“How about a nature-trip in the countryside instead of a regular museum tour?”  Asked my wife.

“Sure, if we can arrange one in one of these days.”  Was my response.

We were in Vienna, Austria.  Fortunately, we found out that some of the river-cruises that traverse the Danube River between various European countries would ferry daily passengers between stop-overs.  One such embarking port was in Melk, about a 45-minute train ride from Vienna.  Thus, one early morning we headed towards Melk that itself is a small historic town with an elegant central area with cafes and restaurants.  Melk is also home to an architecturally massive monastery known as the Melk Abbey.  The original one was founded in the eleventh century as a Benedictine abbey.  However, later it was destroyed by fire.  The current one is the restored one from the eighteenth century in a Baroque style.  However, due to the lack of having enough time to tour the abbey, cruising the river for a while followed by returning to Vienna by evening, we decided to head towards the port, covering a short distance from the center of the town.  We caught the first available ferry going towards west (in the direction of Vienna).  Soon, the boat began its journey.  From the upper-deck of the boat, a view of the Melk Abbey appeared in our sight.  Soon, we left Melk behind.  Instead, the gorgeous view of the natural vista on both banks appeared in front of us.  With a cool breeze blowing on the upper deck, we felt the touch of the nature engulfing us.  As the boat started to pass through small towns, castles with mountains in the background, for example, the Schönbühel Castle came to our view.  We learned that the segment of the river was flowing through the Wachau Valley, designated as a UNESCO heritage area.  The beauty of the valley was emanating from the greenery of its famous vineyards with fog-shrouded mountains at the distant.
​
Soon, our disembark point, the town of Dürnstein, with its blue church tower came to our view.  The town of Dürnstein is known for the ruins of a medieval castle, built of stone and situated at the top of a hill, accessible via a steep trail.  Along the trail, various historical facts regarding the castle were described.  As we hiked up the hill, we learned that during the Third Crusade in late 12-th century, Leopold V, the Duke of Austria imprisoned King Richard, the Lionheart of England in the castle here.  Once arrived at the top, we toured the remnants of the castle still standing.  Through one of the openings in the ruins, the blue tower of the church, with the river in the background offered a panoramic view.  After coming down from the hilltop, we explored the little charming town on foot tasting its famous apricot jam before heading back to Vienna.

"Come on, take a risk... What's the worst that could happen? Other than if you fall in love with me?

Time paused that night, the moonlight gently glistened on the water. His eyes fixated on her reflection, the wind kissed his cheek and chilled him leaving him with that lingering shivering that continued to spread across his body causing him to find another cigarette. Placing it softly between his lips, the warmth from his lighter was welcomed to his shaking hands, the flickering flame caused his pupils to restrict and blink firmly before turning back to the water. His heart felt heavy; for everything and nothing - the reasons were in the thousands and none. The ache deepened with every toke he took of that damn cigarette, the warm smoke filled his chest to leave a niggling burn in his throat. The air became still, his mind continued to wander. She was disapproving of his smoking; she didn't understand why he did it. It was just being self-destructive, he was hurting himself and it was largely pointless. Of course, he knew this. But what if he wanted this to be his form of self-destruction? That he had some control over what hurt him rather than placing that into the hands of another? An elaborate form of self-preservation and defence that would remain there for a while longer. The cigarette ash became caught in the wind and pulled across in front of him, becoming nothing more than a speck in the sky and a whisper in the city.

Much like the wind, the paths his mind tended to follow at night were undisciplined. Thoughts were often caught in the pollution of the city, masking the clear skies; deflecting the light from the moon and stars that tried to shine down upon him. The mist becoming heavier, falling around him, clouding the field of vision further as he remained still juxtaposed against the glistening river. Indulging further, the thoughts continued to be lost, leading him thorough odd alleyways, badly lit street corners with few sounds. His heart continued to hang heavy in his tightening chest, it couldn't understand or comprehend which direction to take, it continued to ache and pour itself out to anything and anyone who showed affection.

Her touch was electric; it became almost addictive and he didn't know if it was genuine. He wondered if his heart conjured up this feeling in order to begin to truly feel again. He wondered if anything he felt towards her was real. The power of the heart and mind to create artificial emotion isn't surprising, just a shame. He wanted to feel, yet, he genuinely was lost on this; her. The cigarette butt dropped to the concrete beside him; his eyes still fixated on the slowly moving water. He remained there for another hour or two before giving into the cold and returning home with a mind racing…
​
Chasing what could have been, 
Chasing what could be, 
And chasing her.
Only her.

Several years ago, during a horse-driven buggy ride through the historic part of Charleston, South Carolina in US, I started to become severely ill with eyes swollen and itching, nose running along with extreme trouble in breathing.  A quick trip to the emergency room of a local hospital revealed that I belong to a minority group of world population who are severely allergic to horse dandruffs.  After my treatment, I was advised to stay away from horses, anywhere in the world.  So, recently when an opportunity arose for an overnight camping trip in Western Sahara in Morocco that would involve a round-trip camel-ride, my first reaction was “Am I allergic to camels also?”  There was no immediate way to find out that information.  I thought of going to the local zoo and stand next to the camel-gazing area but threw out the idea, being too silly.  After my arrival in Morocco, I decided to take a chance knowing very well no ER would exist in the desert.  On scheduled day, my travel guide in the country drove me to the take-off point where rest of the campers with the trip guide gathered as well as a number of camels sitting on the sand.  When my turn came, the trip guide helped me to climb the camel and place myself comfortably for a smooth ride.  Soon our caravan started in the glorious light of the sun-set of Western Sahara, casting our shadows on the nearby sand dunes, while a cool desert breeze started to blow.  Amidst the excitement of this novel experience, it suddenly occurred to me that I was just doing fine with no sign of any severe camel-allergy requiring me to abandon my trip.  The rest of the trip went smooth with an unforgettable experience of camping overnight in a tent in Saharan desert.  So, the lesson learned was that I could be allergic to horses, but not to camels.  But, that brought a different kind of sadness that I do not belong to an even smaller portion of world population who are allergic to both animals, as if it would have been a matter of pride! 

The thing I see you jotting down begins with this: “Coming out of a Sunday (but not quite into a recognizable Monday), four accountants are each hurting their left arm while playing croquet.” You will further state, “The game starts during the afternoon, and the accountants keep playing a continuous round of croquet—one ungodly long contest—with each player refusing to consider the wooden posts as anything more than reverse-direction indicators, to be struck and then otherwise ignored.” You may also suggest—in other words, this is optional—that the occasion of the accountants’ gathering is not a company picnic, and nor is it any kind of prelude or public response to something pastoral (like, say, that absurd Arbor Day we all used to celebrate as kids in elementary school, when we’d go outside and squat down in reverence next to the same pine seedlings a lot of us had earlier pissed on before the day’s classes had begun).

​But I don’t want you to fail to acknowledge that the accountants’ get-together is outdoors in its entirety and relatively festive “for a stereotypical gang of number-crunchers.” The fact each participant hurts her or his left arm Sunday afternoon or evening may seem to foreshadow the fact that no incident—indeed, no single thing—will likely bring the contest to a halt, though in truth, of course, these players—like croquet players everywhere—cannot endure extreme environments (such as the dreaded outcome from an accurate hurricane warning, or the looming, tragic aftermath of having loitered for months about a place of pestilence). But apparently, the persistence of these particular players can accommodate a steady, dull ache as well as approaching darkness, so I do want you to keep mentioning throughout your written account that “Nighttime will be coming in in its entirety in just a little better than an hour from now.”

On a bright sunny day, after having my late morning coffee in a neighborhood corner café, I was strolling down the Andrassy Ut. in Budapest, Hungary. The sign of western capitalism that had arrived in the country after the fall of communism was apparent. The street was lined with brand name western fashion stores. Slowly, a thought started to flow through my sub consciousness: “With the fall of the ideology of communism, capitalism was able to provide an alternate ideology. But if capitalism fails, there is no other global ideology in place to accommodate the well-being of the humanity!” Soon I passed the front of a majestic building at the intersection of two streets, emblazoning the sign “House of Terror” across its top floor. My initial reaction was that it might have been one of those so called “Haunted House,” an entertainment-trap that we are used to see in many tourist cities all over America. However, there was neither flashing red and blue lights nor the giant monster puppets adorning the building. I pulled out my city-map and locate the building with a description of the place.

Indeed the building was a past house of terror, being used in succession both by the members of the fascist Arrow Party, affiliated with the Nazi regime and after the World War II, by the members of the Communist regime. In both times the building was utilized to detain, interrogate, torture or kill the arrested dissidents of the ruling regimes. Confronting its past, the country in recent times decided to convert the place into a museum to honor the victims with permanent exhibits along with occasional temporary exhibits.

My curiosity forced me to enter into the building for a visit. I was immediately greeted by a Soviet-era tank placed on the first floor. Different floors displayed chilling exhibits from both regimes, but then a real fear engulfed me when I entered into one of many torture chambers used to be housed in the basement. Just the mental image of a fellow human being getting physically tortured brutally or killed for individual beliefs in one of these rooms in the name of an ideology, overwhelmed me. To my surprise, one of the rooms at the end also displayed a list of names with photographs (if found) of the tormentors (dead or still alive) giving the human face of the perpetrators from both periods of terror. May be this was the perfect dignity that could have been bestowed on the victims by removing the masks of their executioners.

​I emerged from the building with a heavy heart when it descended on me that the human promise of “Never again,” failed so miserably in recent times in Guantanamo Bay, Abou Gharib and several other still unknown places where similar “Houses of Terror” existed and most probably still do exist. I was reminded of Nobel Laureate Svetlana Alexievich’s line in her latest book Secondhand Time: “The axe will survive the master…Don’t forget that!”

The old man was alone in the house and damn was it cold outside that night, really cold. As always his shoulder ached, from calcium deposits and bursitis, but he still felt strong, as if he could give anyone a run for their money despite his advancing age. The wood stove radiated warmth throughout the room, but he’d have to replenish it in an hour or so.

Someone knocked on the door. He turned on the porch light, peeked through the curtain, and saw four young strangers—two men and two women—dressed in hoodies and long heavy coats. He decided to ignore them in hopes they’d go away, but one of the men knocked again, longer and louder this time. What could they want after midnight? He figured they’d tell him they’d broken down or run out of gas somewhere up the road. That was a standard ploy. He was born at night but not last night, he thought.

Against his better judgment he opened the door and felt the cold blast hit him. Then the guy who’d knocked shoved his boot in the door and pushed on it hard. It hit the old man, who stumbled backward as the guy shouldered his way in. The old timer caught his balance but all four of them stood in the room as one of the women closed the door behind them. The first guy looked down at him.

“We see you got Chevy S-10 out there.”

“Yes.” The old man must have looked confused.

“What year is it?”

“It’s a '93, but so what?”

“Good thing. That’s exactly what we’re looking for. How about giving us the keys so we can get out of here?”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you take my truck.”

“You’d be crazy not to, pops.”

The guy moved closer to him and gave him a shove. As the old man shoved back, the second guy slipped behind him and pinned his arms down. Then the first guy punched him in the gut. The old man was tough, but he doubled over from this. The second guy let him go while he caught his breath.

​When the first guy asked again for the keys, the old man reached into his pocket and handed them over. He knew when he was licked.

Once a year, there comes a time, when Aeolus, the keeper of winds, dresses in red and becomes the keeper of gifts. People naively call him Santa and consider him a kind old man. Yet Aeolus is bored and angry. When Aeolus is angry, the winds are blowing.

During the festive season, the Gods may drink so much, that they become more tolerant and giving. And then, they open the window, as a gift to the keeper of gifts.

“I once was a bird” says Alcyone, the blue-eyed girl, standing under the mistletoe.

“You are now a rainbow,” says the boy, kissing her on the forehead.

No matter the form, lovers bonded by true love are always reunited.

Alcyone is still a brightly colored bird. Yet Aeolus, sees her as she once was: his beautiful daughter who drowned in sadness long ago. Myths work in reverse sometimes. Birds transform into the humans they once were, through the eyes of a careful observer.

Aeolus, disguised as Santa, bows his head in guilt, as he looks through the memory window. His red colored cheeks get even redder. He collects all winds and imprisons them into his bag. The same bag that earlier held the presents. Memories of his long lost daughter soften him. He is sad and calm. When Aeolus is calm, it feels like summer.

​The window is open only for a few days. Soon, the Halcyon Days are over and the winds are blowing again. 

The elderly man sat on a wooden, rusted bench at the Birmingham station and realized he had no idea where his sky-high velvet hat had gone. He’d worn this lucky hat throughout his entire life, passed on from his great grandfather, generation after generation. He’d been to the coffee shop by the waterfront earlier that day before strolling to the station to catch a train to Worcester. 'Those bats at the coffee shop probably unraveling the yellow fabric on me lucky hat as I sit,' he thinks. The man rose to his feet, headed for the coffee shop, smoking with vengeance.