The last B might have been BUZZ

"We can't tell you how to dance Balboa, but we can tell you when you are not dancing Balboa." - from dancers around Balboa's start.




So there I was. Standing on the pier with a grin as big as the bell bottoms of my freshly washed, crisply creased crackerjack blues. I had heard a lot of good things about France. None of it lately. But I knew about the killer B's. Booze. Babes. And, um, that other one, too. I think it was Bimbos, but that would seem to be covered by babes, unless I'm missing some cultural subtlty in the connotations. Or maybe I just forgot exactly what it was. Most likely due to my indulgence in the first two. Whatever. It doesn't matter. I was grinning real big.

There ain't nothing like a liberty port after two months at sea on a tin can. You like your friends, but still, living with 32 roommates, 32 incredibly uncouth and gaseous roommates, wears thin after a while. Nothing gets your day off to a shakier start than flinging open your rack curtians to get up and finding yourself face to face with a big, hairy, naked butt. Talk about your "Good morning, sunshine". About all you can do is lay back down and await your turn to get up and dress.

Ah, but in France, even the gritty, worn, industrial sections of Nice where our adventures always began, you escaped the daily routine. We were young. We were clean shaven. We had both a sense of wonder and a sense of adventure. And, with four paychecks in our pockets and two months of sea time behind us, no matter our appearance, local girls normally found us damn good looking enough. Laizze Le Bon Temps Rouler, y'all! (At least til the paychecks are spent.)

She was a beautiful girl. Malite. Or Malik. Or Mah Feet, as in, "Mah feet hurt." I'm not sure. She had sapphire eyes and spoke perfect, lilting French. I was polite, didn't make your eyes bleed to look at and had (still do) the smoothest drawl you'd ever want to hear. So, mostly, we sat and smiled at each other, sipped wine, and held hands. And danced. Oh my, how that woman could dance. Light and soft as a marshmallow in an ocean blue dress and sensible heels. Her hair swirled as she spun, seemingly caught up in a tune of it's own. And though it seemed impossible, her smile would get even bigger as she twirled and danced.They say some nights are magical. This was one.

You could say that romance hung in the air. But that would not be entirely correct. For it more wafted than hung, light and breezy, there but not quite, like the light scent of orange blossoms on the breeze that passes all around you but cannot be captured or held. It just was. And it was to be enjoyed in the moment because the moment, soon enough, would be gone. Ships sail and the moments fade to memories fade to nothing.

Like is often the case with love, this story takes a turn towards the tragic. I got the girl. We were married in a simple ceremony with her parents and younger brother in attendance. She wore white and I wore a goofy grin. We had a second ceremony in my parent's church, again a small affair with just family and a few close friends in the pews.

First there was the child. And then the second... and oh my gosh, a third one! Our new house, to fit our family, did not fit our budget. Not by a long stretch. I had a steady paycheck, as in the paycheck stayed steady as the prices kept rising. Malina, (Yes, I finally learned her name), poor thing, wound up with a large rear end and what once were some wicked sexy curves kind evened out. Don't think I am throwing stones. Oh no, my butt is even bigger than hers and I carry the knicks and cuts and stained hands of a man with years of manual labor behind him and just more of the same before him.

The reality never fulfills the promise. But one night, in smart, pressed crackerjack blues, with a beautiful girl on my arm, the promise was all that mattered.




OK, Janie. Best I could do with that. And I'll say it for you, crappy ending. I get going and don't know how to turn towards the finish line. That, in my neck of the woods, is called rambling on and on. Hence, Ramblin' Ed.

Tomorrows installment: An over night flight to Belarus, a badger, a snorkle, and the words fangoriously, gelatinous, and linebacker.


Fangoriously gelatinous, out
Ramblin' Ed