I know what I’m about to ask is going to sound a bit strange but recent events have me re-thinking of lot of what I had considered the norm. Here’s my question, “Why is it important to teach our children that they must be able to stand in a line?”

Before you answer, hear me out.

Over the years, as a storyteller, I’ve traveled to, quite literally, thousands of schools. Yesterday I noticed something that struck me for a greater desire of insight. It wasn’t as if it was the first time I was seeing this, but yesterday, for some reason, it stood out.

All schools are not equal. That goes without saying and I don’t think many will debate the thesis, but there seems to be a shift in the equality of our expectations on our children.

I visit more public schools than any other type. Occasionally a private school will bring me to their campus to share tales of my travels, music and even allow me to do a little storytelling every now and then. In every single public school I’ve ever entered, the importance of getting students to form and remain in “straight” lines has been an “entry-level” aspect of the meta-curricula. There are a host of other reasons why educators and parents deem it of paramount importance that our children be able to form lines but I’ll leave that to the more informed among us to expound on.

Yesterday I visited one of those campuses where resources are not in question and equestrian instruction is a part of physical education. One of the things that struck me immediately as I watched whole classrooms of children walking to their dinning hall (they had a dinning hall, not a cafeteria), was that they were not walking in a line. The student’s were walking across their campus similar to the way college students do. They were chatting, laughing and playing around but moving in the direction of their desired destination. There was no disruption to the campus, no classrooms were being disturbed. These were young elementary age children, not middle or high schoolers.

As I watched these children able to move themselves from place to place on this campus without standing in line, I really started to question the importance of the concept of “standing in line.”

So, I ask this once again, “What is the importance of teaching our children to stand in a line and why is this not important at “all” socio-economic levels of education?”

I spent the day at Covina High School today. As I write this I’ve got a huge smile plastered across my face.

I was invited to play my Kora and do a little singing for the school’s “Multicultural Festival.” It seems each day the students celebrate different cultures from around the world. Today, my day, they were focusing on the continent of Africa.

The students from the ASB set the tone with me. They were all accommodating beyond belief and made me feel right at home. They even helped me get set up by hanging my banner and asking if there was anything else I needed. I have “never” got that kind of treatment at high school before… never.

As I walked around getting the lay of the land before performing I was greeted with smiles and warm greetings. Did I say that this is a high school? It wasn’t what I had anticipated. There was maturity about the kids I was encountering that put me right at ease.

When I came time for me to perform, it was during the student’s lunch time. I wasn’t expecting to get a large crowd gathered around me, and I didn’t. Most stood off in the distance enjoying their meals, talking with friends and horsing around. It reminded me of my days in high school. I was feeling a bit nostalgic as I glanced up from my Kora to the sights and sounds surrounding me from the outdoor stage.

I had an hour to play for them and so I went though the songs on my new CD, playing each of them in extended form, live. It was fun! I was really enjoying this and they seemed to as well. Usually I combine the music with storytelling and colorful commentary, but not today. Today I went into a musical zone and just poured my heart out through the strings of my harp. It was amazing, therapeutic even.

When I finished with the final song the entire campus erupted in loud applause. I wasn’t expecting it and so it surprised me. I wasn’t sure how many had actually been listening. As I looked up I could see hundreds of kids, all over the campus, and staff too, all applauding. I beamed a bright, uncontrollable smile and felt affirmed on a grand scale.

If anyone from Covina High ends up reading this, let me just say, “Thank you for today, your school has gone a long way in renewing my faith in our youth… thank you Covina High staff and students for an unforgettable day.”

I’ve just finished posting a short video of highlights of my tour of schools in Mexico.

Enjoy! Leave me a comment or a little message letting me know what you thought once you’ve had a chance to watch it.

Peace and a multitude of blessings to one and all!

Baba the Storyteller

Seven years ago my preferred beverage at “every” meal was Coca Cola in a nice tall glass and poured over several small cubes of ice. It is embarrassing to admit now, but I used to drink at least four 12 oz. cans with every meal. I am not joking! I had grown up drinking the beverage and, to this day, can’t even recall the first time I tasted it.

I ended my relationship with Coke oh so reluctantly. I made the choice to end my ritual of having four 12 oz. cans at every meal simply because I was packing on the pounds like a sumo wrestler. I also had been given advice by several friends that there would be other health consequences if my over consumption continued unabated.

During that time I never viewed my little guilty pleasure of Coke consumption as an addiction; that was until I tried to stop drinking it.

Initially I figured, “No big deal, I’ll just stop cold turkey and change up what I drink at meals.”

I received a rude awakening each time I attempted, early on, to deny myself my favorite drink. I, quite literally, was going through withdrawals. I had headaches for the first time in my life and felt agitated, easy to anger. This was not my personality. Those who know me, know how even tempered I am.

I began my path to being Coke free by cutting my consumption in half and giving myself a timeline of gradually decreasing the amounts I drank over time.

It took me more than a year to reach the point where I could say that I was no longer drinking Coke. A year! Well… that was seven years ago and I could have said, before yesterday, that I was seven years Coke free.

Now, about my little experiment yesterday.

Oh, before I start getting the emails, phone calls and strange looks in the streets let me clarify something. This was not an “official” Scientific Method variable compensated blind double blind type of experiment. No it was not. This exercise was purely anecdotal so don’t run off to the presses with an application of my results as evidence for anyone’s social or political agendas.

Here’s what happened yesterday.

I had a long drive I was making, listening to music and felling a little nostalgic. Somehow, some way, and I don’t know where the thought came from but, I got the idea that having a nice cold Coke  would be refreshing. I rationalized the decision by telling myself that the caffeine would help keep me awake for the drive.

So I stopped into a gas station convenience store and purchased a bottle of Coke.

I got into the car, opened the bottle, heard the familiar sizzle and fizz and then tilted the bottle back to enjoy my first sip in seven years.

It was disgusting!

There was no familiarity in the taste at all. My first impression was that it tasted like watered down carbonated castor oil. To add to the horrible taste in my mouth, the interior of my nose felt a slight burning sensation and my  eyes watered a bit.

It was only a sip!

These physical responses were immediately followed by me belching about four times in a row.

I thought my experience had ended after the final belch but then I was left with a nasty chemical-like castor oil after-taste in my mouth and what felt like a thin layer of milky coating on my tongue.

It took me half a bottle of water to wash down the majority of the after-taste and that still did not do it completely.

My Coke experiment was a disaster for me physically but a success mentally. I won’t be trying Coke again and I am quite sure that I’ve been cured of my nostalgic reflections over the good old days when I could sit and drink four 12 oz. cans with each meal.

Yesterday I definitely did not have a Coke and a smile.

Note: Because I know so many of you will ask, I am just going to tell you. The symbol on my head in the post picture is an Adinkra symbol known as Kuntunkantan. Kuntunkantan is a symbol representing consciousness, among many other things.

I recently returned from a school where I spent the day in classrooms, performing assemblies and having lunch with students and staff. The school was immaculate with manicured landscaping, plenty of windows, a huge gymnasium and even an Olympic size swimming pool. Art was displayed “everywhere,” both student work and that of professional artists. The cafeteria prepared meals upon student requests and all of the children had unfettered access to the campus library. Oh… by the way, did I mention that this school is an elementary school serving grades K though 5?

I am dismayed at the inequity of resources distributed to our educational institutions. It is unconscionable what we are doing to entire generations of citizens in many of our schools.

Equally, I can speak about schools I’ve visited where poverty, in all of its insidious forms, is devouring the hearts and minds of our children; where educators, pummeled by political agendas appear desperate and destitute of a desire to teach.

I am well aware that there are those among us with a desire to totally dismantle public systems of education. I am also aware that these same ideologues have been hard at work over the decades deconstructing what has taken centuries to build.

Are we a society or simply a population sharing a landmass?

I think that I periodically write these blog posts decrying the state of miseducation because it is difficult visiting schools and bearing first-hand witness to the inequalities.

While so much attention is being given to the financial crisis and the domestic political wars waged in partisan politics; little, or no, focus is being directed to the deconstruction and dismantling of our educational infrastructure.

If education is our passport to the future and tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today, then our future is not very bright.

Please disagree with me or offer a rebuttal that will change my perspective. I am so open to it.

While in Mexico I received an email from the director of volunteers and bereavement services, Kaiser Permanente. It was a request that I perform for a group of hospice volunteers during one of their social gatherings.

My heart was touched that someone would think to include me. I felt honored. There was “no-way” that I was going to miss participating in that gathering, even if it meant that I had to move a few mountains to be there.

So much of my work, over the years, has consisted of being at the bed-side of the ill or those in transition and playing my Kora. It may seem like a terribly heart wrenching experience to voluntarily subject oneself to an environment where another human being has passed or is dying but, there is an indescribable beauty that is born in those moments.

My most cherished memories are not the performances where I’ve had a few thousand people in the audience, but the rare  opportunities I’ve been invited to play my Kora in a room of family members helping their loved one ascend onto the next levels of life.

So… like I said before, there was no way that I was going to miss sharing space and time with men and women who give of themselves so completely as do hospice volunteers.

Patty, the director and I, completed coordination my participation while I was still performing on tour in Mexico. We were all scheduled and set before I returned back to the States.

December 3rd was the day of my performance for the group. I couldn’t wait to be there! Hospice volunteers possess a rare and special soul. My admiration for their work extends far beyond simple respect into adoration.

Not too long after I arrived, I was on stage playing my Kora, singing and sharing a few tales. For me, it was magical. The gathering was small intimate gathering of about 30 or 40 people, all hospice volunteers. They were a lively, energetic crowd. Active participating wasn’t an issue as they were more than ready, willing and totally able.

When I requested they sing with me, they sang with such enthusiasm that I felt like I was sitting at home among friends and family. When they unearthed little tidbits of my tales, they laughed and spoke out unapologetically. I was in performer’s heaven.

By the close of my performance I felt like I had made a lot of new friends. I even found one woman who loves sewing and volunteered to help me out if I needed any tailoring (what a find!). I may have also been talked into doing a “Cure for Cancer Walk.”

I can honestly say that I loved being a part of this gathering. It was one of those small, intimate performances that feels most gratifying. There is something about being in the presence of people who are not only giving but equally demonstrative as well that feeds the spirit.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time with the Kaiser Permanente Hospice Volunteers. I think I walked away with more from than I was able to give.

It was truly a blessing to have been permitted to be of service to such selfless souls.

I’ve been sitting here in the airport of the City of Culiacán for the last hour and a half. I finished performing for the students of Instituto Senda. It is an odd feeling sitting in this tiny airport listening to the Blues being played over the loudspeakers and hearing everyone speak Spanish.

I really must relate my experience at Senda because it was extra ordinary. This the school held an assembly of all of the students, parents, administrators and staff. Apparently they do this every Monday. The children have been raising money for causes such as Cancer, feeding the hungry and other things. There was a young child there who was on stage saying thank you to the entire school for the support and resources he received to treat a hearing defect.

I was taken onto a stage of an outdoor amphitheater and introduced to the school. It grew silent when I took the microphone. I began addressing the audience in Spanish and you should have seen the smiles explode all across the audience. It felt so good! Parents were nodding their heads in agreement with me and students were cheering. One of the administrators approached me after the address and hugged me and said, “We weren’t expecting you to be able to speak Spanish.” Another small triumph for decisions made in my youth.

I performed for three separate sessions, which went really well. I also visited a several classrooms. My classroom visits ranged in age from children 4 and 5 years of age to those much older, a few rooms of 14 and 15 year olds. My host, Edgar Sandoval was the most magnanimous host I’ve ever had. You can tell he really cares about his students. He treated me with such deference and respect that it made me want to not leave Senda. If I could’ve stayed a few more days then I would have. The school has a fantastic and enthusiastic population of learners.

Last night when I arrived in Culiacán I was a bit wary of how my visit my go, I mean, well… when you arrive at your hotel room and there are women dancing professionally on tables immediately next door to your room… well you get my drift.

Edgar drove me around a little in the city and then was kind enough to drop me off at the airport.

Culiacán has a reputation for being the drug capital of Mexico but I didn’t encounter anything sinister during my brief stay.

John Lee Hooker just started playing his guitar and singing on over the speakers here in the airport. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. It is sacrilegious to do anything when the Blues Man is pouring out his soul. I’m going to kick back and take in some of Hooker’s wisdom.

I’ll be writing again once I get back to Mexico City. I’ve got another school early tomorrow morning.

I did say I could use a nap didn’t I?

There are many things to dislike about Mexico City: the smog, the insane traffic, profligate smoking, where 51.2% of all men can be found toking on cancer sticks in every crevice of public space. Add to these issues the congestion of 8 million souls populating a land mass not meant to sustain half that number and you have a recipe for sustained urban planning nightmares.

What is it about this city that continues to attract and inspire people in spite of its many faults? For me it is quite simple. Art.

In this city reside some of the world’s most gifted artists and installations of breathtaking works of art.

While walking through the city I couldn’t help but notice the over abundance of public art and displays. Every corner of the city, the center of every public park, on sidewalks and the walls of buildings are canvases for all mediums of artwork. There are also “traveling” displays, which move from parkways to the larger squares on weekends, allowing people to savor the beauty of Mexico.

In the United States artists struggle to find places to display their art and are often confronted with miles of red tape and bureaucracies if they have the “audacity” to desire a display their work publicly. I am not aware of the process that artists in Mexico have to go through, but upon quick glance it would appear that the process is less then intensive. To the outside observer, artists seem to be welcomed and supported here.

What caught my attention even more is that amidst all of this amazing art are ruin, overcrowding, and poverty. There are still many buildings destroyed in the 1985 earthquake that have been left as though no time had passed. There are signs everywhere to be careful with water consumption because the city has a difficult time getting water to all of its inhabitants. There are large holes in the streets, lead paint peeling openly off of buildings, and many structures leaning precariously due to the city having been built upon a lakebed. The roads are crowded and some streets even reverse directions at certain times during the day to handle congestion. There are problems with infrastructure that would make most engineers shudder. Many of the places that these people call home would be condemned and labeled uninhabitable in the USA.

Despite all these things, the art is still beautifully displayed for everyone, rich or poor, tourist or resident. Some people might wonder why a government would prioritize funding toward public art displays rather than infrastructure. Any ideas?

As a professional artist of more than 20 years, I’ve engaged in this “Either-Or” debate concerning Infrastructure vs. Art in the U.S.

It is difficult to get myopic minds to envision a conversation facilitated by infrastructure “and” art.  Poverty manifests itself in more ways than economically. In the U.S. we are currently suffering as much from a poverty of vision as anything else.

Mexico’s public art surrounds and envelopes its citizens and, its beauty, provides a vision of hope for a future that is bright. Mexico City has the potential to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

As an artist, I see art as an ingredient in unification. Art unites people in a way that no other discipline is able to. It promotes identity, self-awareness and a sense of pride. Nations are identified more by their art than reams of pedantic legislation or governmental structures.

Most people I have come into contact with here in Mexico City love and appreciate it despite the obvious issues. I have lived in places with much more in resources and beautifully supported infrastructure where people have less a sense of community and commitment than I experienced during my travels here in Mexico.

It would be a misnomer to say that last night I attended a “dinner party” because the gathering was so much more than that. Ever since I first began this tour of Mexico I’ve been looking forward to meeting two phenomenal storytellers, Victor Árjona and Ángel del Pilar. They are cornerstones of the Storytelling Movement here in Mexico and represent my aspirations as a cultural artist really well. The fact that they offered their home as an oasis in the evening made my respect for them grow exponentially.

We arrived, a few other storytellers and I, around 7:40 pm or so. The electricity was out in the building and we had to ascend about five flights of steps. As an aside… it seems to me that there exist an incalculable number of steps in this country, from the ancient Pyramids of Teotihuacan to ones inside of the mountains and mountains of contemporary buildings that dissect Mexico City.

The Angel was gracious enough to come down and meet us at the entrance of their flat. Yes… her name is Angel and not “The Angel” but I prefer to follow my first impressions. My imagination runs rampant and I find stories, poetry, humor and symbols in almost everything. I loved the fact that we were ascending a dark stairway being guided by a woman named Angel who was the only one who possessed light. I’m smiling to myself right now.

Once The Angel got us safely to the entrance of their home, we were greeted by a snowy white cat with more personality and vigor than any cat I’ve come across to date. He ran around, excitedly in circles and darted into a little box on the floor. He would disappear and reappear at the most odd moments, reminiscent of an “Alice in Wonderland” Cheshire cat manner. It was an entertaining sight to behold.

From around the corner of the kitchen Victor appeared. The first thing you notice about Victor are his eyes. Victor has the most honest eyes of any man I’ve ever met. They are both childlike and mature at the same time. A smile graced his face that made me feel as if I were at home. The scent of something cooking, something unfamiliar, permeated the house. It was both a pleasant and curiosity inducing smell.

Their home is an artist haven, it has art everywhere and an atmosphere of both creativity and well managed business. There seemed to have achieved a purpose filled balance in their home.

While Victor was busy preparing the evening’s meal, The Angel seated us and conversed with our little group.

I had had a moment a few days before, while traveling to the City of Mixquic. My cab driver was passing a mountain called “The Sleeping Woman.” It is actually a dormant volcano. The driver shared with me the legend of a young warrior and woman who were in love. The story possesses an enormous dose of pure enchantment and I thoroughly enjoyed it when the driver related it to me.

As synchronistic as my life tends to be, it was not surprising when Victor and The Angel shared a bit of the same tale, but with a twist. They had actually created, with the help of family and friends, a Kamishibai version of the ancient Mexican Tale. Kamishibai is an ancient Japanese form of storytelling where a box houses a rolling scroll of images that the storyteller rotates while telling the tale. They had beautifully decorated Kamishibai boxes with images of the themes of their stories and illustrations which slid into the back of the box. Most traditional Kamishibai boxes are plain, rather simple but these had a Mexican cultural spin put on them with lots of bright colors and images.

I was excited because my friend in Poland, Michael, has been working with Kamishibai for some time now and encouraging me to do the same.

They had several decorative Kamishiai boxes and well planned out tales to tell with them. I was impressed. These two are definitely storytellers heart and soul.

A couple of other local storytellers arrived and we all gathered around a circular dining room table. A circle. Yes… really, a circular table. For some of you that won’t mean much but for others it will have metaphysical and cultural significance. I was delighted to be seated at “The Round Table” with this gathering of other storytellers.

Initially I was going to say that Victor is a wonderful cook but, after having tasted the caramelized onion he prepared for us to start the meal with, I have to retract and declare that he is an authentic chef with tantalizing culinary skills.

I had some hesitation in biting into an onion that had been oven baked for a few hours but I quickly overcame in favor of desiring the experience. I was not disappointed. I wanted so badly to savor every single bite of that onion but I would have held up the evening. Seriously, I think I could have taken an hour to slowly and purposefully eat that caramelized onion. The textures, the flavors, the meat of the vegetable that melted in your mouth… oh my God! Ok, obviously it was good. To let you know how detail oriented Victor can be, our main dish was comprised of chopped vegetables whose colors mirrored the many colors you find all over Mexico and in Mexican Art. I was in a scene from “Como Agua para Chocolate” and loving every second of it.

The conversation flowed around the table easily. No one competed with anyone else to be heard. One of the tellers, Andy from New Zealand, and his son, performed a soul stirring Haka for everyone. If you’ve never watched a Rugby match or seen a Tongan Haka performed then go to YouTube and put the work in and be prepared to have an experience. I thought the walls and floors were going to come tumbling down. It was one of the highlights of the night, besides Victor’s culinary delights of course.

It was part dinner party, part ritual and part gathering of kindred spirits. There were laughs, tears and a ton of sharing. I found myself so at ease with the members of this gathering that it reminded me of the rites and rituals I’ve been blessed to be a part of over the decades.

I left late in the evening with a deep desire for all of our paths to cross once again. It was an evening of being fed both physically and spiritually that I will not soon forget.

Last week I visited a school called “Crecer” which means “to grow” in Spanish. The school is located in the City of Tlaxcala. I didn’t know much about the city except that it was located outside of the metropolis of Mexico City. I always love getting away from the noise and crowds of big cities so a trip to Tlaxcala was perfect for me. I had already suffered a week of hearing sirens every few minutes, incessant horn honking and music blaring around every corner I turned. The fact that I was going to have a two-hour bus ride to get there was even more of an enticement.

I boarded the bus and felt that, “sit back and relax” feeling you get when someone else is doing the driving. My plan was simple. I would stare out of the large window of the bus for two hours taking in the country’s landscape.

No sooner did the driver pull away from our stall when, miraculously, television monitors descended from the ceiling of the bus with their volumes already set on maximum. Television monitors! I could have screamed!

I rode for two hours being subjected to a diaper-wearing Panda who apparently knows kung-fu and simultaneously channels the spirits of Larry, Curly and Moe. I knew I was in the minority as someone who was desperately seeking solace in silence because, the entire trip, there were bursts of raucous laughter, loud conversations and, believe this or not, people actually playing music aloud from their phones.

I did manage to stare out into the vast expanse that is Mexico and view some beautiful land. Dormant volcanoes, snow capped mountains, fields upon fields of corn and other vegetation. Mexico is truly a blessed piece of earth.

I was met at the bus station in Tlaxcala by Martha Jáuregui, director of Crecer. From the beginning, Martha’s warm and inviting demeanor made me feel welcomed in her city. On our way through Tlaxcala to her school I was treated to some of the most picturesque sites of colonial architecture and baroque inspired iglesias. Prior to arriving, Martha warned me that her campus was very small. What Martha didn’t know at the time was that “small” and “quaint” was just what I was in need of after Mexico City.

The campus was indeed small but grand in vision. The feel of the campus reminded me of a throwback to an era when a small community shaped the environment of its school.

I was scheduled to perform for the upper grades only. The youngest, kinder and pre-k, had been excluded. I didn’t feel so good about those children, on such a small campus, having been excluded so I asked Martha if it would be alright for me to visit their classrooms for just a few minutes. She was excited to consent and escorted to me the kinder and pre-k classrooms. It was so much fun!

I got a chance to sing “Los Pollitos” with the children and find out their names. One little girl, about 4 or 5 years of age, wrapped her arms around my neck when I squatted down to get eye-to-eye with her group. What a wonderful feeling.

The sessions with the older groups went exceptionally well. I got the feeling  from these small groups of teens that they had not yet been tainted by the cynicism or angst of their peers in the larger cities. Their questions were both thoughtful and probing. By the time I had to leave I felt as though I had been in the company of an extremely mature group of young adults. How refreshing!

I told Martha of my interest in I.B. Schools (International Baccalaureate) and she introduced me to their I.B. coordinator, Guadalupe. There was a light shining in Guadalupe’s eyes that immediately enamored me with her. As we spoke I could tell that her passion for learning and teaching was beyond the pale. She and Martha are definitely two peas in a pod. I think that by the time I left the school I must have hugged everyone 4 or 5 times each. It was a refreshing experience to visit “Crecer.”

You might have thought that I would have been left with my good feeling and placed back on the bus to head back to Mexico City but that was not in Martha’s plans. She and her husband personally escorted me around the city of Tlaxcala and patiently answered my touristy questions. There is a bull- fighting ring in the city that I got to see, a beautiful church and, in the square, some amazing artwork.

My visit to Tlaxcala gave me back the solace that I was so desperately seeking. I can honestly say that I found tranquility in Tlaxcala. Thank you Martha and the entire staff of Crecer.

While in Mexico I decided that I would make sure to use public transportation. I honestly feel that public transportation is a sure fire way to get to know the city and people up close and personal. Little did I know when I boarded the subway in Zona Rosa that I was going to experience one particular person up close and “real” personally.

Here’s what happened…

I jumped onto the subway just as the doors were closing. I scanned the train car looking for a seat. There was only one available so I raced toward it trying to beat the crowd. I didn’t even take time to see who it was near or next to. I flew into the available seat and noticed, for the first time, that no one else was competing to get there before me. I’ve caught this train before and this was the “first” time that I was able to get a seat. I was feeling really lucky until I looked to my left and saw an elderly woman who was obviously homeless and, as her eyes indicated, a bit unbalanced mentally.

I have to speak honestly. She smelled badly, her long black raven satin hair was oily and dirty. The many layers of soiled clothing and tattered coats would have given the average person a heat stroke. In her hands, falling from her toothless mouth and covering her clothes and the floor around her were pieces of a half eaten, very messy sandwich. It didn’t seem that much of it was making it into her mouth.

In that moment I had a decision to make (I seem to be faced with these a lot lately). I could either sit down next to her and brace myself for all that might come with sharing space with her, or I could walk a little bit further away and stand comfortably by myself. Ok… You know me by now. You know that I chose to stay seated next to her. After all, she is a human being simply down on her luck economically. What could go wrong?

So I sat down there, turned toward her, and looked her in the eyes to validate that I saw her as a human being, not simply an “undesirable” in society. I was feeling pretty good about my decision until her demeanor flipped and my eyes felt an empty, glassy stare that looked through me to some distant point behind me.

I wasn’t prepared for what she did next. She totally caught me off guard. I’m looking into her vacant eyes and expression when, out of nowhere she draws back and, with her full force, punched me in the arm.

Yes! She punched me!

It didn’t really hurt, but it was in that moment that I realized I was going to have to up my game exponentially if I was going to remain seated next to her. In that split second, I turned to her and gave it my best shot.

“I love you!”  I whispered aloud to her.

Immediately she softened, her entire disposition changed to one of an enamored, flirtatious little girl.

At this point, she extended her hand, food and condiments dripping and falling from the side, and offered me some of her sandwich. Sensing that this was going in the right direction I immediately asked her a few things about herself. She was genuinely pleased with having someone to talk with. I thought things were really looking up. She was happy. I was comfortable. It was at this point that I felt her shift in her seat and begin leaning over to move closer to me. Before I knew it she was rubbing her grubby head and oily hair affectionately against the side of mine. She was really moving our “budding friendship” along faster, and more intimately, than I expected. Fortunately, for me she wanted more sandwich than cuddling. She sat back in her seat, flashing her wide toothless smile every few minutes as we continued with a little more small talk. I could see the faces of the passengers around me. I think they either felt sorry for me or they may have been questioning my sanity.

When my stop came up I turned to her and told her it had been nice chatting with her, as I would have done in any “typical” encounter. She smiled that wide, toothless, gummy smile once more and I could see that those few moments of discomfort on my part might have given her the gift of feeling “normal”. Maybe in that moment she didn’t feel invisible.  It gave me the chance to reflect on how easy it is to overlook some people in society.

I had ascended to the top of the Sun Pyramid at Teotihuacán and was feeling rather proud of myself until I spotted an old man and woman in about their mid-70’s appear over the crest of the steps about 20 minutes later. My jaw dropped. This was no easy climb. The steps are uneven and narrow in some places, the incline is ridiculous in others and climbing the distance from top to bottom puts a burn in your body equivalent to a punishing workout.

The old man was being held up on his right arm by a woman equal his age. She appeared a bit stronger while he actually walked with a limp. These two had climbed the Pyramid of the Sun together without any assistance! It was both a thing of beauty and awe inspiring at the same time.

I lost track of the elderly couple while walking around the top of the pyramid. It is huge. I didn’t see them again until I began my descent down the dangerous steps. They had already begun going down before me. They were about 10 steps down below me and moving at a very slow pace. The steps are uneven and jagged in some areas and I noticed people in a rush crowding the elderly couple, almost trying to make them move faster. There wasn’t much room but some of the impatient philistines found ways to maneuver around them. I was appalled at the behavior of these people and rushed down the steep steps to position myself between the elderly couple and the remainder of the people descending the pyramid. I slowed the crowd behind me and wasn’t allowing anyone to pass. The elderly couple ahead of me were finally making their way down without interruption. I felt good about that.

As we were going down I noticed the old man’s foot slip once and it frightened me so much that I ran down and grabbed his right arm. On his left was his companion and, on his right, me. There were many steps left and the rest of the crowd seemed to get the hint and remained behind us.

It was a slow pace but we finally made it to the bottom of the pyramid. The old man and woman smiled as he said to me, “Gracias Señor.”

As I left the couple I was feeling good about my minimal role in their visit to the pyramids. I smiled to myself as I recalled the motif of tales that have spirits entering our world to interact with human beings, testing us or challenging us to be better. It occurred to me that, in those types of tales, the elderly couple I encountered would have represented a pair of spirits sent to test our humanity.

Be honest with me. Would you have passed the test?

I didn’t want to much time to pass before I kept my promise to a group of young girls at a school I visited recently. I was heading to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat when then swooped in and surrounded me. I was being held captive in the middle of a circle by about group of 8, 9 and 10 year olds pummeling me with questions.

I loved it!

I promised the girls that I would write something about them because, and this was an awakening for me, they actually read my blog! So here’s a little shout out to each of you:

Mikaela thank you so much for writing a comment to me on Facebook.

Aranza you also wrote a comment to me on Facebook and, for that, I am very grateful as well.

Ximena thank you for sharing the story I told you with your brother. I hope he liked it.

Ana you went above and beyond by getting home and telling your mom, grandma and brother the story I shared with you. Oh… and, by the way, tell your mom, the illustrator, that we need to talk :)

Elena you were another gift to me because you shared the story with your mom too. Have your mom “friend me” on Facebook, I’d love to hear her thoughts on the tale.

Claire, in the middle of all the questions and hugs the little group was throwing my way you interrupted and asked, “Would you like a cookie?” Wow! A little girl walking around the playground passing out cookies. That made me so happy.

Lucie I won’t forget you either. You were walking around handing out “toys.” That is awesome. I still have my little turtle you gave me. Thank you.

There was a list of names at the bottom of the paper and on the back who I don’t have references for so I’m justing going to say thank you to Anna, Carolina, Paula, Victoria and Zarah for putting your names on the note.

Each and everyone of you have helped to make my trip to Mexico an absolutely glorious experience.

Thank you.

I’ve been in Mexico City for about a week now. The city’s tempo is just like most other urban centers of the world, fast paced and congested simultaneously. The streets overflow with pedestrians, careening taxis and sirens morning, noon and night.

I haven’t blogged in a few days. I’ve been walking the streets of the Mexico city for hours at a time when not working. Public transportation and walking are great ways to learn a city’s secrets. I have to admit though that Ive been a little anxious about getting back to my hotel to return emails, phone calls, and respond to communications on social networks. My tour manager, Alberto, has helped me to divide my days in half. One half = work and, of course, the other half = enjoyment.

I did have an incident occur a few days ago that I wanted to share with you. My tour manager and I completed work at a school early in the day and headed back to our hotel. When we arrived to the hotel I noticed, as we were exiting the cab, that neither of us had my camera bag.

Time to panic right? We searched the cab and didn’t find it. We assumed that we had left it at the school. There was nowhere else it could be. Since I had to return to the same school the following day it wasn’t an issue.  I found a silver lining for this mishap. Had I managed to bring all of the audio/video equipment back with me, I would have been trapped in my hotel room working. Since I couldn’t work without the equipment I took it as a sign that I needed to just relax. What did I do to relax you may ask? Well, of course, I walked the streets of Mexico City for a few hours.

The next morning when I arrived at the school and inquired about my cameras I discovered that they were not there. They were missing. Time to panic right? I had, literally, no idea where the cameras could be. The school’s administrator went into action searching high and low, calling in the assistance of everyone on campus. The entire school was on alert and searching for my missing cameras.

Here’s my point in writing about this. There was a time, when I was much younger, that I would’ve probably jumped to the assumption that “Someone stole my stuff!” This negative assertion would have been accompanied by a great deal of, self-inflicted, psychological and physiological stress.

The school’s administrator had made my loss a priority and was doing everything humanly possible to bring it to a positive resolution in my favor. When we had a moment to talk, I pulled her aside to speak privately. I let her know that I had no anxiety associated with my loss. There was no one to blame or at fault for whatever might have happened. I told her that if I, the owner of the missing items, was able to put them out of my mind and be at peace, then she should the same.

She wasn’t buying into my Zen theory of loss and continued on her focused mission of recovery.

I was here to share culture, music and time with the students of this campus. I was well aware that the “potential” stress aligned with my missing equipment possessed the power to derail my usual successes. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen, regardless of the circumstances. There is a line in one of my favorite films that I sometimes recall in moments like this. The movie is titled “Daughters of the Dust” and I believe it debuted in the early to mid-90’s. In the film there is a child who has yet to be born speaking in the opening. The child says, “I’m on a spiritual mission but sometimes life gets in the way.” I could be quoting that inaccurately but you get the point.

If I take a step back and examine my reactions to this situation, I have to say that I am really proud of the manner in which I was handling it. The equipment was expensive and yet, I was not feeling any of the turmoil that one typically feels when something like this happens. I chose to celebrate my calm disposition as opposed to fixating on my loss.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first session with the children and didn’t permit any thoughts of loss to disrupt my focus on them and their needs. The second session I felt even more successful and managed to have all of my learners engaged from start to finish.

The students were laughing, smiling and soaking up every word that I spoke. There was nothing else in the world but our time together and whatever we chose to fill it with (music, stories, question/answer, conversation, etc.).

At the end of the second session, while I was releasing the students back to their teachers, the administrator entered from the back of the room. Cradled in her hands was my black bag of camera equipment.

I grabbed her and hugged her with the tightest most sincerely thankful hug I could give. I asked her where she found it. Her answered embarrassed me a bit. It had been left in the cab, she explained, and the cab company brought it back. She, personally, gave them a reward of 500 pesos for returning it. The cab company didn’t want to accept it, they were returning the equipment based on their honor.

It was an ephiphanal moment for me. To leave anything in a cab, anywhere in the world, and have it returned, is nothing short of a miracle. If it had not been for this school’s administrator and staff, I know, with certainty, that I would never have seen my equipment again.

It would be self aggrandizing for me to put forth the premise that my disposition of release, and making the students a priority, helped to create the conditions which allowed for the return of my equipment. My only success is that I never permuted the negative thought of “Someone stole my stuff” to creep into my mind. The bare truth of the matter is that one little tenacious woman, assisted by the staff of the school, refused let the issue rest until they prevailed.

Thank you Frances and all of the staff at Green Gates school for your warmth, hospitality and patience.

While waiting to board my flight to Mexico at the Los Angeles International Airport yesterday, I decided to purchase a local newspaper for Spanish speakers . I used to do this more often when I first began learning Spanish, in order to challenge my word knowledge and increase vocabulary. I’ve been a Spanish speaker for a little more than 20 years now. I enjoy languages and my trip to Mexico is a perfect opportunity to hone my love of linguistics.

Back to the story. Well… I’m at an airport kiosk and I place my newspaper, “La Opinion,” on the counter along with a few decadent snacks that I should not be eating. The woman behind the counter takes the paper off of the counter and tries to replace it with another paper. “You’ve made an error, this paper is in Spanish,” she says to me.

“No, I didn’t make an error, that is the paper I want,” I respond.

“You speak Spanish!” she replies in a tone of astonishment.

I’m not sure why this happens but it happens often enough for me to take notice.

The woman behind the counter began speaking to me in Spanish, and, as we conversed, she asked me where I was from. I said, “Los Angeles,” and began to explain my affinity for languages when she interrupted me. “No,” she says, “I mean where in South America.”

Here’s a synopsis of how the conversation went and this happens more often that you’d believe:

Me:  “I’m from the United States.”

Her:  “No… you’re family, where in South America is you family from?”

I take this as a compliment that a native speaker can’t detect the accent in my speaking. I thoroughly enjoy when this happens. I was finally able to explain to her that I wasn’t a native speaker. She was impressed and her enthusiasm heightened as we spoke. She was from Colombia. We started talking about my last  trip to Colombia, the food, the people, the history, etc. Our conversation went on for awhile until it was interrupted by a long line of clients waiting to make their own purchases. Initially I had been the only person standing at the kiosk. We had both become oblivious to our surroundings and were enjoying our conversation in Spanish so much that we lost track of time. Those moments when we are immersed in exchanges with other human beings, and lose ourselves, are enchanting.

I was finally permitted to purchase my “La Opinion” newspaper and continue on my way after a warm hug from her and a few more words of praise for my Spanish. This sort of exchange occurred with me regularly while I was in Colombia last year.

Whether you’ve established fluency in another language or not, people tend to open themselves up to you more when you make an attempt to engage them in their mother tongue. I can’t tell you the innumerable opportunities that have been presented to me simply because I have made an effort to comprehend, not just the languages of others, but their cultures as well.

When I got on the plane and took my seat, I opened my little bag of “decadence” and found a few extra pieces of imported dark chocolate. Had the kiosk operator put them in there by accident or, was this another, typical, Colombian gesture of kindness?

I prefer to think of it as the magic of language.

Late in the evening on October 19th I stood in line with hundreds of other passengers hoping to make it to the ticket counter of Continental Airlines at Guarulhos International Airport in São Paulo Brazil. I could have given in to the temptation to fume with anger and frustration but I chose to self-medicate. I took out my iPod and placed the earphones into my ears and put on my playlist of old Motown smoothies. Um… you cannot be irritated when listening to Marvin, The Temptations or the Supremes. It is just not possible.

A few times I caught myself singing out loud, really loud, while the line moved at a snails pace. I wouldn’t even have noticed if it had not been for the odd looks and stares I was getting from others in line. What is up these days? People don’t sing anymore?

So I’m standing in line, moving slowly, standing some more followed by additional slow movement until, hours later I finally reached the ticket counter and put my iPod away. Hooray! Right?  Well as soon as the ticket agent eyeballed my instrument case and registered a countenance of shock I knew I was about to have trouble.

“You’re going to have to pay extra for that!” he quipped.

“Don’t you want to measure it first?” I asked.

He went on to explain that he had worked for Continental many years and didn’t have to weigh or size “that” oversized/overweight case. He knew.

All I had asked was if he was going to measure it first and that seemed to put him in a defensive posture.

Trouble was “officially” present and I was directly in his crosshairs.

“Please do not try and tell me how to do my job sir!”

I hadn’t even spoken another word and trouble had already grown another foot taller.

At this point, now I was starting to get irritated. My consciousness altering iPod with its tons of tunes was tucked safely away in my pocket and I was feeling the need to whip it out and put the earphones back where they belonged, in my ears. But even the sultry voice of Mary Wells wasn’t about to redirect the path of this, inevitable, collision of male egos.

He sent one of his assistants to measure and weigh my case. The assistant came back with a measurement and, for the first time, I saw a smile grace his face. Immediately I felt the virtual vinyl LP drop onto the turntable of my mind and play an old Temptation’s track “Smiling Faces.” The lyrics danced around in my head, “smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within…”

“Can you dig it?”

Believe it or not I was managing to remain pretty calm. My irritation was subsiding during his soliloquy of rules and regulations, which I was not hearing because, by this time in my head Stevie Wonder was belting out his song entitled “Uptight.”

“Baby everything is alright, uptight, way out’a sight…”

I smiled during his tirade and it must have caught him off guard because his entire disposition changed like maybe he thought he was dealing with a madman or something.

“Do you understand why you must pay?” he asked.

I hadn’t heard a single word he had said. I knew he was functionally fixated on his position. I reminded myself of the old adage, “All the proof in the world will not change the mind of a cynic.”

I gave it the old college try anyway and spoke, “Before leaving Los Angeles I had taken my case to the airport and had it weighed and measured by Continental. I have copies of your website’s baggage policies as well as the names of the Continental agents who verified that the case does not require a fee…”

I was about to take out my copies of paperwork and the copies of Continental’s baggage policies when he interrupted me and said, “You’re taking up time of other passengers, you’re going to have to step aside!”

He was angrier.

I could see that this was going nowhere good.

I breathed in for a second, weighed my options and told him, “Go ahead and charge me what you believe I should pay.”

His head cocked to the side like that old RCA victrola dog. Ah… I had the element of surprise on my side. He was expecting a continued argument and I appeared to be acquiescing. I assure you that I was not giving in.

I, my friends, was practicing the ancient Art of War.

1st rule: Know your opponent.

2nd rule: If you can avoid it, never battle in another man’s land.

There’s more to it but you can read Sun Tzu for yourself if you want.

I smiled again and told him to go ahead and charge me.

He wasn’t speaking. He was just looking at me rather curiously.

I then said, “Excuse me, there are so many people in line behind me and I don’t want to hold them up. Could you please go ahead and process the case?”

He then asked the oddest question, “You do understand that your are going to have to pay?”

I smiled once more and said as simply as I could, “Yes.”

He processed me and I went on my merry way subconsciously humming “War” by Edwin Starr… “What is it good for… absolutely nothing, say it again…”

Here’s what I had reasoned to myself, as the agent’s earlier tirade  played as low decibel background to my thinking.

I knew the policy better than he did. I had researched and was much more informed. I also knew that any errors on his part would need to be corrected by someone of a more accommodating disposition. I, after all, am a patient man (sometimes anyway).

I walked away feeling as though I had just won a battle without fighting. Something between good karma and intuition allowed me to quickly put this incident behind me knowing I would deal with it later.

Following 15 hours of travel from Brazil to Los Angeles, I was finally back. I went and spoke with the Continental baggage claim people who, instantly, verified that I should not have been charged for my case. The agents annotated my record and assured me that the issue would be rectified.

I was so tired at this point I just nodded, said thank you and went home to sleep.

The next day, a bit more energized I headed to Los Angeles International Airport. I don’t live that far from the airport and going there is much quicker than pressing all of those buttons on the phone and getting disconnected before you even get another human being to communicate with.

I got to the airport and made it to the ticket counter in no time flat. The ticket agent advised me a refund had already been issued. Now check this out… he apologized for the other agent!

The agent then handed me a receipt and explained that the refund would be back on my card within 3 to 5 days.

I left feeling really good and, when I got to my car I realized that I had not even looked at the receipt to make sure that they had refunded me the correct amount. The payment I made in Brazil was in their currency, Reais.

I sat in my car and pulled out the receipt. My jaw dropped and my eyes opened wide. It was the amount!

A big, mischievous smile slowly spread across the expanse of my face.

“Don’t let the handshake and the smile fool ya, I’m only trying to school ya… Smilin faces, smiling faces…”

Today I visited my last school on the final leg of this 3 city tour in Brazil. Did I enjoy myself? More than I can say. Do I feel as though my work was appreciated and respected? Yes, and with such grace and dignity that I can honestly say that I was an honor to visit the beautiful nation.

The school I just left, not more than an hour ago is called Lycée Pasteur. It is a French school based in São Paulo. “All” of the students are fluent in French. I was amazed at the level of fluency each and every child demonstrated. Our guide at the school explained that the majority of the children who attend Lycée Pasteur begin in preschool together and continue all the way through their high school graduation as one class. Impressive.

I performed for two groups of 11 and 12 year olds today. I had such an amazing time! The children were warm, inviting and so receptive.

I had a chance to not feel like a complete failure linguistically here in Brazil because I was able to communicate in French with the students.

While I was performing for the second group of children, I couldn’t help but to notice a young girl who kept mimicking my movements. I have a tendency to appear to dance when I tell stories. Ah… who am I kidding? I love animating words and emotions and it comes so naturally that I dance while telling tales, and I love it! Every small gesture and movement I made, the young girl was right there with me. She was seated all the way in the back row, but I noticed here easily. I was intrigued because she didn’t appear to be joking, she was actually enjoying my unrehearsed choreography.

When the session ended, before dismissing the children, I made a point of letting her know that I was aware of her copying “my style.” Everyone laughed. I pointed directly at here and the sea of children parted because they knew who I was talking about. I said to her in front of the entire group, “You like the way I move don’t you?”

The child nodded in affirmation and then I put out a challenge, “Come dance with me then!”

I was surprised when the little girl jumped from her seat in the back row, navigated past her peers and was standing before me in no time flat.

What was I going to do? I just knew she would refuse. Well… I am no coward so I did what any man would do.

I took her hand into mine, placed her other hand on my shoulder and instructed the audience to sing a song that I had taught them earlier.

I wish I could remember her name. This child’s courage was inspirational. Not only was she dancing with me but she was clearly able to enjoy herself in front of more than 70 or so of her peers. I love children like this, they remind me of why I do what I do.

When we ended our little ballet I made sure to end with a dip. She loved it, I loved it, the entire group loved it!

As she returned to her seat, her peers cheered and applauded her loudly.

Then I dismissed the children they came running down the lecture hall from their chairs straight at me. It was a sea of excited adolescence careening straight for me. There was hugs and hand shakes happening all over the place. I must have done my job well because there didn’t appear to be a single soul in the auditorium who wasn’t offering some gesture of appreciation.

This was a wonderful way to end my tour here in Brazil.

Whenever I travel to other urban areas of the world I try to explore their graffiti. Graffitti, not tagging, those are two totally different things. I know we get them confused sometimes but, to me, tagging is ego tripping and graffiti is self-expression.

While cruising around Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo I noticed that much of their graffiti seemed much like the graffiti of the late 70’s and 80’s in urban areas of the United States. I’m continually noticing similarities between Brazil and the United States of 20 to 30 years ago, not just in graffiti.

Graffiti as art makes statements both social and political. I found some amazing graffiti in Rio and São Paulo. I’m thinking of putting a slideshow together of just the graffiti artwork that I’ve taken pictures of. Bogota and Cali in Colombia had some really dynamic stuff as well.

I’m often asked how I’ve learned so much, so fast about places I travel and languages. There are two methods of immersion that I use. Before traveling, I read, research, view documentaries and inundate my brain with more than is humanly possible to “outwardly” retain. Secondly, when I get to another country I “hit-the-streets.” You won’t learn anything about the people sitting in your comfortable hotel room watching television.

I wasn’t able to hit the streets in Brazil as much as I would have liked. I had schedules to maintain and performances to prepare for, but the graffiti gave me a gift of sight that I otherwise would not have received.

I can remember when graffiti artists were the scourge of big urban centers in the United States. Now, when I travel, I see whole governments and businesses setting aside funds to patronize these artists by giving them wall spaces they would have had to sneak in and paint in the dark of the night 30 years ago.

I’ve got to get ready to head to another school. Today is my final day in Brazil. I’ve got a 3 day break back in the U.S. and then I head to Mexico.

I’ll try to get back and update as soon as I can.

It’s late in the evening here in São Paulo, around 11 pm, and I’m just getting back to my hotel room. I attended a small, very intimate dinner hosted by a couple who reside here, Patrick and Teresa. It was an unforgettable evening and, instead of going to bed, as I should because I’ve got an early morning performance, I’m sitting here writing about it.

Early in the day, with rain falling heavily and the scent of São Paulo’s air absolutely satiating the senses, I contemplated canceling my attendance. The thought of staying in my room and relaxing or doing some reading while the rain beat against my 11th story window was very seductive.

I have a thing about commitments though. It disturbs my sensibilities when people do not keep their word and I don’t ever want to be anyone’s hypocrite. Although vacillating in my decision to attend or not, I knew that I would go regardless of how I felt. I value my word above all else.

When we arrived at Patrick and Teresa’s house it was a beautiful, meticulously landscaped, home. Teresa welcomed us and apologized for the jungle that she had created on her front terrace, but I loved it.

We entered and I met her husband Patrick, a journalist who is very gentle and accommodating. Patrick introduced me to the man I had come to meet, Geraldo Tartaruga (Tartaruga means turtle and it is a named he earned in his youth).

We all sat around a dinner table in the kitchen and talked while Teresa prepared the meal. It felt like a moment out of one of the old black and white movies, reminding me of a time when people gathered just for the sake of being together. There was no television, no radio and the conversation flowed like a steady stream.

Geraldo spun off about 7 to 10 stories in a row with ease, each as entertaining and enlightening as the last. Patrick chimed in wanting me to share and, of course, I did. I reached deep into my repertoire and offered a few tales I had learned while in Mali that I’ve never told publicly. Geraldo seemed as delighted with my tales as I was enchanted by his. He and I went back and forth a few times trading tales between conversations as topics changed. It was an extremely enriching experience.

I noticed that, while we were all enjoying our free-flowing conversation, Teresa was busy cutting, chopping and cooking in the background. I was noticing a universal theme being played out here as I watched her glide across  the floor between the sink and the oven and then the oven to the cupboards. The person who usually does all of the work, the cooking, no matter where I’ve traveled in the world, always seems to fade into the background of  whatever is going on around them. I felt the need to bring Teresa into the fold. I interrupted our conversation and asked Teresa if I could take a few pictures of her cooking and the food as it was being prepared. I’ve done this before when in Africa and Teresa was just as pleased and receptive as any of my hosts have been there. She smiled and posed near the oven as I explained to everyone that her role as preparer of our meal was an ancient sacred gesture that sometimes gets taken for granted. I didn’t want to take Teresa or her cooking for granted. There’s a proverb out of Mali that says, “the kitchen was born before the mosque.” I wanted to honor Teresa and, hopefully, I did.

Another two guests arrived as we were sitting in the kitchen talking, Henry and Kazuyo. I would find out later that Kazuyo has been teaching for over 40 years. 40 years of teaching! I was honored to be in her presence.

Teresa served the most amazing meal. The talking and storytelling continued even while we ate. We were definitely a menagerie of conversationalists.

It was getting late and my tour manager, in the most gentle tone ever, requested that I play a little Kora for everyone before we had to leave.

We all adjourned to the living room. Doesn’t that sound kind of 1940’ish, “we adjourned to the living room?” But that is exactly how it felt and what we did.

I was going to do my best to pay for Teresa’s beautifully prepared meal and her husband’s overwhelming hospitality with my music.

As it was getting late, Jana reminded me that we did not have much time before we needed to be leaving. I was able to play two songs for the group, sing a little and share a few proverbs before I resigned myself to my schedule. As I was putting the Kora away, the doorbell rang. It was Rinata, stunningly gorgeous Rinata, Henry’s girlfriend. She entered the room and gave hugs and kisses to everyone before taking a seat. I believe Jana was busy calling us a cab when I noticed Geraldo was trying to get my attention.

Patrick translated for me. Geraldo wanted one more song before I left, he was almost demanding it.

I smiled because I knew what he was doing. I couldn’t resist and told the crowd that I was going to read Geraldo’s mind and tell everyone what he was thinking. A gamble on my part? Yes, but it was fun.

I explained that Geraldo had the largest heart of anyone in the room and that he was not interested in the least in hearing another song. I exposed Geraldo for the romantic he truly was by telling everyone that he was requesting the song, not for himself, but for the beautiful Rinata.

A nice laugh and big smile burst though Geraldo’s lips as he nodded in affirmation.

I played one more song and, as I was playing, a torrent was released from the sky beating down on Teresa and Patrick’s home loudly. It was such an intimate setting. I let Rinata know that I would sing a song to her, for her, but it was a gift from Geraldo.

The room felt energetic in a way that is difficult to describe. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t a tumultuous type of energy. It was calm and peaceful yet very powerful.

When I ended the song I could hear everyone exhaling. It was a thing of beauty to witness.

I explained to Rinata that she was now obligated to give her hero, Geraldo, a kiss on the check to thank him for thinking of her.

Jana and I were about to step out into the rain to catch a cab down the street when Kazuyo stepped in. She offered to return us to our hotel and refused to have it any other way. She wanted to be the one to take us back to our hotel.

We departed everyone with hugs and kisses. While in Kazuyo’s car she let me know, in all sincerity, that she was trying to figure out a way to compensate me for the song and music that touched her heart. She told me that driving us was a small bit of compensation for what she had received.

My heart was touched once again here in São Paulo, and, as I sit in my room preparing for tomorrow’s performances I can’t help but to feel that something magical happened to me this evening.

Well when I left off on my last post I sort of said that I was going to take dance lessons at a Samba School here in São Paulo. That didn’t quite end up being the case. We went but the school wasn’t a school it was actually a club. A Samba Dance Club.

Permit me to set the scene for you. My tour manager, Jana, and I were heading to, what I believed to be, a Samba Dance School. I was very excited until our taxi turned down a very questionable street. You know the type of street that you might peer down into from the main boulevard but never enter? One of those streets that seems to tell its own tale of “nothing good ever happens here, go the other way.” So instead of going the other way, we turned down the street to find the “Samba School.”

I believe I lost my illusion that I was entering a school when the door man demanded to pat me down and search my belongings. Hmmm… I said to myself, this is not like any school that I’ve ever attended. It was easy to see that the disheveled building was a gathering place of some sort.

As I entered I had this really nostalgic feeling that I was entering some place familiar. I was. This place was the Brazilian equivalent of a “Juke Joint!” Alright I know I’m telling on myself, and my history, a little bit but I don’t have any other way to set the scene for you. Kind of dark, a little musty, and the smell of fried food and alcohol permeating the air. There was a solo musician on stage seated playing his guitar and singing to an almost empty house. We were early and had our pick of tables.

It seems there’s a rhythm to how these clubs function and they are as ubiquitous as churches. Most of the clubs open for lunch around noon or so. People from the community gather to eat and meet. Around 4 pm, the band takes the stage and then… Samba!

As we were ordering food and water (I don’t drink and this seems to really freak everyone out when I travel so I try not to mention it), people were coming in and claiming tables. Apparently people send others in advance as a form of reconnaissance table procuring because the clubs get really crowded. Watching the door was so entertaining that I could have come to the club just for that. I watched as a woman walked in with her infant child swaddled. A few elderly women, who must have, at least, been in their 70’s entered dressed to kill and already had their hips swaying to the playing rhythms. At one point an entire family of about 12 people walked in together. There were children, teens, elders, and everything in between. There was something familiar about the scene as I watched people who looked like my own family members take their places in different sections of the club.

Our host arrived with a friend and we ate, talked and laughed a bit. I was really enjoying the mellow mood and then the clock struck 4 pm. The band ascended the stage and, within seconds, the music was pumped up a notch in energy and volume. It was Samba time!

There was a dance floor but it seemed that people just danced everywhere, between tables, near the steps, back against the walls, everywhere. The mood was infectious.

I’ve never been one to hold up the walls so I hit the floor as soon as everybody else. Did I know how to dance Samba? Well… no, but why should that stop me. While on the floor I was being taught a few simple moves. There were arms swinging and legs flailing everywhere but no one was in danger of being hurt. There was a grace in the chaos of movement that made it safe to experiment with my new Samba moves. I don’t even know how I did, I really didn’t care. I just enjoyed the mood of the place. I kept my mouth closed and didn’t talk to too many people. It seemed, and this was told to me by a Brazilian, that I fit right into the demographic as long as I wasn’t saying anything. I was warned that, if the women knew I was a foreigner, I would be swarmed. Now that might be nice for you younger single guys but I’m chill, I like to take it slow and easy. That’s what happens you cross the mid-40 bridge.

I danced and danced some more before my legs started cursing at me, and loudly too. Samba is muscle intensive and if you are not in shape be very careful about how far you take yourself with the dance.

The place began to get hot and the smell of alcohol far outweighed the grease burning meat in the back. It was time for me to go.
I have an intuitive sense of when to make my exits (It’s a southern Juke Joint thing, some of ya’ll will understand and some won’t).

We made our way back to the hotel. I entered my room and collapsed on my bed.

If you were wondering why the blog was a little late getting out, well now you know.

Blame it on the Samba!