Surviving 2022

I hated school. (At least, until graduate school. I went twice and would have stayed forever if they let me. But that is irrelevant to this discussion.)

I hated the first day of first grade and every day thereafter. I don’t know why. I was good at school. I didn’t work particularly hard but I got good grades, made good friends and generally had a good time. So, I am not quite sure why I couldn’t wait to get out. It wasn’t that I was anxious to be an adult. I don’t think I ever considered what that meant. Maybe I simply wanted to be a kid who didn’t have to waste her time thinking about the topics the school dictated. I was interested in a less intense lifestyle. So, I recall the thoughts I had in the third grade as I faced five more years of elementary school, four years of high school and four years of college. (We did not have a middle school or junior high.)

I’m in third grade now and next year will the last year of the first half of grade school. After that I’ll be in fifth grade and that means I’ve made it to the second half of grade school. After that, sixth is the last year of the first half of the second half . . . . 

Got the picture? I figured out my high school and college graduation dates and then, finally, the only other inevitable date: death.

My eight-year-old self calculated the oldest I could ever expect to be and came up with the year I would die: 2022. I never forgot it. So, I found it somewhat ironic when on 3/16/2022 I found a lump in my breast that was quickly diagnosed as malignant. Ironic but not particularly worrisome since it was unlikely my cancer, if fatal, could kill me before the end of the year. Of course, that was before I realized that the treatment was likely to get me a long time before the disease could.

It is now December 26, 2022 and I have to survive for less than one week to prove my eight-year-old self wrong. She was wrong about a lot. I never am not currently nor have I ever been the US ambassador to France nor am I an internationally renowned home designer and architect. I think people who like school do those things. 

Although I’ve remained blasé all year, now I am getting worried. I am not an alarmist. I don’t worry about car collisions, lightning strikes or monsters under the bed. Usually. But this next week will be different. 

It isn’t that I believe in the psychic abilities of eight-year-old me. I believe in irony. And just in case, I want to get it on the record that she knew. That little eight-year-old girl, who turned out to be me, knew. Of course . . . .

Even though math was her best subject, anyone can make a mistake. She probably meant 2032. Yeah, that’s it. 2032. 

Nonetheless, I think I’ll just stick around the house until 2023. Happy New Year. Hope to see you all next year.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

Competitive Tanning

Tanning was competitive back then, back then being the years I was in high school and college. Medical science had not yet condemned the practice and, if it had, I am not sure the AMA could have convinced girls of a certain age, mine, to abandon their favorite activity. I use the word activity loosely. 

Rather than thinking of a tan as something you acquired by playing summer sports, tanning became something of a sport unto itself. I was not athletically gifted but even I could play this game. The only skills required for tanning were walking to the beach, lying on a towel and turning over. Yes, there were other pastimes to enjoy on the beach but many of them ate into valuable tanning time. For example, going in the water, while fun, took your legs out of direct sunlight. Competitive tanners did not overdo ocean time. We had reclining to do. Yep, tanning was my kind of activity, my sport - until I identified kayaking, the only sport I know of you can do with your legs crossed. But that’s another story.

I did not use any performance enhancers. No baby oil spiked with iodine. No tanning reflector that might have been better used as a steering wheel protector. No, I was a purist, but not a champion. I wasn't gifted with natural talent. The opposite was true. I had Irish skin. Once, after a full season with daily trips to the beach, I happily told a friend my tan was the deepest I’d ever had. He said he was sorry. 

For those of us who grew up in the Philadelphia area, serious tanning was mostly done at the Jersey Shore. Sure, there were people who spent the summer poolside in the city but real tanning required a trip to the beach. Preferably for the entire summer. During my peak tanning years, I only got to spend the full season at the beach twice. Both times in my early twenties. Every other year I had to content myself with a week here or a weekend there. And, that could create some stress--which brings me to the Garden State Parkway.

Memories of that anxious feeling often pop up on the Garden State Parkway when I am driving on the highway. Back then as we drove to the shore we could monitor the skies over the barrier islands that line the New Jersey coast. The final leg of the drive was always fraught with tension. Were there clouds over the beaches? If so, would they still be there when we could spread our beach towels on the sand? Were there more clouds moving in from the west?  If so, would we be able to outrun them?

But those are only memories. Now my preferred time to take the drive down the Garden State is sometime between September and May.  But if I do make the trip in the summer, my preferred beach arrival time is 3PM when I complain about how hot the sun is. I no longer feel the need to lay out a yearly calendar with trips to the tropics spread throughout autumn, winter and spring so I can keep my “base.” Competitive tanning went out of style decades ago. Certainly, for my generation. I don’t miss the practice. I actually enjoy the beach a lot more now especially if I remember to bring suntan lotion. Maybe SPF 100. You know the kind that blocks those rays.

NOTE TO SELF: by your late twenties you would spend five hours of any beach day riding waves.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

People to Remember: Believe Your Friend

Today’s episode of people I never forgot who have no idea I was ever alive.  

One day Bruce Springsteen and I flew commercial from Newark to Chicago. I was aware of this; Bruce was not.  I was behind him getting off the plane so I kept up with his group to see what it was like to be Bruce Springsteen walking through an airport.  Matching his pace wasn’t easy. He moved fast.

I only recall one person who noticed Bruce although I suppose there were more. A guy, youngish businessman, at a newsstand told his friend facing the other way:  Hey! That’s Bruce Springsteen.  His friend never turning around replied (with condescension):  I doubt it.  

Lesson learned:  if a friend tells you something good is behind you, what harm can it do to turn around?

Training to Support Marathoners

Those of us who stay on the sidelines and offer encouragement to the brave souls who actually choose to run 26.2 miles without a wild animal at their heels also need to train. Support is not as easy as it looks.

 Below I list a dozen training suggestions for successful observation of a marathon. 

1)    Get a chair. Especially if you are there to support a specific runner, you’ll want to bring some seating option. You will be doing a lot of waiting.

2)    Get in shape to walk. On marathon day, you’ll probably need to park a block or more away and walk to the course. You may choose to stay in one spot or move along the racecourse. If you relocate your chair, you’ll be making your way to the course several times. Make sure you are in shape to walk those blocks.

3)    Get in shape to sit. You’ll also be doing a lot of sitting – waiting for the runners at the start and, as the day goes on, waiting between runners. Don’t put yourself in the position of not having sat that long in years. Be prepared. Practice sitting. And, do not neglect the art of getting in and out of the chair or that all-important skill, reaching. You may need to stretch to get that beverage or a snack. NOTE: If you are providing sustenance to a runner, you’ll have to extend your arms to offer a beverage. Some simple stretches and weight training should get you in shape.

4)    Find a mentor. No one expects you to go it alone. Observers from previous years are often happy to help. Ask about their greatest challenges: positioning of beach chairs vis-à-vis the sun and wind; selection of beverages and snacks; and, most importantly, the location of the public restrooms along the course

5)    Start training early – you can’t do it all in the last few days. Training to watch a marathon should be an ongoing effort.

6)    Train regularly. Set up a weekly schedule. You don’t need to train full-out every day but do make sure you do some sitting every day. If you plan to stand up to cheer or to dispense refreshments, practice getting out of your chair: three times, three reps, three days a week. If possible, use the actual chair you will take to the course. Also, train in the clothes you will wear to the marathon. On race day, you’ll be glad you did.

7)    Don’t include a full marathon-length sit in your initial regimen. Start with something shorter. Interval sits such as a 5K or 10K observation can prepare you for the big day. Keep in mind that a lot of people are at the finish line cheering on those who finish the marathon in less than 2 1/2 half hours. It’s the people who come in at the five-hour mark who need the most encouragement. I always like to be there for the final runners. (My family members usually come in far ahead of the final group.)

8)    Lighten up on training the week before the big race. You’ll need your energy for race day. You might want to get a massage a few days before just to make sure your muscles are up to the challenge.

9)    Watch the weather report. A lot of the decisions you’ll be making in the days before the race are weather-related. Prepare for any eventuality. The weather can be mercurial. Dress in layers. Remember the weather affects more than your choice of clothing. In warm weather, you’ll want a sports drink. If the temperature drops, consider bringing warm beverages and hot snacks. Clothes with big pockets allow you to stash extra clothes and snacks so you can keep your hands free for cheering and waving.

10)   Check out the route in advance. Are you going to stay in one spot or move along with your runner? Keep in mind the position of the sun on bright day. If you’ve checked the weather, you can put the wind at your back. Look for a flat spot so to avoid the danger of a wobbling beach chair. Calculate your time to the next spot. Do all this in advance so you don’t waste precious minutes on race day.

11)   Prepare a script of encouraging terms. “Way to go.” “Lookin’ strong.” “Doing great.” (Even those in show biz should avoid the popular “break a leg” salutation in this circumstance.) Create a list of names. It doesn’t matter if you recognize any of the runners. There will be runners of all ages. Try to gauge the age of those that need encouragement. Common names for those born in the 1950s include Gary, Ronald, Linda, and Patricia. In the 1960s many parents went with Mary, Karen, Susan, Robert, Mark and William. In the 1970s?  Amy, Melissa, Jason, Brian, Jeffrey, and Kevin dominated. Popular names in the 1980s included Joshua, Daniel, Justin, Matthew, Jessica, Ashley, Melissa, and Amanda. Even those born in the 1990s might need encouragement. So offer a shout-out to Jacob, Tyler, Samantha and Amber. If you aren’t good at judging names, remember Jennifer and Michael, Christopher, David, and James are perennials. Shout these names and it’s likely you’ll provide someone with the encouragement they need.

12)   Visualize race day. See yourself along the course. Equipped with supplies for any contingency. Pacing yourself throughout the day. Staying mentally strong. Listening to what your body is telling you. You’ve done the work. You can expect a successful marathon experience.

 If supporting a specific runner, keep your eyes on the approaching runners. You'll need to be out of that chair like a shot. You'll see why training is so important. I learned the hard way.

Good luck. You've got this.

©2022 Jane Kelly

Things my mother taught me

As I've mentioned elsewhere, my mother did not teach me many domestic skills. I don't think she had mastered many to teach, but she made sure she passed as few as possible onto me. I am trying to think of one but basically I am useless around the house. 

But why dwell on the negative? Here is what she did teach me.

How to set a table

I might not be able to cook appealing food to serve, but I can set a mean table. My mother wasn’t much of a cook (by choice) but she could entertain. 

I scared her once when she returned from some afternoon outing and found the table set for a formal dinner. "Did I forget I invited someone?" No, I just set the table. She had to pull something together for us to eat. I wonder who got stuck with the dishes.

There is little demand for this skill these days but I don’t care. I love a formally set table. 

How to travel

Largely because my father, Richard “The Homing Pigeon” Kelly, hated to travel, my mother did not get to as many places as she would have liked. We did a lot of trips to New York (day and weekend), but New York was a short train ride or an easy car ride away. She wanted to make sure I knew how to travel via plane. So, even though DC was also an easy train ride away, when we visited, we flew.

We flew Capital or Capitol Airlines (I need to find the pictures to check spelling) from Philadelphia to Washington’s National Airport (now Reagan). I learned about taxi queues and doormen. Which brings us to another travel category: hotels.

How to behave in a hotel

My mother loved hotels. On our first trip to DC we stayed at the Sheraton Carlton which is currently the St. Regis at 16th and K. Its restaurant was the first place, and maybe the only place, I used finger bowls. On our second trip we moved across K Street to the Statler Hilton. Probably an economy move. 

Even on day trips to New York we often ate in hotels. Lunch or tea at the Plaza. Dinner and cocktails at the Waldorf. 

When we stayed the weekend, it was often at the Waldorf. Since the Duke and Dichess of Windsor (before all their faults were revealed) lived in the Towers, we had to stay there too. Eventually, my father talked her out of the Towers onto the standard-priced floors and finally into the Taft Hotel which he swore was more convenient to wherever we were going. Probably Broadway. 

Her love of hotels rubbed off on her kids. My brother went to Cornell for hotel management. I still am happiest in a hotel. With my family’s encouragement, I noted the number of the first hotel room I ever stayed in: 1410 in the Claridge Hotel in Atlantic City,  New Jersey. There is no plaque.

Years later, just before it was renovated, I stayed at the Waldorf. It was like time travel to a very genteel time. I had been in a super-modern Yotel a few nights before. I loved both hotels. I think my mother would have too.

How to manage my finances.

She taught me how to save but not too much or for too long. She would save until she could (with her little companion--me) splurge on a trip or outing. Okay, maybe I should have listened to my father more on this one. He probably wouldn’t have encouraged a woman approaching retirement age to move to another country for a year of graduate school but my mother would have heartily approved. 

How to listen.

Mine was one of those mothers who liked to talk to strangers. But she never talked at them. She talked with them. She listened. She might not have gotten to see a lot of new places but she got to meet a lot of new people no matter where she was. 

How to think about how other people feel. 

She once accused my father of being too nice but I think she was just as kind. I cannot think of a time I saw her be rude or say a cruel thing.  Intentionally or unintentionally. 

In my opinion, kindness is the most important thing to teach your child - even if she really can’t keep a meticulous house. My mother taught that lesson well. 

© 2022 Jane Kelly

Research in the Time of Covid

When I send Meg Daniels to a Jersey Shore town, I always need to update my memories. I have a lot of memories from a lot of towns, all from different eras. The Jersey beaches have changed a lot since my parents first took me “Down the Shore” when I was five months old. Learning what’s new is always challenging--never moreso than during Covid which is when I wrote Strangers in the Avalon Dunes.

I couldn't rely on my tried and true techniques. To see what’s new in town, I generally start with day trips to the locale.  I find places that I recall from earlier visits or, too often, I can’t find places I recall from earlier visits, putting me in a very sentimental mood.  Then, when I start to write, I follow up with a stay that, in the best case scenario, lasts a month. Ideally, I write at least a portion of the book in its setting. After I complete the book, however, I return for verification. (Not that an error or two can't sneak in, but that's a story for another day.)

Then, we had a pandemic. I had to come up with a new plan for the Avalon book.   

In Strangers in the Avalon Dunes, Meg and Andy enjoy housesitting a fictional home hidden in the High Dunes of Avalon. It is understandable why, even in a pandemic-free time--the book does not mention the pandemic--Meg would be reluctant to venture out. She is happy where she is, but feels the need to learn a little about Avalon e.g. where the grocery store might be in case she should ever get the urge to cook. (Spoiler Alert: she doesn’t.)

Strangers in the Avalon Dunes takes place in the early Spring. Under normal conditions, not everything would be open. But in 2020 a question remained: were the closings seasonal or Covid-related. Sometimes the Internet provided the answer. Often, it didn't. There was also a bigger question on the table. Would a business reopen at all? 

In the manuscript that I submitted to my publisher, Meg and Andy ordered a pizza. I had to write to my publisher and let him know they were going to have a long wait. I thought they should order from somewhere else. The pizza shop they chose had closed. After 30 years. To add insult to injury, the building had been torn down. That could have happened at any time, but during the pandemic, closings were not rare and tended to keep me on my toes. Was the closing seasonal? Was the closing routine? Was the closing permanent? What would the business be like when it reopened? When I couldn't find an answer, I sent Meg back to her beachfront house. And, really, why wouldn't she go there? It was heavenly.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

No Vacation for Mom

When I was a baby, and for at least half a dozen years before I was born, my family spent the summer in Wildwood Crest, New Jersey. Every year at Memorial Day Weekend, my father, mother, sister, brother and eventually me would arrive at a house rented by my father’s company as part of his compensation. At the end of the weekend, my father would return to his job in Philadelphia and my mother would stay at the Shore cooking, cleaning and taking care of the kids. As she liked to say, “Everyone else gets a vacation. I just move my job.” 

The situation might have continued but I, unintentionally, saved the day for my mother. Having been misdiagnosed, I would stop breathing, turn blue and, on one occasion, get rushed to a hospital in Philadelphia in a neighbor’s car. All this fell on my mother’s shoulders. My father was in the city. The next summer we all were. 

Summers in the city meant as I grew up, I was free to serve as “a friend.” You know, the person parents allow kids to bring on vacation so they don’t complain that they miss their friends. That is how I got to create memories of just about every town at the Jersey Shore (most at the southern end). I’ve continued to add memories ever since. 

I will admit that a lot of my favorite memories are old. For example, I knew little about current-day Ventnor when I started writing Greetings from Ventnor City - and I still don’t know too much. My fond thoughts about Ventnor harken back to childhood days at a guest house with my parents. I’ve gotten back to Avalon as an adult but when I think of Avalon I think of being dressed for cocktail hour in hotels that are long gone. I was too young to recall anything of Wildwood Crest. Everything I know, I know from old photos.

Throughout the years, I’ve updated my knowledge with occasional trips to many towns up and down the Jersey Shore but I know them as a tourist. So does Meg. I love learning what’s new in town as she does - which given the pandemic created quite a challenge for the upcoming book set in Avalon. That’s a story for another day.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

My trip to the Berlin Wall

This is for my nephew Frederick with whom I discuss 20th European history. Luckily, he wasn't around wanting to discuss history when I was a history major. I only developed a true interest when I started a project to read American history backward. I haven't gotten out of the 1930s yet, but I have expanded the geographical focus of my reading. 

The memories of my 1976 trip to Berlin might be of interest to Frederick. Or not. Or you. Or not. But here they are.

I was traveling on a Eurail Pass around Europe in May 1976. Eurail would take me all over West Germany but as I recall it could not pass through East Germany to get to Berlin. I flew. Pan Am was my only choice but maybe because I flew Pan Am back and forth to Europe. At any rate, I was on a Pan Am jet - no idea what the models were in those days - when the pilot got on the intercom to say that he was sure we noticed that we were flying very low (I think it might have been 10,000 feet) because the East German government would not allow flights at higher altitudes for fear of spying by the West.

We arrived at the Berlin airport without any issues. West Berlin did not feel much different than the West. I went to my Hilton (every so many days I gave up my attempt at my modified-backpacking lifestyle and moved into a first-class American hotel). The Berlin Hilton was on the Kurfurstendamm. I think it may be a Waldorf property now. It was close to the zoo. Mainly after spending nights either in cheap hotels or on the train, what I remember most is that it had room service and American Armed Forces TV. I consumed a lot of both--although I do remember watching The Waltons in German. Probably the only time I ever watched The Waltons but I knew enough about the show to appreciate the closing when everyone said Gute Nacht.

In 1976, World War II had been over for thirty-one years.  It ended before I was born. It seemed as if it was ancient history and yet, at the same time, as if it had happened yesterday. I couldn't help guessing the ages of the people I passed on the street to judge if they had lived through the war. Not just the war, the rise of Hitler, the end-of-the-war bombing, the occupation. I could not imagine having lived through such troubled times, yet I felt more than sympathy. I was suspicious. I couldn't help wondering whose side they were on. I didn't experience these feelings as intently in other German cities as I did in Berlin. In Berlin, the war was still visible. Berliners were living in a divided city. 

Absolutely random thought: I am shocked that I forget so much but recall a wall of Shirley MacClain posters. She was wearing something short and doing a high kick. Now, ask me something important.

I did most of my sightseeing in West Berlin although I can't recall much of what I saw. The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church tower stands out as one of the visible artifacts of the war. I strolled the Ku'Damm as I learned to call it. I went to the zoo where I developed an affection for a gorilla who caught my eye and seemed to be saying to me: Do you believe this? I used to be the King of Jungle and now I am in this glass box so that people can come by and stare at me. What happened to me? I thought we had bonded although years later I learned that when a gorilla makes eye contact with you, it is a hostile gesture. Nonetheless, I developed a real fondness for all gorillas because of that one.

I spent a Sunday afternoon in the park with a lot of Berliners. I think it was the Tiergarten with a large fountain where fathers sailed boats with their kids. Never again did I walk through a park on a Sunday afternoon and not think about all the people doing exactly the same thing around the world. (Given time zone delays.)

What I remember most about West Berlin is my trip to the wall. I thought it was appropriate that the wall cut behind the Reichstag. I wished the Nazis could see what their activities led to for Germany.

I arrived at the wall very early. I was the only tourist on the path that ran beside it. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. I felt that I was being watched even before I saw a guard post on the East German side. Two soldiers kept their binoculars trained on me. I wasn't frightened. They were probably bored but they did have guns. Rifles that were clearly visible. I am not sure if I saw the monument to those who had died trying to cross, in 1976 or when I went back thirty years later. The guards who looked so harmless were there for a reason.

Back by the Reichstag, I sat on a bench and chatted with a young German man. I wanted to buy tissues from a vendor and he tried to teach me what to say. Handpapiertaschentuch. Hand paper tablecloth. I think I might have been able to say Kleenex, but he seemed to enjoy watching me struggle with the compound German word. He finally gave up and bought me a pack of tissues.

But the most interesting part of the Berlin visit was a trip to East Berlin. (I would go back there in 2007 to eat at a restaurant where it would turn out I had a mutual Philadelphian friend with the people at the next table.)

I was enjoying traveling through Europe by myself, finding my own way, meeting new people. But when it came to East Berlin, I harbored enough fear not to venture in alone. I signed up for a bus tour.

I remember nothing about the other tourists except that they were very nice and took my picture at Checkpoint Charlie and by the Brandenburg Gate. This was long before the age of the selfie stick.

Our guide for the tour looked as if she had been sent by Central Casting to play an East German government functionary. She was short, stumpy and wore a uniform with a military appearance. After she checked my ticket, she moved up the aisle. When I moved, she spun around as if ready to subdue me. I was probably getting out my camera.  

I found the way the tour guide talked about the German Democratic Republic sad. It was never just the government or the GDR. It was always the great German Democratic Republic. Example. She pointed out a burned-out building destroyed in World War II, but "the government of the great German Democratic Republic was going to rebuild it." It was 1976. The building had been destroyed at least thirty-one years before. This was not an example of governmental action at its finest, but she presented it as if were the greatest achievement of modern times. I wonder now if she believed what she had to say. She definitely had to stick to the script.

One thing that bothers me is that I cannot recall how they presented the book-burning site. My recollection is that we were shown it from the East Berlin tour bus. What could they have said? How in 1976 could they put a positive twist on it? I wish I could remember. 

One of the big stops on our tour was a museum. I do not recall which one because we never got inside. Instead, they took our bus to an ice cream truck in a park. We did not complain. My theory is that westerners did not complain within the Soviet Bloc.

Anyway, the reason for the change in the agenda was that the leaders of the Eastern Bloc countries were meeting in the museum. (I use Eastern Bloc but it is synonymous with Communist Bloc, Socialist Block and Soviet Block.) We saw them all arriving in a long line of black limos - at least Eastern equivalents of black limos. I can't claim these as sightings and wouldn't have known who most of them were anyway. The one exception might have been Ceausescu of Romania whom I eventually came to know as the most evil of the evil, but I am not sure if I knew him then. 

The motorcade buzzed by at high speed. There were no other cars on the road. I viewed this event as distinctly Soviet. I had never seen anything like it - until the Bush Administration (43) when driving on Route 202 outside Philadelphia. I realized there were no cars going in the opposite direction. Suddenly a long line of black SUVs buzzed by. Dick Cheney was in town to give a speech. I thought of that meeting in East Berlin.

Meanwhile, back in Berlin, we were treated to ice cream. At least I think we were treated. At any rate, the tour guide viewed our visit to ice cream truck as a treat. Ice cream seemed to be very big in the Eastern bloc. On a later trip to Russia, there wasn't much food outside our hotel but there was always ice cream.

I have no recollection of leaving Berlin. I must have flown on Pan Am. To what city I have no idea but probably in Germany.

I went back to Berlin in 2007. The wall was long gone but a red brick marker running through the city recalled where the wall had stood. It actually went through the restaurant in our hotel. On that trip, we wandered freely from east to west throughout Berlin. We ate dinner at a restaurant in what had been East Berlin. We knew someone in common with the Americans at the next table. Not a possibility in 1976. 

I had another photo taken with the Brandenburg Gate and just as before, the top was cut off. Maybe someday I can return and get a picture that includes the horsemen on top of the monument.

One memory from the 2007 trip. The streets of Berlin were full of protestors on Sunday morning. Very quiet, very polite protestors. Yet, they did get the right of way. Our driver said this was not unusual. When I asked if he minded because it made his job harder, he shrugged to indicate he didn't mind. "We are free."

NOTE: If I could claim to see all those leaders in this motorcade, I could claim to Yeltsin and Clinton in a flotilla of helicopters coming down the Hudson River after a summit in Hyde Park.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

 

A not-so-romantic weekend in Acapulco

The other day, I saw an ad for Las Brisas in Acapulco for $97 a night. I stopped traveling south long before the pandemic hit so I don't know what the hotspots are in Mexico these days.  I am fairly sure, however, that Acapulco is not the fashionable destination it was when John and Jacqueline Kennedy went for their honeymoon in 1953. I never hear a word about the town. At least no good words. I have heard the words violence and gangs and crime. According to Wikipedia, it was the seventh-deadliest city in the world in 2019.

That was not the case in 1953 when the future president and his wife stayed at Las Brisas, a luxury hotel on a hill overlooking Acapulco Bay. Las Brisas was known for casitas each with a beautiful view and private pool. Every morning the invisible hand of an invisible staff member would float flowers in your pool. If you wanted to, you could avoid seeing anyone after a golf cart transported you and your luggage to your private cottage. Everything about Las Brisas screamed romance.

I'd always wanted to stay there. In the 1980s, I didn't have a honeymoon to plan or even a steady date to invite. I did, however, have a business trip to Mexico City and a friend whose husband's job entitled her to flight benefits and a discount rate at Las Brisas. She would meet me there. Granted it wasn't going to be a romantic experience, but I would get to enjoy Las Brisas. 

There are some downsides to flying on buddy passes. You don't get to sit with friends and family. You don't get the exact flight you want. You don't get any flight. And that is what happened to my friend when she went to the San Francisco Airport to catch a plane to Acapulco. Every plane was full. I had already checked in to the hotel. 

My weekend at Las Brisas was never going to be full of romance. Now I knew it was going to be full of solitude.  At least, I thought. But then I was joined by bad menstrual cramps. I lay in bed, floated in the pool and looked at the view. As I recall I ate most "meals" out of the mini-bar.

I must have ordered room service at some point, but basically, I saw no one. And, I thought, no one saw me.

On the morning I was due to check out, the phone rang early. Possibly before 8am. A male voice with a light Mexican accident was on the other end of the line. (There were lines then.)

"Mrs. Kelly?"

"Yes."

"Are you checking out today?"

"Yes."

"Did you enjoy your visit?"

"Yes." Beginning to think this is good customer service.

"When do you leave for the airport?"

"Not until 11am." Expecting specific customer service.

"You are traveling alone?"

"Yes." Beginning to think this was too much customer service.

"You are very beautiful."

"I need to go." Catching on that this was not Customer Service.

"So, you would not like me to come to your room for a few hours before you leave?"

I  would not.

Apparently, the service was more comprehensive than I expected.

NOTE: My friend lost a deposit and all she got "a lousy cap" that I sent her. I think there was one in the room. I don't remember a gift shop.

NOTE ABOUT THE FLIGHT HOME: The taxi driver who came to Las Brisas to take me to the airport was very proud of his city. He didn't take me far out of my way but he did slow down often to point out the sights. I was cutting it close when he dropped me at American Airlines. As I approached the desk, the woman called out to me, "We've been waiting for you!" They wanted to upgrade me to First Class. I loved the days of Frequent Flyer Miles.

FINAL NOTE: You loved first class but the woman in the next seat had brought her dog onboard concealed in a carry-on bag. That would have been nice if you weren't allergic to dogs. 

© 2022 Jane Kelly

He wasn't a shoe thief

When I lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I went ice-skating most Wednesday nights. At least, I think it was Wednesday. It was definitely night. 

Sky Rink was then actually in the sky, on the top floor of an office building around 45th Street west of 8th Avenue, maybe even 9th. As I recall sessions ran from 8pm to 10pm which put me at the bus stop on 8th Avenue after 10PM. I was usually the only one waiting but I never worried. Not even when a young man in his twenties (I no longer was) approached me one night.

He: Those are really nice shoes.

Me: Thank you.

He: I really like those shoes.

Me: Thank you. (Thinking to myself. He wants to steal my shoes. What does he think? I'm a tourist?)

He: I'd really like to buy my girlfriend shoes like that?

Me: Nods.

He: Can I see the inside of them? 

Okay, at this point, any alert adult would have been thinking this guy is a sicko, but I thought I was too slick for him. He really thinks I am from out of town and do not realize he is going to steal my shoes?

So, I slid one foot back, curled my toes under and pressed hard on the inside of the shoe so that he could see the inside of my shoe but could not wrest it away. And, by doing that, I formed a beautiful arch with my foot.

I looked up to see how he reacted to my smart maneuver and saw his face. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I realized foot fetishes were real. 

NOTE: It was also how I came to notice that there was a porn shop right behind the bus stop.

© 2022 Jane Kelly 

Swimming with the wrong fish - Nassau

My goal for my blog is to record stories from my life before I forget them. It's hard to believe I'd forget about swimming with sharks. Okay, shark. One shark. But this story has slipped in and out of my mind on several occasions.

My brother lived and worked in Nassau for a while at what was then called the Balmoral Hotel and Beach Club - as I recall. Definitely, the word Balmoral was involved.

I was visiting with my friend, Nancy. We knew there were sharks in the area but my sister-in-law, Beth, assured us that they came in at night but spent their days out beyond the reef. Have a feel for where this is headed?

So one day, Nancy and I were floating on our backs in about four feet of water off the hotel beach when this conversation started:

     Nancy: How do the sharks know to go back over the reef in the morning?

     Me (with a condescending tone and absolutely no knowledge of animal behavior on the land or in the sea):  Instinct. They're animals. They just know. We have nothing to worry about.

     Five seconds of silence.

     Stranger on the beach:  Shark!

Nancy and I straightened up and looked towards the beach where a shouting man was pointing at a fin, a fin that moved along the shore in that smooth glide I'd seen shark fins do in documentaries. The fin was between us and the beach.

Not a moment for strategizing. It was a moment for reaction and we both had the same one: get out of the water. We began to run for the beach.

Now, with some distance from the event, I can see that running towards the shark, while probably slightly disconcerting to the shark, is not actually the best approach. But that was what we did coincidentally making a big splash which is apparently very appealing to sharks. (This was pre-Jaws so a lot of this information had not been discussed ad infinitum.) We were heading right for him.

And then, a hero! His name was Werner and that was about all I recall except that he rushed into the water and jumped with a great splash directly in front of the shark. The shark didn't like that splash. He turned and headed back where he came from which was, by the way, not over the reef.

Nancy and I staggered out of the water to safety. I should admit that the top of my two-piece bathing suit was no longer in place. I fixed it before there were any repercussions involving hotel security. However, I did coincidentally have a slight tear on the strap of my suit. I have no idea how it happened, but it was not during that encounter. When asked about it, however, I was always tempted to respond with some variation of "Did I ever tell you about the time I had to escape from a shark in the Bahamas?"

Not a lie.

© 2022 Jane Kelly

There was a consolation prize - Mia, Woody and Dustin

One nice thing about living on the Upper West Side in the 1980s and 1990s was I saw people all the time who had succeeded. I am sure there were many highly successful people that I didn't recognize but it was hard not to notice the ones in the entertainment field. Especially, if they insisted on coming out of their apartment house looking like themselves. I'm looking at you, Madonna.

And so it was on a warm and sunny Father's Day, I was walking down Columbus Avenue with my friend Pat when I realized Woody Allen and Mia Farrow were walking beside us. I mean right beside us. As if we were walking four abreast. I knew it was inevitable. Pat was going to notice. She did.

Pat: Jane. ..

Jane: I know . . .

Silence. 

Neither one of us wanted to act like tourists. Well, Pat might have been willing but she knew I would kill her.  She didn't speak until Woody and Mia (I feel it is unnecessary to clarify that this happened before it all hit the fan) moved ahead. 

Pat: Can we just walk behind them for a bit?

We were very discreet. We crossed Columbus and walked along something like 75th Street on the opposite side. Unobtrusive. Just observing. One thing we observed is that Woody and Mia walked very fast. They reached Central Park West before us. We stood on the corner looking uptown and downtown, but they had disappeared - most likely into the building where Mia Farrow lived and Woody sometimes filmed.

Me: I'm sorry, Pat.

Pat: Don't worry. There's Dustin Hoffman.

Such was life on the Upper West Side in the 1980s.

© 2022 Jane Kelly