I have been fortunate to have surrounded myself with people of good taste throughout my life; as such, I have gained knowledge of many things to which I would not have otherwise been exposed. One rather prosaic example is TV shows either from the past or that I have just not seen.

As a boy and teen, I would summer visiting my grandmother on the Jersey Shore. Gram was a bit past her days of swimming in the ocean, but had a membership to a wonderful beach club where I would pass the time riding the waves, working on my stroke, and yes, visiting the snack bar. In addition to this idyllic play, I’d spend the evenings in the crisp chill of her apartment studying my haftorah, playing with my cousins or watching TV.

As in most markets, Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune were both on back to back. Although she claimed to be in for Jeopardy, we always seemed to settle into attention when the wheel began to spin.

Another classic was Hawaii 5-0 which pitted Steve McGarrett against various nefarious characters hanging about our most lovely of states. The arch-villain, the one to whom even the venerable McGarrett was impotent, was always referred to by Gram with reverence and hushed voice… “Wo-Fat!”

It was in among this almost maniacal reverence where I came to see the importance of plot, predicability and character. In this most American of mediums was to be found justice, growth, and perhaps even fortune. And as we read, did crossword puzzles and otherwise multitasked, it felt for a minute that we were wiser and that we had learned.

Over the past few years I’ve made some dramatic choices in my life. I guess the most dramatic was joining the Peace Corps and venturing half way around the world for 2 1/2 years. Those times were tough but rewarding, and I don’t regret them at all. However, after I was finished with the Peace Corps I could have either gone right to law school or taken some time off. I decided to do the latter, and although I had originally wanted to do a cross-country road trip, I ended up taking a VISTA position in Maine. Thinking about that decision now, with just a few months left, I think I made a mistake.

I had hoped that Maine would be a rustic welcoming place, but instead I found it cold and suspicious. I imagine that part of the difficulty I experienced here was the fact that I was transitioning; we are warned by the Peace Corps that re-adjustment is a difficult process. But I can’t help but feel that I’ve wasted precious time here, and frankly that feeling just sucks. I have come to realize that I need to be in an environment that is more conducive to socialization. I’m not a giant party animal but I like to have things to do and a good group of friends to do them with (who doesn’t?) Unfortunately, as an outsider, I’ve had a really hard time establishing that here.

This lack has led me to question myself and since I tend to be my harshest critic, it’s kinda a depressing cycle. I have had my moments of expanding beyond my comfort zone, but things just haven’t clicked on a satisfactory level. Though there have been some great moments and people, these have been fragmented and too far in between. I yearn to belong somewhere and no longer be transient, but I haven’t found that place yet, and so continue to search, always looking out for what may lie just around the corner.

Sitting on my porch (it was warm today!) and contemplating a placid sunset over an urban tableaux, I got a chuckle thinking about the time I made my American History class a music class. Don’t get me wrong, I used multimedia in my courses to the extent I could over there but this one class was special. They were 11th graders in a highly advanced hard science/bilingual English profile (track) and were just an odd bunch. A mix of oddballs, stoners, very smart and very clever kids who had clearly come to a compact of how they would conduct themselves as a class, they were my most difficult during my first year at the Hungarian school.

At one point that year I cursed at them in the class, which got me a small reprobation among the staff but marked the beginning of a general change in attitude. Since this happened when they were 10th graders, the following year I was to teach them American History, which, by the way, was my favorite course that I taught over there, if the most difficult. So, they were a great class and we did American History.

I wanted to get up to the Reagan revolution but didn’t make it that far, so we were going to have to end amidst the counterculture. We had watched “Berkeley in the 60’s” and sniggered a bit at some of the antics, but overall it was much appreciated. I figured we’d go out in a bang, and it seemed that a big group sing along would be the perfect way to do so.

As was the difficulty with teaching such a course, it was tough to select just the right few songs. The play list was: Buffalo Springfield – “For What It’s Worth,” Janis Joplin – “Me and Bobby McGee,” Jefferson Airplane – “White Rabbit,” and closing out the set, two from Peter, Paul and Mary – “This Land is Your Land” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I cleared out my new language lab and set it up as best as I could as amphitheatre so we could sit without desks (something that is rarely done within Romanian schools.) Our resident guitarists had a hard time keeping up, but we got into some full fledged singing.

I think that’s part of what they find amusing about us Americans; the passion with which we approach certain things in life are not valued as a priority in their traditional culture. So as we sang about that magic dragon, the one who is known by all of a certain tradition, I felt as if we had come far and benefited one another. To sing with gusto is to live.

I just spent a few hours at the local roller skating rink. I was trying to think about the last time I actually went roller skating, and if my memory serves me correctly, it was at Wal-Lex. Wal-Lex was this great 50’s style entertainment venue. There were two buildings, one housed the roller skating rink and the other was a bowling/pool hall place. It was a perennial favorite among friends and many a birthday party was held there.

To keep things in check there was an old Chinese man, Wing, who would wear a referee uniform and skate around, whistle in mouth, ready to call you out if you pushed the limits a bit too far. Another great thing about Wal-Lex was that every time you went, at some point they would stop the regular music and play the “chicken dance.” Wing would lead the crowd, and en masse, everyone would stoop down and flap their arms at their side… it was corny but we all loved it.

I remember after I had been away at college for a while I came back home for a break and happened to be out by Wal-Lex. Sadly, the times had moved beyond such simple pleasures, and in its place was a generic Petco/Staples shopping plaza. It was sad to see the place gone, it was as if a certain part of my childhood had been erased. So tonight’s pleasures were a bit nostalgic, and yeah, I didn’t fall.

Dreams. For me they come and go in no particularly discernible pattern. Last night they came. I found myself back in an unknown hotel. This time, however, my parents were visiting. I was there as me, i.e. a VISTA, and I had been there before. This was a grand place, but as with many of my dreams, wrought with some glaring inconsistencies.

I was involved with a few things: 1) helping to prepare a meal for unknown guests in a basement kitchen, 2) showing my parents around and 3) worrying about a meeting that I probably would not be able to make. Within this unknown familiar hotel I was aware of another theme of previous dreams of mine - broken elevators. Although the hotel had 6, in some shafts they creaked by slowly and crookedly, doors agape; others beckoned but seemed a bit off and as a result I did not trust them.

Instead we took the stairs down to the 2nd floor which was where the great ballrooms and the balcony of the theater were located. The place was occupied with other guests, setting up for events, rehearsing formal dinners. One particular ballroom had large square windows on each side - it was dark outside, with just the faintest hint of the retreated sun. A black family in formal wear was taking pictures and enjoying themselves before their guests arrived. The next room was a magnificent bar, well stocked and already with a bit of a buzz that would surely increase as the night progressed.

But the real treat was the room behind the bar through the door on the right. This room I remember the most vividly. The entire space had been preserved in the style of the original hotel owner, an eccentric man who is believed to haunt the room. The kindly but strange Italian caretaker greets us and points out some of the notable features, including an old bed, chair and scattered reading material. Unlike the rest of the hotel, this room is dimly lit, as it would have been in olden times, and faintly musty. Though spooky, it is not, however unpleasant.

At some point I am lying in the bed until I feel a poke at my feet at which point the attendant warns me of ghosts. Outside the window a diorama has been constructed and from it I can view the old port city, itself bathed in late twilight with the fog rolling in. But my breath quickly obscured the window and it’s time to leave. I thank the man, kissing him on both cheeks, Italian style, and wonder what kind of strange person calls this haunted room home all day. As for the dinner and meeting, those matters remain unresolved.

And I can’t help but wonder about the people in the town as the fog rolls in.