In an election year marked by vicious divisions in our country, there is uncertainty as to the direction our country will follow. I am alarmed by the extremist tirades of a Presidential candidate who incites anger and violence against minority groups, immigrants and his political opponent in this country. I am fearful that the fear of ISIS at home will lure voters to support isolationist withdrawal in an increasingly globalized world. I am appalled that our constitutional  liberties are under siege by an agitator who dares to build exclusionary walls or silence the free press in this country. I am repulsed that a Presidential candidate with no government experience or tangible evidence can indiscriminately mock our electoral system as rigged. As an American who must get back to his fall rituals of daily survival, I will continue to have faith in unity over separatism in these troubling times.

Our country will soon rejoice in the return of the gladiator ritual of American football. In South Florida, a full house of hero-starved fans endure sweltering heat and rain threatened conditions to re-embrace the game of football at Miami Dolphins Training Camp in early August. Observing the diverse representation of race, age, and nationality attentively watching today’s practice, fond memories return. I recall being a season ticket holder when each home game guaranteed a sold out stadium rocking with contagious energy for Dan Marino led teams. While football seemingly means little in matters of life and death, its potential to galvanize a community’s thoughts in hope of attaining a winning team again cannot be ignored.

As many Americans return from summer vacation, realities of daily survival routines re-emerge. In anticipation of increased retail spending, consumers will be enticed by tax free, holiday sales and back to school extravaganzas. In spite of the expected spike in middle class, economic growth, I keep in mind that there are many Americans who will still need help with the basic necessities of survival. Charitable donations and food/clothing drives would help to “even the game” for many while senior volunteering commitments would provide experienced mentors for those who appear to be overwhelmed by life’s challenges.

As students return to to begin a new school year, many will again recite the Pledge of Allegiance” as each day of class begins. Let the exalted meaning of this historical tradition serve as a role model for our educated masses to counteract the negative attacks on our political system today. Senseless appeals to violence and misguided acts of cynicism must not diminish the “good” of our democracy. Students must be reminded in these daily readings that our American system of government must continues to exist with “Liberty and Justice For All.”

It is time to take the long road home to South Florida. Facing the summer heat, in full force now, my wife and I long for the cool confines of coastal California once more. Aware of the necessity to travel greater distance daily for the sake of our returning deadline, car and driver seem to have united as one.

Loneliness sets in at times now to remind me that my loved ones at home remain faithful to my existence. Life on the road seems less glamorous as I ponder how my commitments will resume as a busy, South Florida resident. I am hopeful that the transition to become again a comforting presence for an aging mother will be a smooth one. Restless thoughts of unbridled, travel freedom, however, will soon return to urge me to get back on the road again.

Social Media today forces me every day to take a long look at my compulsive identity as a world traveler. Never enamored by gossip and innuendo, Facebook nonetheless provides me with a flexible tool for posting meaningful, travel information with social connections of my choice. Lacking the will to compose long, written letters to a few, selected loved ones these days, my weekly blogging on Word Press will enable me to commit to a theme of writing that touches a far wider audience of followers with common interest at no cost.

The truth of the matter seems to be that my aspiration to become an itinerant wanderer in retirement is a premeditated life choice. Home will never mean a permanent place now, but rather a temporary respite in the depths of my mind to prepare for the next adventure sought. The challenge of sustaining quality time with family and friends for an extended period, however, will remain the true test of this wanderlust commitment.

As the last days of our marathon road trip would soon end in Summer 2016, my wife and I decided to engage our traveling spirit in the always fun town of New Orleans. One hundred degree heat and periodic rain squalls would slow us down some, but not deter us from finding casual enjoyment in the renowned, French Quarter of the city.

In tourist friendly New Orleans, drinking alcohol with breakfast is a common sight. In fact, there are some unusual, morning drink combinations that might ordinarily shock the senses at any time of day. Finding a precious bar seat at the famed, Ruby Slipper, the bartender proceeded to demonstrate his ability to mix a favorite drink here: the bacon drenched Bloody Mary. Needless to say, I uneventfully opted for a more normal breakfast of grits and eggs to begin the day. Curiously eying a studious gentleman reading next to me, we engaged in an unexpected conversation about the impact of the Ottoman Empire in Europe. The conversation would soon turn into an opportunity to exchange heated views about Donald Trump’s impact on American politics.

No longer interested in “night owl” clubbing as health conscious baby boomers, we set off in early afternoon for a leisurely walk along the narrow streets of the famed Bourbon Street corridor. While curiously enjoying the party atmosphere of sexy burlesque theater, pulsating bar music and open alcohol consumption at this early hour there, I felt increasingly confined by the mob scene of tourists surrounding me. Ducking into the Famous Felix’s Cafe for a breather, we casually indulged in a favorite food choice of the area: Oysters Rockefeller.

Surviving the Bourbon Street gauntlet of hedonistic temptation, we now reached Krazy Corner. Quickly recognizing the Earthcam Video feed, broadcasting overhead at this intersection, I proceeded to wave and make funny faces at the inviting camera for all the world to see. How true it seemed, however, that the vicarious impression of a camera angle here could not truly portray the sensory euphoria of Bourbon Street madness that was inspiring my spur of the moment antics then.

Turning toward the tranquil, river bank shores of the Mississippi River now, we passed through the heart of the French Quarter, Jackson Square, to savor a famous French Beignet. I found time here to reminisce with my wife about memories of past visits to New Orleans in our youthful innocence as a twenty something newlyweds. We agreed that The “Big Easy”, as it is so aptly named, remains a unique place for us to indulge in spontaneous enjoyment at any age.

My wife and I had decided to turn south from Interstate 40 toward our home in South Florida to find relief from the relentless heat throughout the country now. Crossing the massive, expanse of the Mississippi River below Memphis, we had booked a one night stay at a cozy motel in Tunica, Mississippi. Once one of poorest towns in America, it had become revitalized economically by the building of glitzy casino row along the river. Weary from our three month trek on the road, however, the need for nightclub excitement did not interest us tonight.

The thought of catfish entered my mind somehow with the muddy Mississippi River nearby. It seemed destined that this prophecy of Southern cuisine would lead us to a place steeped in American blues tradition, the “Hollywood Cafe,” For it was in this tiny establishment of seemingly no interest that Marc Cohn sat at an aging piano to record his Grammy hit, ” Walking in Memphis.” Taking his inspiration from Muriel Wilkins, a blues performer at this revered institution, Marc’s song beautifully captured both the beauty and tragedy of rural, Southern life along the river.

Taking a closer look at Tunica I began to realize the true meaning of blues music. Along the Mississippi River, an inviting air of affluence prevailed amidst the glittery towers of riverside casinos. Further inland along Route 61, however, it appeared that many residents in the surrounding black community of Tunica proper remained abjectly impoverished in shanty housing and strictly segregated from white society. While the beauty of the mighty Mississippi River and surrounding resorts captivated the eye’s attention, the slow pace of change for the community as a whole affected me emotionally. Singing the blues then, I realized had found a musical outlet for expressing renewed hope in every cry of despair experienced here.

There is an undeniable allure that has brought my wife and I to Las Vegas again. With temperatures of over 110 degrees in late July, we have spent three nights there, to enjoy a little eating, shopping, and concert hopping. Not being party animals or gambling tycoons, nonetheless our itinerary incorporated an ambitious agenda of activities for daily enjoyment. These endeavors  included dining/window shopping at Caesar’s luxurious, Forum Shops, a nature photo breather amidst the desert environs of the Mount Charleston  resort, and a memorable concert of a legendary rock band accompanied by the Friday night freak show of the Fremont Street Experience.

On the first night, while we hesitated to go outside of our Harrahs cocoon of hospitality, we also found our central location ideal for visiting nearby attractions. Exceeding our daily budget, we splurged on an amazing Italian dinner at Carmine’s in the Caesar Forum indoor mall. It was obvious from the sumptuous ambience and quality service there, we had stepped into the sophisticated life of New York luxury. Perusing the glamorous but pricey aisles of upscale clothing and accessories shops after dinner, we soon realized our fantasy of Las Vegas escape had just begun.

Finding affordable dining became a major wake up call for us now. Venturing outside the strip on the second day, we found a less pretentious place to live. Suburban Vegas distanced us now from tourist glamour madness, enabling us to find inexpensive diners and well stocked supermarkets to manage our daily eating regimen. The dark side of Vegas living away from the strip, however, became obvious as we drove through a tedium of endless, urban sprawl surroundings teeming with homeless/drifter people congregating on street corners. It was clear to me then that the image of Las Vegas as place to strike it rich was very misleading.

On our previous visits to Las Vegas, we had always found its location ideal for outdoor relaxation in backcountry settings. While many tourists to Vegas would opt to book exorbitantly priced tours to the Grand Canyon or Hoover Dam, we elected to begin our third day to independently revisit a less ambitious respite from this urban chaos; Mount Charleston. Accessibly located northwest of the city, the appearance of Joshua tree groves and steeply reddish canyons on our leisurely drive up to the 8,000 feet summit as always did not disappoint. Enjoying the cooler confines of eighty degrees now at the mountain lodge, we ate breakfast in peaceful bliss over a spectacular panorama of mountain peaks, overlooking the arid Mojave Desert expanse below.

For the main event portion of our third day visit, we chose to attend the 40th anniversary concert of Boston in the Fremont Street section of the city. Concerns for sitting three hours in the 100 degree heat of the Las Vegas Outdoor Event Center subsided quickly as this iconic, classic rock band took the stage at dusk. Employing multiple guitar harmonies, impeccable vocal riffs and a mesmerizing backdrop of space age visuals, Boston rose to the occasion with a memorable set list of past hits recorded.

As the stars shone brightly for us, on this clear, Friday night, the fun would continue for us after the concert at the adjacent, Fremont Street Experience. Amidst the allure of laser light shows, overhead, zip-line daredevils, and bizarre, costume sightings, we curiously strolled under the famed canopy of “Old Vegas” past midnight. Picture a Bon Jovi video projecting overhead with a woman singing, who wears a Tarzan suit, with bosoms bared to all and you might have had an accurate picture of the weirdness we experienced then.

“What happens in Las Vegas stays in Vegas” is the image of popular belief, as the famous saying goes. It is not for this traveler, however, that one could make that assumption, In the brief span of three days, I have witnessed the contradictions of my own life, alternating between an self- centered ambition to acquire more material possessions in the future or a new paradigm of zen-like pursuit of an inner satisfaction of the present moment. As I resign myself to a new life of moderation in retirement, Las Vegas will continue to provide the ultimate test of my will to transition from the excesses of my ego centered past.

It is over 100 degrees today in the Mojave Desert of California. Not a car in sight as the surrounding sand and dust allures me into this vast expanse of nothingness. A road sign presents interesting options for survival. To the left might be Las Vegas but to the right might be death. On the car radio, I laugh as Peter Gabriel sings “Rain” to remind me of the contrasting aridity I now inhabit.

Climbing steeply from the salt valley floor, I obtain a bird’s eye view of the ancient sea of rippling sand here below. Subtle changes of terrain now take place. Sagebrush and sand now intermingle with an occasional Joshua tree. Suddenly, these prickly survivors appear everywhere to remind me that life can thrive here in this hostile environment.

High wind erosion in the high desert of Mojave provides a twisted array of rock formations in the distance now. A dry river bed produces a canyon of no return. A grotto of giant boulders becomes a teetering display of imbalanced roundness. I am simply in awe of this fascinating display of nature’s artwork, over the eons of time.

In contrast to those who travel by air to Sin City for hedonistic pleasures, I seem to have hit the jackpot in transit before arriving there today. Relaxed by the desert drive and certainly ready for a more active change of scenery, I await the neon allure of the Las Vegas Boulevard strip again. Don’t be surprised, however, if tomorrow morning, I choose rock sighting over slot machines as my preference for personal investment.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to gain, a time to lose.
A time to rend, a time to sow.
A time for love, a time for hate.
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.

The Byrds 1965

In 1967, San Francisco celebrated the Summer of Love, a “renaissance of compassion, awareness, and love, and the revelation of unity for all mankind.” (San Francisco Oracle). Peace loving teenagers flocked to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood to mellow out on free love and illicit drugs. The Fillmore Auditorium brought psychedelic rock to the forefront as bands such as Jefferson Airplane and Grateful Dead inspired a new generation of non-violent, hippie awareness. Thousands flocked to Golden Gate Park to receive free food, medical treatment, and basic necessities for anyone that needed them.

As I drive along the groovily named Brotherhood Way, I wonder why that spirit of peaceful optimism in 1967 no longer seems possible in S.F. today. The evidence is clear. For one, this metropolitan area notably suffers from the second worst traffic congestion of urban areas in the U.S. today. As I slow to a stop in an angry sea of horn honking gridlock now, traffic congestion tests my patience as I travel into the downtown. It is also noteworthy that a significant portion of the city’s population is considered officially homeless. I ponder the inhumanity of watching destitute people having little success in securing shelter from the cold. With S.F. having a liberal reputation  in favor of equal rights for same sex  relationships, it makes little sense to me why so many  “Elect Trump” signs are displayed near prominent street intersection in adjoining suburbs. Finally, as it has been documented that a high % of the city’s population relocates to S.F. from other countries, I become aghast of reports that white supremacists and Neo-Nazi followers have been reported recently to be perpetrating violent actions against such newcomers  in nearby Sacramento.

For a downtown of such exquisite beauty, I wonder why the white population is migrating in historic numbers to outlying communities.  As I elect to board the BART Rapid Transit system to escape traffic gridlock to downtown, I wonder why there are so few Caucasian faces that join me today in this time convenient journey. With the average cost of ownership housing in S.F. rising rapidly, I question how the American Dream of owning a home is possible for the vast majority of working families in this city.

I conclude my visit to the “city by the bay” to gaze in awe at the welcoming image of the Golden Gate Bridge. For many  newcomers , this international gateway  symbolizes a spark of hope that  human dignity and equal opportunity will take place  for all  Turning my attention to the right now, the stark isolation of Alcatraz Island stands in the distance, to remind me that there should be severe consequences for those who contrastingly show bigotry and hatred toward mankind. In a tumultuous election year, perhaps San Francisco can lead America to re-embrace that mellow groove time when a generation came together as one in the Summer of Love of 1967.

Approaching San Francisco by car from Lake Tahoe presents a spectacular entrance into this Golden Gate city of hills. Leaving the arid flatness of the California Central Valley along Interstate 80, Downtown San Francisco gradually emerges into a soupy fog of tortuous hills surrounded by the murky waters of a wide bay. Traffic snarls to a crawl as we cross the Bay Bridge. I imagine then that the end of the earth lies ahead at the end of our 5,000+ mile journey west zigzagging across the American landmass.

Veering South along State Road 101 toward our Daly City Motel, the sea fog thickens. Tightly packed villa houses distract me on both sides as cars defy gravity by parking vertically in steeply downward positions toward the street. My obscured vision in the distance fools my mind then into imagining an expanse of water at the end of every hill. Haphazardly dodging electric tram lines in the driving lanes of major avenues, I suddenly remember that such unusual driving skills are critical for avoiding deadly S.F. collisions.

Arriving at our motel, I relish the absence of motion and elevation in that moment. Expecting summer now, a cold wind from the westerly bay instead shocks my senses. The shorts and t-shirt I comfortably wore in the Central Valley will just not do here. How is it possible that summer in S.F. requires a knitted hat, gloves, and a heavy jacket? Will the sun ever make an appearance today to brighten my fog shrouded, emotional condition?

For the next five days, my independent travel spirit will surely be tested by geography, weather, and human congestion. Never doubting my will to find the unexpected insight, however, the itinerary does not seem to really matter. Using the S.F. Bart Transit System will enable me to relax from the stress of car travel as I search these famous hills for interesting destinations. Forty one years ago, my wife and I made our first visit to S.F. on our honeymoon as innocent tourists. I am honored to return again to this great city by the bay as a traveling fool and yet a wiser man.

“When you are discontented you always want more, more, more. Your desire can never be satisfied. But when you practice contentment, you can say to yourself, ‘Oh yes – I already have everything that I really need.” (Dalai Lama).

I vividly remember my first visit to the Rocky Mountains. It was Spring Break, 1982 and I needed desperately to gear down from my stressful life as an inner city teacher in Miami.    A family friend of my wife had invited us to stay in their studio apartment near Steamboat Springs, Colorado and we graciously accepted. This beautiful, Western town would soon become a regular stop in our vacation travels.

I have always appreciated the opportunity to experience the quiet peace of the Rocky Mountain winter in Steamboat. My senses seem enhanced to the deadness of winter as I took morning walks through glistening layers of snow. Only a soft crackling of ice or a lonely howl of a wolf could break the silence to remind me that survival is a difficult one in this austere environment.

The onset of darkness in the Steamboat Valley was equally magnificent. The silhouette of nearby peaks framed by the fading presence of a pink and purple sunset were always worth the wait. In the absence of city lights, a symphony of glittery stars would fill the clear sky each evening. I felt fortunate then to be alive to witness these spectacular displays of nature’s glory.

Steamboat, at its heart, remains a resort town for downhill skiers, marathon runners and white water rafters. Never imagining myself as a competitive, outdoor athlete, I have taken a less serious interest in the area as an outdoor enthusiast. In winter, I survived numerous falls as I learned to cross country ski and snowshoe there. In summer, I clumsily made my way, traversing steep, Rockies trails and gained confidence as a novice hiker.

Rarely finding the true solitude of nature at home in densely populated South Florida, Steamboat remains a powerful attraction in my life. Taking the time to research the area on our road trip west, this summer, my wife and decided to book a one month condo stay there on Air B@B for Fall. The challenge to”downsize”my possessions as I get older means I will pack less this time and avoid the pricier, tourist temptations that I have always witnessed there.

I look around today at our increasingly divided country on a day that celebrates a document that addresses all Americans as one. Yes, the Declaration of Independence was created to represent unity of purpose at a time when the freedoms we enjoy today were threatened by our status as a colonial outpost of the British Crown. Since our representatives of government today fail to offer effective solutions to pull us together as a country, then the spirit of one requires recognition from the people themselves.

A sea of multicultural madness will descend on the Rose Bowl in Pasadena tonight. In spite of the urban chaos, this will be strictly an American affair. The Star Spangled Banner begins the pageantry as thousands pay homage to the valiant struggle for obtaining America Independence by singing our National Anthem. The largest show of fireworks in Southern California tonight will soon follow. On this clear night, let each spectator realize that with each explosion of color and sound, they are alive to gather freely in this country regardless of race, color, or creed.

On freeways today, traffic conditions will not adhere to the daily norm of commuter gridlock. Take advantage of the extra driving space today to be courteous to all drivers, regardless of appearance or circumstance. Use turn signals when changing lanes and fight back the feeling of road rage for aggressive drivers along the way. You might even allow others to drive while you take time as a captive passenger to relax in the company of others to gaze at the nearby beauty of a beach or mountainside scene.

Today is not the day to find fault with your revered L.A. baseball team today Whether you win or lose, be happy that Dodger Stadium will remain standing as a symbol of community pride tomorrow. As you make your way to and from the stadium today, take the time to admire this hillside cathedral of baseball greatness. Remember that your Dodger team was the first to include both black and white players in major league competition.

Los Angeles has historically been a place where people from all walks of life have found a welcome home. Starry eyed romanticists flocked to Hollywood to seek fame and fortune in motion pictures. Aspiring entrepreneurs in aerospace and petrochemical industries profited from a business climate that offered a wealth of innovative opportunities. Immigrant pioneers gambled that their fortunes would improve by leaving their homeland for the opportunity to attain the American Dream here.

As a visitor to L.A., I have taken the time to propose ways to promote “Americanism” on our nation’s birthday. I am hopeful that my reflections about the “City of Angels” on the 4th will bring me optimism for a future of shared vision in our country’s destiny.