I sat at the bar, drinking a watery mojito and watching the young girls out by the pool. It embarrassed me…made me feel dirty.

Back in the day, this place had real class. A place where a man knew his way around a machete, and women made mosquito nets out of bridal veils. Now, it’s just…

“Disney”

I threw back the last of my drink, and a rogue ice cube jumped up and caught me in the front tooth. I gripped it between two fingers and gave it a wiggle.

Maybe there was some action in the casino.

let us go to spain.
we'll have a fine place
on the promenade,
and i'll bring you oranges
from the marketplace.

and at night,
armed with only my guitar,
i will brave the
pulsing avenidas.
singing my pitiful songs,
passing a withered hat,
and looking into the eyes
of a ragged dawn.

and i'll come home with wine,
my fingers bleeding
and badly calloused,
but you shall never want
for anything.

“Heeey whachoodoondownder?”

Looking up from my dishwater, I saw a three year old pressed against the safetly bars in the window one floor up, across the narrow courtyard where the super kept the trash. I slopped suds onto my face and roared “Ahm grawrin a bubble bayrd!”

Her chirping laughs left a tiny puddle of drool on the windowsill and she sagged with joy until a thick arm snatched her inside.

“I told you not to be hollerin out at those white people.”

Regardless, our intrigues continue to this day.

“Let’s explore this dump” Mark said, polishing off his sixth Redrum Ale.
“You can’t get past the lobby, unless you’re a guest.”
“Then we’ll ACT like guests…how could they know?”

He was right. We strolled casually past the concierge and up the stairs.

We weren’t fans. We didn’t read his books. We didn’t even stop by Room 217. Instead, we headed for the bell tower and danced on the roof, drunk as lords.

Later, I was elected to drive over the pass, while Mark and Annie fooled around in the back seat.

The school building was gray. It sat on the side of a hill near houses built for miners. There was one room, four grades, and a merry-go-round. A pigtailed child wandered up the hill toward the building. She was five. When she entered the classroom, she smelled chalk and books. She loved the idea of education.

On the day she graduated from college, the smell of that classroom and the thrill of the merry-go-round ride remained the memory to which she clung.

She began teaching. Education was so important and she never quit loving the smell of chalk and books.

"Don't do this to me," said George, on his knees, hands clasped together and beads of sweat dotting his face like a desperate man in confession. I looked around the park and saw people staring. I pulled in a big breath and let it out in a slow sigh.

"George, it's over."

"Fine!" he yelled and stormed away.

I watched him go until I couldn't see him anymore. I turned and walked the other way. I fought the urge to cry until finally it poured out of me.

Six months is a long time for ten-dollar bet.

“It's about the struggle. I can't count on anybody but me.”

His eyes rolled, searching for confirmation somewhere up in their sockets. Each shoulder and hip moved in slow random rotations, irrespective of each other.

“All I can cling to is that things that come from me come from me. Gimme that.”

It's marvelous to watch this standalone champion use the wall for support while asking for this gift that the world always grants him. Gifts of a personal narrative are subscription services - invitations to drop asinine stories into the world's mailbox.

Phillipa and I stared at the box of chocolates sitting in the Xi’an shop.

“Maybe we could split it?” she suggested, looking earnest.

Andrew shifted back and forth. “Maybe if you girls get chocolate, I’ll buy some smokes?”

The lovebirds were in China celebrating their anniversary. And still, after five years together, each felt guilty about the bad habit which annoyed the other. They both looked at me, eyes hopeful.

The train ride to Beijing would be long, noisy and dirty.

“OK,” I agreed to the chocolates.

Andrew and Phillipa exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

"We love you. Be sure to write," his Mom called after him as he left his family behind at security.

Looking out the window at the gate, he felt he might not be ready for this after all. Never before had the jet on the tarmac seemed so big. Even the first plane he'd flown on as a 3rd Grader some 15 years ago didn't seem so imposing.

"Last call for boarding Flight 2807 to Dublin" crackled the voice on the intercom.

He glanced at his ticket -Seat 23C- grabbed his backpack and headed towards the gate.

Is there a choice. As with all the things that we do, writing takes courage. Writers don't choose to write nor do we like to do it a great deal of the time. But there are things that need to be said...to be discussed...to be mulled.

When we take the time and the thought to write, hopefully someone takes the time to read. I often wonder which is important. Is it the writing or is it the reading that makes the difference.

In the end I know that it is neither.. it is the discussions that follows.