High Roller

Transporter

Never once have I paused to think about my mortality. Until this moment. 

I give out a short hoot. Why didn't I review my Last Will and Testament? Or at least, I should have named someone in my POA to make decisions for me, if I'm ever permanently or temporarily unable to do so. 

Glancing at the famed High Roller at the east end of the Las Vegas LINQ Promenade, I cower at the thought of my impending tragic demise. Opened to the public in 2014, it is currently the world's tallest ferris wheel - nine feet taller than its predecessor, the 541-foot Singapore Flyer - and the world's largest observation wheel with 28 transparent pods that can hold 40 passengers each.

Everyone else seems to be grinning, exchanging greetings. Am I the only one convinced that I'm about to depart the land of the living 550 feet above ground? A sense of gloom creeps over me as I picture it taking me for a spin, providing a 360-degree view of the city. It doesn't help that the pedestrian mall is decked out in its Halloween finest, including some impressive ghouls and werewolves. I'm certain that the macabre images are ominous of my imminent doom. 

Against the lump in my throat, I murmur anxiously. The die is cast. I'm voluntarily trading the serenity of the ground for the chance to be tossed through the air like a vegetable in a 44,000 pound rotating glass food processor. I'm a fool, I whisper to the teasing autumn wind. My entire world will be drained through a sieve and I cannot imagine how it can be reconstituted.

Wringing my hands in front of me, I pause, but then drop them, recognizing that the behavior appears weak. I reluctantly but resignedly enter one of the capsules mounted on the wheel's outboard rim and individually rotated by electric motors to smoothly maintain a horizontal cabin floor throughout each full rotation. 

I try to stem the flow of my thoughts, or at least divert their course, by looking around the interior that is garishly illuminated by a 2,000-LED blue, red, green, and purple color system. About 22 feet in diameter with a 300 square feet of glass surround, the cabin is equipped with eight flat-screen televisions and an iPod dock. 

Peering out into the abyss, I feel as though it will suck me under like the rising of a huge wave. For just this one time, I want to stop working at my faith and simply be assured that everything will be fine. My voice, though soft, is curiously charged. I need a sign. But, really, what an an absurd statement, I'm thinking. Laughably meaningless.

Momentarily frozen, I hold my breath as the giant mechanism starts to move. Below, the city shimmers with light so vivid that it hurts unshielded eyes and makes the many nooks and crannies carved on the edges of buildings dance. I watch how quickly the terrain changes. Much to my surprise, I'm spared the assault of stomach-turning weightlessness. There is little sensation of movement throughout. I reach the summit. 

There are no angels in white. I try not to sound too surprised. No pleasant warmth tingling through my body either, I promptly observe with a nervous laugh.

And just as quickly, I descend back to earth. There is no cymbal-like crash vibrating through the air as the wheel reaches bottom. The 30-minute revolution has gone quickly. I sway for a moment. A few more minutes and I'm outside in the fresh air. I'm alive, I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I stifle a smile. The ride is over. 

The High Roller? No big deal.

On Wings Of Sleep

For Andy Bubba

He went to bed.

He was tired.

His eyelids sagged until sleep overtook him. 

Tonight, he's buoyed up on wings of sleep - floating easy and undisturbed.

DaBus

Transporter

There is no reason to believe that human life is correct only when it straightens out. Maybe at root we are coils of possibility in constant rotation. - T. Moore

You'd think that this public transport would have been more creatively named Leilani, Hawaiian for 'heavenly flowers' or 'royal child.' Or Wicked Wahini, for a playfully mischievous woman; or even Kanaka, a term of ethnic pride among native Hawaiians.

But, no. Its managers have chosen to call it simply TheBus or, as locals say, DaBus.

At least, its literalness nixes any confusion as to its intent - to provide daily ridership service to people in Oahu on 110-some routes. These motor vehicles are bicycle-rack equipped, most of them low-floor for accessibility. A kneeling bus, I amusingly note the written description on its side.

That morning, I was all set on what for me was a requisite to daily living. Shopping, I whispered to myself with a grin. I walked to the closest stop, just two buildings to the right of the condo and waved DaBus Number 19. Please hold on. I obeyed without hesitation or question as I got on board. The bus is departing. The sonorous recorded-summons was soothing. 

Call it the sun, the wind, the smell of the sea - it made for a pleasant morning. Sunshine was streaming from the window. The sky was like a huge inverted bowl of purest blue. 

I looked out the window and absently watched the passing scenery. Along the right side of Kalakaua Avenue, I caught small sightings of Waikiki beach, its waters washing through sand. The fragrant whiff of blooming plumerias mixed with that of salt, the smell of a city whose people live life outdoors.

To the left, DaBus passed a wedding party gathered in front of a water fountain. Newlyweds, I said, dividing a glance between the bride and the groom, both of them smiling back, showing plenty of teeth. They were posing for a keepsake photo. 

It went around the narrow end of Kapiolani Park, veering left away from Diamond Head, and circled around to Kuhio Avenue. On an outlying  grassy area, I saw a handful of elderly folks executing graceful tai chi movements and school children kicking a soccer ball. An elderly wahine had a handful of bread crumbs that she tossed a few at a time. Hele mai. Come here. She was enticing the koloa ducks with a toothy smile. They eyed her suspiciously at first, but then arrowed in from all directions.

Reaching the Starbucks corner, we turned away from the waters toward the city. Stop requested. DaBus wobbled to a stop. A swarm of tourists got off by the Marukame Udon cafeteria on Kuhio Avenue. Waiting to get on board were some students from the community college. DaBus was crowded. Please hold on. The bus is departing. Again came the summons from a soft, fluttering voice.

I watched the land flow by in. When the light was just right, the window became a bottomless mirror reflecting both myself and the land in odd unity. You can't miss the smallest nuances. The slight sound of a nene bird honked adorably, Ah-ahrk! in two notes, over and over. The vehicle halted with a lurch at my Ala Moana Center stop. I hurriedly walked toward the shopping mecca just a short block across. After two full hours filling my shopping cart with great enthusiasm and a guilty conscience, I headed back and caught the same route on the other side of the mall. 

Comfortably snug on an elevated seat close to the exit doors, I gave a sidelong glance at familiar sights. It was a re-run of the landmarks in the early morning, but in reverse. DaBus was going back where it started. I mused, with a knowing smile, So, life is not always straightforward. Perhaps it's a summons to live it in widening circles - moving forward, then coming round again.

Stop requested, a silky voice said through the speaker after I tugged on the pull-cord.

Funny how routine could be made suddenly interesting in the space of a few hours in a day.

Túk Túk

Transporter

The name is onomatopoeic, mimicking the sound of a small, two-cycle engine. Túk túk.  

It's a small, open-ended taxi with a canvas roof and an open-frame body made of sheet metal that provides cheap and efficient transportation in Asia. 

Today, we're in this auto rickshaw, seated at its rear passenger and cargo space for an up-close-and-personal ride through the convoluted world of Old Delhi in India. From a small cabin at the front, our driver, controlling the vehicle with a handlebar, is taking us to the crowded and dilapidated heart of the walled city of Shahjahanabad toward Chandi Chowk. 

What a place! I mutter, raising an eyebrow, as I peer behind drop-down side curtains. 

I let the details of the view seep into my mind - the whispering of chiffon saris, lights in the street, the chanting voices of Hindu priests that never stop. The air has that festive holiday feeling.

All surfaces seem to be grounded in colors of orange, gold, and red. Incredible vistas of yellow curry and other spices mounded in large baskets are everywhere. Everything is shiny and involves a lot of metallic trim. 

I feel sweat on my brows as the túk túk weaves in and out of vehicles, zooming along narrow alleyways. A steady buzz of traffic, stray dogs, and small, running footsteps continue to hit the senses with beeping and curses. I smile brightly, gazing out at the growing crowd of people milling about over piles of loose debris. 

There is a loud tooting of horns, just as a bus unloads across the street. Nobody seems to yield the right of way to carts or pedestrians who are pushing and shoving along the street. I snort out a laugh when our driver sounds his horn to encourage a skinny goat to clear out of our path, but get distracted quickly by a shopkeeper calling without looking up to advertise his tangy and spicy snack from his roadside food cart. Chaat!

As I glance around, my face brightens at the variety of delicacies and sweets. Samosas. Kebab. The smell of chicken tandoori and the allure of chole bhature, a dish that combines spicy chickpeas with fried bread and a dollop of chutney, entice me. I try to keep my voice level, as I spot the sugary sweetness of gulab jamon flaunted on open shelves. 

Time unravels. The world outside seems very distant. But in my face, right now, is a whole city with its shabbiness and glory just waiting to be discovered. Breathing deeply of the dry, warm air, I shake my head and laugh under my breath.

I want to explore every single part of it.

Traghetto

Transporter

NOTHING BEHIND ME, everything ahead of me, 

As is ever so

ON THE ROAD. - Jack Kerouac

It's long, black, and slightly crooked.

Here near the Piazza San Marco, on the bank of the lagoon in Venice, I'm peering at a water taxi that looks like a cross between a canoe and a coffin - without keel or rudder and flat. Unlike the traditional gondola, it is unadorned: devoid of any bow decoration, brocaded chairs, and other luxury trimmings.

A traghetto! My voice is loud with excitement. A couple of people turn and stare at me. 

The word means ferry. Our trusty Europe Through the Backdoor guide book recommends it as a simpler and quicker alternative to hiring a gondola. A traghetto crossing of the Grand Canal only costs €2, whereas the official fare for a 40-minute gondola ride is €80, or €100 after 7 pm.

The single oarsman standing on its keel announces that it's bound for the glass factory on the island of Murano - and the ride is free. What a deal! 

Without hesitation, I wave a hand, pleading like a spoiled child. Andiamo! Let's go!

We board and find a place to sit. Although Venetians traditionally stand during the crossing, we opt to sit as it seems safer to do so in a bobbing boat.

I'm grinning like an idiot as I survey the cross-breed of land and water that unfolds in the early morning light.

White phantom city, whose untrodden streets 

Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting 

Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

How can something I have only imagined be so suddenly upon me? 

There's the Bridge of Sighs, I blurt out, as I spy its other-worldly silhouette lifting from the green of the Adriatic. A lacework of interconnected canals surrounded by beautiful buildings and churches, some of which date back as far as the thirteenth century, comes into view as the ferry gently propels down the waterway and under the Ponte de Rialto.

Quello è il palazzo laggiù. That's the palace over there, our boatman drawls, his eyebrows tilted. He gives us a smile.

Leaning forward, I place my fingers lightly on my parted lips as I take in the domes, gilded spires, and majestic arches in the Doge's Palace. I'm nodding speechlessly, my eyes wide and animated. The grime of centuries eats at the stones of majestic palazzos. But the decay is luscious, I mutter, my voice purring with contentment.

The entire scenery is a romantic combination of art and history, old trade, and the beauty of the sea. I can feel the breath of the waterway on my skin as it rushes past. I feel light. 

My voice warm and fond, I give our gondolier a wobbly, crooked smile and whisper, Continuiamo su. Continue on.

I lean back, dreaming vaguely of a new existence of idleness.