Cincinnati "Paradise"

Birds calling to each other.

Unidentified critters pawing their way through the woods.

An occasional breeze pulling through the leaves.

The plinky tune of an ice cream truck futilely making its way through my neighhourhood, searching for children who are either at baseball games or safely tucked away in the comfort of their air conditioned homes.

The grind of a chainsaw competing with the whirrr of a nearby weed whacker.

The distant throttle of a Harley, undoubtedly ridden by a helmetless good ol' boy with a ZZ Top beard.

Sitting on my deck, I close my eyes, hoping for a moment of peace to relieve the headache that is forming behind my eyes.  Nate and Byron are at a kiddie birthday party, and I am, for the moment, alone.  As the noise of the chainsaw overtakes the chirping of the birds,  I remember my days "down south," when the lapping tide was never more than a few hundred meters away.  Nostalgia calls, and I find myself wondering why, oh why, did we ever think that "real life" was so appealing?

Of course, even then, the graceful sound of waves licking the sand was not without interruption.  In Mexico, I rarely had any time to just lie quietly and relax; rather, my strongest memories of relaxation are of friendly gatherings on the beach, and the sound of French, Spanish and English conversations blending with each other and with the sea breeze and water.  In the Bahamas, the silence of the dock was punctuated with radio chatter between the boats, or the call of our Chef du Sport, Saber, to my boss, Jean-Paul:  "Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Saber"  Repeat.  Then, finally, with a sarcastic tone, "Oui, Sabeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr.... qu'est-ce qui se passe?"  In Cayman, home-brought lunches on the beach were frequently interrupted by needy tourists asking what time the next boat went out, where they could rent a floaty, or why the parasailing people were taking such a long break.  Of course, in Cayman at the Hyatt where we worked, there was also incessant pounding of hammering and machinery from the construction of a new hotel unit on the beach.

Even with all of the interruptions, though, there was still peace, quiet and comfort in a form that simply doesn't exist here on my deck nestled in the trees.  Because when you tuned out the conversations, the radio chatter, the tourists and the construction, all you heard was the water, all you felt was the sunshine, and you knew you were in paradise, or damn close to it.  But when I tune out the ice cream truck, the chain saw and weed whacker, and the good ol' boy's Harley, I still know I am in Cincinnati, 15 minutes from work, arm's length from my laptop, two rooms away from my blackberry, and seemingly light years from an ocean.  I may love it here, but it is no paradise.