FireWalker

If you check out my Twitter profile @VickyAkins, you’ll see this bio:  “@Midliferoadtrip travel, writer and marketing chick. Avid cook & baker, & Fire Walker Extraordinaire.”  I get a lot of questions about that last one.  “Did you really do it?  Is that just a metaphor? What did it feel like? How hot was it?” But my personal favorite is “Why in the hell would you do that?”  My answer is always “Why not?”

My nature does not lean towards the adventurous side.  On the contrary, I consider myself a big wimp.  For example, my husband’s idea of a great time is pitching a tent somewhere in critter infested woodland and roughing it for a few days.  I, on the other hand feel no need to revert back to a lifestyle that our ancestors worked so hard to improve upon.  It seems downright disrespectful to shun all the great modern conveniences they’ve developed just so we can cook over a fire and pee in the woods.  No sir, I intend to show my gratitude by doing my ‘fire cooking over a gas stove or barbeque in my back yard. As for peeing in the woods, I prefer my toilet paper sans the tree sap and moss.  So looking for extreme activities is not normally my cup of tea.

Our invitation to this event was sheer serendipity.  A friend called offering free tickets to a motivational speaker’s conference because I had recently begun a new & unfamiliar career. Not until we were on the plane and I was reading the brochure he’d sent, did I see the ominous paragraph announcing the activity that concluded the evening.  I read it once, then again to be sure, then a third time just to verify I wasn’t delusional.  In my calmest tone, counting on my husband’s usual ‘filter’ when it came to my voice, I said, “Hmmm..at the end of the first night we all walk across hot coals.”  Cringing, I waited for his response. “Cool,” he said without so much as a glance in my direction. Relieved that his ‘wife silencer; was still intact, I relaxed knowing he hadn’t heard a word of it.

When you arrive at the conference, you are given a piece of paper with instructions to write your fears on it and then told to toss it into a fire and let it go.  A nice symbolic gesture, I thought. The next several hours are spent whipping a crowd of thousands into a collective positive emotional frenzy.  Music is blared at concert volume; people are singing, clapping, dancing and hugging strangers. Instructions are given for changing thought processes and expectations. Changing mindsets and expanding possibilities are the topic of the evening. It’s loud and overwhelming but you can’t help but get caught up in the spirit of enthusiasm.  Even my husband was enjoying himself until the instructions came for the fire walk we would all take. My husband’s eyes grew wide with disbelief when he turned to look at me. I could only timidly mutter; “I told you on the plane…” He shook his head as if to say ‘no, I’m not doing it.’  Another few hours went by as we were all mentally prepared. ‘Power words’ and ‘mind over matter’ were discussed.  Holding visuals of walking across cool moss was suggested.  If ever there had been a moment when I doubted my own sanity, it was then.

When the time came we were partnered with a stranger and sent outside where several 12 foot long beds of hot coals waited for us. As we walked out, I noticed that many people stayed behind, choosing not to participate, but my husband stayed next to me, still looking at me like he was unsure. It was after 11 p.m., so the field where this took place was lit up like 9 miniature runways. Both excitement and fear filled the air. Although we were supposed to stay with our unfamiliar partner, somehow in the crowd I lost him and my husband.  Before I knew it, I was herded into a line of 5 other people standing in front of one of the fiery paths.  To my surprise, I really wasn’t frightened, but I think it’s because I was seriously annoyed at having been separated from my husband.  I thought about how this was supposed to be a ‘fresh start for our life’. It was something I’d wanted us to do together to represent the new beginning we’d found in each other after both of us had come from bad marriages.  I was a bit sad to find myself alone in a crowd of thousands but I knew this was a step I had to take even if by myself. 

Within minutes I found myself facing a glowing path of heat laid out twelve feet in front of me. Without having any particular thoughts, I heard someone yell "Go” and off I went.  It seemed only seconds and I was being stopped on the other side and told to wipe my feet.  Amidst the pats on the back from strangers, I looked around for a familiar face, but found none.  My heart was racing and so was my brain. Had I missed it? I hadn’t felt a thing, not an inkling of heat.  Surely I’d strayed off the hot path seconds after my first step. Another conference attendee patted me on the back. “Congratulations!” he said. I just stood there in disbelief, watching others walk the path. Dozens of them, all smiles, hopped easily across the hot coals

When I found Max, he was still pretty wired from his own walk. As we left the conference we shared our stories. The experience was both surreal and exciting yet a little less life changing than it was hyped up to be. The one thing I did take away from it was an intense sense of accomplishment and pride. I did something I never thought possible and it helped me re-evaluate my capabilities.  It also served as a reference for when I’m letting fear of failure get the best of me.  I walked on fire and if I can do that, who knows what other possibilities await in the future.  That’s a great memory to call on.  Besides, now I can forever call myself a “Fire Walker” and that’s a pretty cool title to have.

The Sweet Life: La Dolce Vita

*On a recent Pacific Coast Highway trip with Midlife Road Trip (www.midliferoadtrip.tv) we had the honor of being invited to dinner by the owner of La Dolce Vita; a restaurant rich in Hollywood history. What follows is the experience.



On Santa Monica Boulevard,  a little Italian restaurant sits unassumingly since 1966. While outwardly it’s unremarkable, inside it is the keeper of stories of some of Hollywood's most notorious characters. Restored to it’s original glory during a 7 month hiatus, owner Alessandro Uzielli, clearly passionate about this rare treasure, resurrected the decor and menu that contributed to its previous success.


Walk through those doors and you’ll hear "Welcome home.”

Ruben Castro, La Dolce Vita’s 40 year maitre’d, is a delight from the moment you arrive; greeting you like you’re family. The staff follow his lead, beckoning you to your table, anticipating everything you need before you even know you need it.  Once seated, you can see by the photo’s adorning the walls that it once regularly hosted the likes of Frank Sinatra,  Sammy Davis Jr,  Dean Martin, & Don Rickles, among others.  Sit at one of it’s fourteen tables and you may be sitting in the same chair once occupied by the Reagan’s, Jackie Gleason, Gregory Peck, the Bloomingdale’s, Douglas’s or any U.S.President since the Kennedy administration. Ruben smiled knowingly as he relayed that at our particular booth had once sat Howard Hughes.   

We settled in, soaking up the ambiance and Ruben’s charm, waiting in excited anticipation. We were in “Rat pack” territory and their spirit was evident in every corner including the soothing tones of Sinatra playing in the background.
Courtesy of our host, after a wine was chosen an assortment of appetizers began arriving. The food put us on a cumulative high, as each item got better and better. We were hard pressed to choose a favorite among  the roasted pepper, gorgonzola ravioli, baked clams oreganata, & chopped Italian salad that was presented to us. They were all equally wonderful. The food is an event to be enjoyed, encompassing all of your senses. Like the finest wines, you breathe in the aroma and detect just the right amounts of spices.  The silence was almost spiritual as we found ourselves closing our eyes to experience the first bite, savoring all the flavors. The pride and love put into every morsel is omnipresent in each dish.

As we basked in the afterglow of our dinner, superb wine filled our glasses & disappeared just as quickly.  We lost ourselves in stories of La Dolce Vita's rich Holywood history, told eagerly by Ruben, it's most loyal resident & self appointed caretaker.  He even told us the tale behind the Cadillac Frank Sinatra gave him.  As he speaks, you can see in his eyes and facial expressions, the genuine love he has for those bygone days and all the generations that have since passed through those doors.When asked about the pictures adorning the walls, he lovingly points out in which booth it was taken and if there was a story behind it.

After a phenomenal meal and a sampling of the finest array of desserts we'd ever seen or tasted,  we asked Ruben if we could have our picture taken with him. He quickly ran back into the kitchen, re-emerging with a giant 'Mad Men' poster. "This will be great for the picture, right?", he said laughing.  He is truly a joy to listen to and the experience was only enhanced by his presence. He is as much a part of the La Dolce Vita story as the building itself.


When we finally left, saying our goodbyes to several members of the staff who waved to us as if we were family, I could not help but think of my dad and how much he would’ve loved it there. Like many others from the baby boomer generation, Frank Sinatra, the ‘Rat Pack’ and the era that La Dolce Vita represent, stand out fondly in my memory.  The days felt longer, people seemed friendlier and the worst thing you had to fear was not getting home before your mom called you for dinner.  In an age where nearly everything is available instantaneously, it’s comforting to know there’s still a place like this where you can go and the world slows down, if only for just a little while. You can walk through those doors and be among friends or sit down, share some great wine, food & conversation. If you’re really lucky, maybe Ruben will tell you a story or two.

Who's in charge

Dear Mother Nature, Father Time, God, The Universe, Buddha, Howie Mandel or whomever is in charge,

I'd like a word with you, preferably in person.  There seems to have been some kind of mix-up lately and I would appreciate if it were straightened out as soon as possible.  You see, as I've slept, it seems someone has slowly been stealing body parts and replacing them with ones that do not function nearly as well.  Oh, I'll admit I didn't notice it at first because it was just little things they took.  For example, I began noticing that the local newspaper and publisher's of my favorite books were using smaller fonts than they used to.  Of course I assumed it was a money saving maneuver.  Smaller print equals less ink usage. Times were tough and everyone was cutting back.  I understood.  I am not an unreasonable woman. I swallowed my pride and bought some reading glasses...you know, to help the economy recover.  I'm a good citizen.

But then, something happened to my scale.  I couldn't explain it, but the damn thing just went crazy and added 30 pounds to my weight.  Now I'm all for American made products, but that scale was obviously defective.  What has happened to pride in craftsmanship?  I think someone needs to haul all the CEO's of American companies into one venue and lecture them about proper production methods and such.  There is no other explanation for an inaccurate scale than shoddy materials. Someone better get a grip on that and correct it right away.

Now, onto the knees. I'm especially frustrated about these old ones I've been given.  They sound weird when I go up steps; making this bizarre crackling sound like walking over a dirt road in work boots.  Not only that, but they hurt all the time and one of your elves or something didn't put them together correctly because they don't work very well.  Sometimes, I'll just be walking along, minding my own business and one of them will just give out like someone tripped me.   If there isn't something for me to catch myself on, I've been known to just grab the nearest person in line and take out a whole checkout line.  It's kind of embarrassing.  Yep, I distinctly remember my own knees and they weren't anything like these.  Mine used to ride a bicycle ten miles a day, hit a softball and run like the wind and even jumped some hurdles and set a record in junior high school.  I appreciate that times are hard for everyone but I'd sure appreciate it if I could have those knees back.  There used to be a time I could do a mean cartwheel.  I was remembering that a couple of weeks ago and since no one was looking, I decided to give it a shot and see if maybe these WERE the knees I used to own. Well, Lord, I can swear to you on the pile of dog poo I landed in that these are definitely NOT mine.  Even the paramedics agreed that I didn't quite nail the maneuver with the precision I used to..and they've been here THREE times to see it!

As far as the rest of me goes, I can't complain too much.  Although I do think it was pretty cowardly for my thyroid to flee a sinking ship, I can't really blame it.  Like Detroit, this location isn't the hot spot it used to be.  There are things growing where they ought not be, things moved from their original location and some stuff I'm not even sure I can identify.  I don't know what you're doing up there, but I think you and Howie need to come down here and explain things. I'll be waiting in the back yard, picking up dog poo.  I think I might try to tackle that cartwheel one more time...

Your friend,
Vicky

Finding the time...

I noticed last night that I hadn't blogged in forever and realized how unfair that was to the two or three people who actually READ what I write.  So this morning while in the shower, I pondered what I could blog about?  My first thought was to relay the story of how horrible our Christmas was, what with my daughter's favorite Yorkie dying, and us not having enough money to buy even one present.  Then, I thought better of it, not wanting to appear whiney and ungrateful.  After all, as bad as things were this holiday, we were still thankful to be in our own house, with heat, a warm bed and plenty to eat.  We knew that no matter how bad it seemed, we still had more blessings than some.
I wiped that idea from my mind and just closed my eyes, feeling the caress of the warm water against my skin. Momentarily losing my balance, I started to fall against the shower wall but caught myself in time to avoid what would've inevitably been an embarassing moment with the paramedics. Did they see that kind of thing often, I wondered?  How humiliating that must be for the victim...if they're conscious, that is.  Shaking that thought from my mind, I went back to brainstorming with myself.  That really is a curious term, isn't it? Brainstorming.  Who do you think came up with that?  Shrugging my shoulders to no one, it was back to the task at hand.  No blogging since July...hmm. A lot's happened since then but some of it's bad so I don't necessarily want to re-live that.
I shiver as I spot a spider race across the the ceiling above the shower.  I hate spiders. Generally speaking, I'm not a fan of any critters with more than four legs. We go to my in-law's house in Tennessee every Thanksgiving for four days.  It's the longest four days of my life. Not because of my in-laws, I love them, but because they literally live on top of a mountain, surrounded by various forms of critters, in a town of about 6 people. Ok, I'm exaggerating, maybe there's 10. There is ONE gas station, ONE grocery store, TWO dollar stores and a car dealership that is actually set up in someone's back yard. There's no real "LOT", per se, you just muddle out, avoiding the sinkholes, to the field where you see the 1974 pinto you're interested in and make Earl a deal.  It's a very simple life they lead.  They own approximately 60 acres and they have four or five large gardens, as they call them. My father in law gets up between four and five a.m. every day and works his fields.  He also takes care of about a dozen goats with bad attitudes and a small herd of cattle.  The term 'fresh country air' does not apply at his house. I've been down to the fence a few times to watch the cattle but they aren't the most entertaining of animals. Standing in the midst of all these annoyingly loud female cows, is the red-coated bull that is responsible for the maternal state of a number of females.  His gaze is fixed on me, as if he needs to declare his superiority. 


All I can think of at the moment is the time my best friend, Lori took me to the farm when her father kept his Holsteins.  She wanted to cut across the field by running through the cattle's fenced-in area. Pointing to a large bull about 100 yards across the field, she assured me he wouldn't bother us.  I trusted her, following quietly behind her as she scaled the fence.  We were about 50 yards from where we were going when I turned and noticed the bull walking hastily towards us.  Tapping her on the shoulder and pointing, she once again told me not to worry.  "He'll stop soon and go back to grazing," she said.  I tried to keep my faith in her knowledge but couldn't help peering over my shoulder and speeding up my step.  I was nearly past her when she glanced behind her, seeing him edging closer and closer.  "That's weird, " she stated, picking up her own pace, "The only other time I've seen him do that was when Mom stepped into the field when she was on her period.  Dad says they can smell it and they WILL come after you."  I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes widened as I looked at her with paralyzing fear.  Her eyes still on the bull, she finally looked at me and knew in an instant what we needed to do.
"RUN!!!" she screamed, and we did, clearing that fence in what I'm sure must've been some kind of world record, a massive, panting and sexually excited nightmare arriving at the fence shortly after us.  Thank God for fences; big strong, wooden fences. 


Locked in the gaze of my father-in-law's bull, I still get chills thinking what could've happened.  I drop my eyes first, like an obedient servant and walk quickly away. 


I open my eyes again as the warm water massages my aching shoulders.  The spider has reached his destination and is now happily in it's web in the far corner.  Ick.  I hate spiders.
Where was I?  Oh yeah, a blog post.  I briefly considered an editorial piece on some current event or recent scandal. But then I remember that I don't care about celebrity scandals. Unlike certain tabloids, I do not feel their sexual mischief will impact the behavior of every male on the planet. Add that to the fact that I will NEVER understand men who are married to these outrageously gorgeous females yet still cheat.  This is indicative of deeper psychological issues, if you ask me.  All that money they've earned should be used to purchase the services of a therapist, not an attorney because if they doesn't fix the problem, it's just going to repeat itself.  But, as I said, I don't care. So that's out.


Thrity minutes go by and I noticed I was running out of hot water. I reconsidered the Christmas bit but then dismissed it once more because I know if I post it, my Twitter account will be bombarded by life coaches and law of attraction people by 8 a.m. tomorrow.  You have to watch what you post on these social media sites. One wrong word and a whole commune in Texas will make it their mission to save your wicked ass.


I exit the shower and a blast of cold air makes me shiver and grab another towel.  I make up my mind that I'm gonna go downstairs, sit at my laptop and write. I'll just wing it.  I know I can come up with something.
It's cold downstairs.  After sitting at my computer freezing, I grabbed a sweater from the laundy room and noticed I hadn't folded the clothes in the dryer.  It wouldn't take long, there weren't that many so I'll just do that really quickly.


It's now 12 noon and I sit back down to write.  My stomach growls.  I'm hungry.  I wonder what's in the fridge. Leftover enchilada's from 'Pancho Villas' are calling my name.  I popped them in the microwave and poured myself some iced tea. I can't eat in front of the computer, so I finish my lunch and set the dishes in the sink.  Damn.  There's still dishes in there from last night.  Someone didn't put them in the dishwasher.  I have to wash them before it's all caked-on and gross.  I ran some hot, soapy water. If I'm gonna do one, I might as well do them all.


By the time I finish, it's two o'clock because after I did the dishes, I wiped down the counters and noticed the floor needed mopping.  I couldn't let that sticky mess remain there.  Once again, I plop down into my chair and bring up the website where I write my blog.  I managed to type three words before the dogs start whining to go out.  With a huge sigh of discontent, letting them know how annoyed I am that they're interrupting my writing time, (don't they know how precious my time is,) I stand at the door for twenty minutes waiting for them to finish. I then decide I should go to the bathroom as well.  I just bought a new word-find book to leave in there.


It's now quarter to three.  I stare at my keyboard and decide to check out Twitter for just a minute or two. I visit for a little longer than I planned and when a beautiful chef named @DolceDebbie is describing her latest heavenly creation, it gets me thinking about what to make for dinner.  I can't remember what's in the freezer so I go check it out.  I finally decide on chicken marsala and remove the frozen breasts putting them in the microwave to thaw.  Sitting down, once again,  I finally manage to eek out an entire paragraph before the timer goes off and I need to flip them over and restart it.


Now it's four o'clock.  I look at my computer screen in complete frustration.  I can't write now, I have to start dinner.  Giving up for the day, I put my laptop aside and vow to try again tomorrow.  I don't know why I can never get any writing done. If only I had the time