We’ve come ashore. The Gibbses and the Kittrells, retirees at sea for seven days in October when we used to be working, have stepped again on Florida soil.
We’ve been on a Caribbean blues cruise, the Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise, to be exact. And to be exact, I’m spoiled. I want music on every cruise.
Our ship was full of stars. Our rooms were footsteps away from the main stage and an elevator away from the other ten. We all comingled. Musicians would be on stage performing one minute, then standing next to you at the dessert line. Musicians attended each other’s performances, so we were often sitting next to we never knew who.
The ship was alive with food, pools, and performances all day. In the wee hours, the Ocean Bar on the second floor became a gathering spot for performing musicians who were done with their gigs, but eager to jam with other bands.
A night may begin with two guys playing a trumpet and bongos, and then someone sits at the piano, another plugs in or pulls out a harmonica. If you waited long enough, the stars came out and joined in the fun. Taj Mahal’s daughters would begin to dance. Soon it was an orchestra.
Then we docked. The Gibbses and the Kittrells said their good-byes at the Fort Lauderdale airport. Carl and Deb were flying off for a week in Tucson to visit friends who sold their boat, moved from Alaska, and bought a bar.
Susan and I booked a weeklong side flight to Philadelphia. We planned to hook up with our friends Gino and Patricia and take a road trip up through New York’s Hudson Valley to Woodstock. Peace, baby. Time for some rock and roll.
First, a peek at East Coast Gino, a different kind of cat. He lives modestly in a three-room basement flat. It’s cozy, quiet, quaint, and comfortable, and mostly due to what he does not have. There is no television or Internet service. He owns a one-piece CD boom box, chrome, flip-top, which sits on the floor against the library wall. The speakers are tinny. He picks up FM.
His few dozen books consist of fiction, buildings, and music. His walls and counters are decorated with black and white family photos and old toys. Every wall is a different color and it works.
He has no refrigerator because he doesn’t like the hum. Patricia, who has her own apartment, but is spending more and more time in Gino’s studio, convinced him to install a mini-fridge in the garage. To get milk, one only need to go outside, step off the porch — snow, rain, or cold — open the padlock, raise the garage door, get the milk, shut the doors, padlock the garage, come in and dry off or warm up. She’s brought him a long way.
We arrived on Monday and Patricia had to teach until Thursday, so we stayed in Gino’s apartment for the week. Gino doesn’t take visitors to historic sites or center city unless they ask. In the morning he drove Patricia to the train, returned, made coffee, and we rested and read in the apartment for the day waiting for her to return.
Gino had taken the week off to be with us. You must know that Gino never, ever, ever takes a week off. So be it. Let him recline. If he wants to sit in his leather chair and read our blues magazines all day, fine by us. Most days we took a walk to Lou’s diner, or did some shopping.
When Patricia got home, we would go out each evening to visit members of Gino’s family and have meals together. Each day was a different couple. Sometimes we met at a restaurant. The Capones have their own restaurant. Sometimes we showed up with food and cooked in people’s kitchens for Eagles games. Visiting Gino isn’t about visiting Philadelphia. It’s about visiting family.
On our last night, we decided to take neighborhood stroll. Gino was pointing out buildings and telling us what used to be there in the old days when pedestrians walked the now gritty sidewalks. That’s when we came upon an old fire station turned into the Five Saints Distillery with live music. “Wow,” said Gino. “This is only five blocks from my house.” We went inside and stayed there. Patricia found us. We ordered pizza for the house. Gino vowed to get out more.
On Thursday we picked up Patricia at her Waldorf School and drove north past NYC and into the trees. It took only three hours to reach our Airbnb cabin in downtown Woodstock, which is actually over 50 miles from the concert site in Bethel Woods. The town is still home to a lot of musicians and promoters. Our landlady told us she had attended the concert and still had her three-day ticket, un-torn.
We walked the streets of Woodstock taking pictures, eating, buying shirts and magnets. I, however, did not buy a Woodstock shirt for myself in Woodstock. Instead, we drove to Hyde Park and I bought myself a FDR shirt.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

Sharing is caring!