Francis Albert Sinatra was born on this day in 1915 in Hoboken, NJ. Half a century later, I heard him on my parents’ stereo over in Phillipsburg. But I didn’t really discover him until 1982, when I was teaching English in Warsaw, Poland.
One of the “language” tapes I used contained half a dozen tracks, each one a scenario comprised of a sequence of various sounds. Students listened to the sounds and then invented a story to go with them.
My favorite featured gently splashing water – a woman taking a bath? – followed by a record of Sinatra singing the opening lines of “All Or Nothing At All.” It was a slow, wistful arrangement that went straight to my heart every time I played it. There was something about hearing that clear, strong, impeccably American voice in an English classroom in the middle of Warsaw that made its yearning brilliance apparent.
Black Friday and Cyber Monday have stolen some of the thunder from Taco Tuesday.
(I'm off again - back here on Friday.)
Tomorrow will mark the 30th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. It had great significance for me, having lived east of it for two and a half years. Also, as a recently-hired travel editor, I knew the thrill of a suddenly opened up world.
I can never be a true Miamian. I only went to the Orange Bowl once, and it was to see a soccer match (Brazil vs. Hungary). And the only time I’ve been to Hialeah Park Racetrack was for a Scottish Festival.
A friend writes from Goa:
“You would appreciate that the O Heraldo newspaper maintains separate entrances for editorial and advertising. Print journalism appears still lively; feel all fuzzy when a roll of the Times of India, Goa Times and Diwali promotional rags are hung outside my hotel door in a hand-sewn muslin bag at 6:30 am.
“While it’s really too late in life to be starting India travel, I was drawn by giant demons, called Narkasur, constructed of paper, presented in competition, and burned for Diwali. Narakasura was a bad guy, killed by Krishna, or maybe his wife; still sorting this out. My usual Carnival fascination, different part of the globe.
“Only the monsoons have swept back over India’s west coast, putting the kibosh on Narkasurs, traffic, stray dog packs, photography, getting about, and possibly even getting out. Goans are shaking their heads in wonder.
“Ensconced in probably the fanciest hotel ever (for me) there’s still only so many buffets one can partake of, so much Al Jazeera one can watch.
“Hoping for a miracle, of the Hindu persuasion.”