine I order a medley of grilled seafood, sardines wrapped in grape leaves brushed with olive oil, anchovies, scallops, calamari stuffed with manouri and feta cheese. The featured fresh fish are barramundi and bronzini served with a spectacular aioli sauce. The tables begin to fill as the human drama begins and I have a front row seat to watch it all. Over the next two hours I sit alone watching the kitchen staff, the waiters, the lovers, the families while finishing my meal. As always the food was worth traveling half way across the nation to enjoy. Without anyone taking much notice I get up and leave.

Walking back to the hotel in the rain, I once again find comfort in my solitude and isolation as just another spirit walking the street of Fells Point. Tomorrow I will once again engage the business world as the confident self assured social engineer, but tonight I will be invisible, without form. Like the rising tide that cleanses fluxem from the bay the soul is temporarily cleansed of its burdens. The yearning and restlessness will subside as the safe patterns of our human existence once again fall into place.

“There are days when solitude, for someone my age, is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.”

Colette (1873 - 1954), 'Freedom,' 1908