A celebration for a life well-lived

October 15, 2023

The other day my 9-year-old son asked what exactly people celebrate during a “celebration of life.”

I thought it was a great question — something I hadn’t thought about, even though I’ve attended many such celebrations before.

I explained that it varies depending on the situation. If the person believed in an afterlife, we’re celebrating their passage to a better place. If the person had been ill or injured, we can celebrate their freedom from pain. And if the person had cultivated a life full of loved ones, we celebrate the impact that person made in their world and what they meant to everyone in it. Sometimes it’s an amalgam of all these things.

That’s what was on my mind Saturday when I attended a celebration of life for my friend Steve Vericker, a desert radio host and local personality.

When I moved to the Coachella Valley in 2005, I worked for the daily newspaper. My job was in the features department, writing lifestyle stories and my own weekly column. I worked hard to make a good impression; this had been a big move across the country, and Palm Springs both awed and intimidated me. I desperately wanted to carve out my own little place in it.

However, there was a popular morning radio show that eviscerated my column every week. Absolutely ripped it to shreds. And the more I pushed myself to be cool or impress readers, the more it altered my voice. Months after my arrival, I was mocked, miserable, and wracked with self-doubt.

An email from a stranger

That’s when I received a message from Steve Vericker (known on the radio as Steve Kelly).

“I want to get you on my show,” he said. “Let’s talk about some stories you’re working on and show people who you really are.”

Keep in mind, I didn’t know Steve. I hadn’t yet met Steve. But somehow Steve knew everything. He understood I needed a life preserver, and he made a point to be one for me. So I went on his show. I chatted about who I am and what I write, and it restored a lot of my confidence.

To this day, I’m still touched by his gesture. It was a generous use of his platform and a real gesture of kindness at a time when I didn’t see much of it elsewhere. Not only was Steve great at helping out fellow journalists and creating valuable networks, he was very good at being kind.

Many years later, our friendship well established, Steve popped into my inbox again. This time it was to say he was proud of me for getting quitting alcohol. He told me that he’d been dry for decades, and he credited sobriety with saving his life.

“I promise you, life only gets better,” he wrote.

So that’s what I celebrated on Saturday during Steve’s celebration of life — the gifts he so freely gave, the way he reached out whenever life was hard, and the promise that things always get better.

•••

Steve’s ashes will be spread by his family and close friends in Ireland. If any of you are ever in the Emerald Isle, I hope you’ll think about his generosity of spirit, and it’ll inspire you to pass along a small kindness.

Three Days in Paris: Mistakes Were Made, Pastries Were Eaten

October 5, 2023

I am not a Paris expert. I’ll say that right off that bat.

In fact, even though I’ve been to France before, I actively avoided Paris. It seemed too mainstream, too simple, too done. Everybody goes to Paris.

But on my way to Tanzania, I wanted a long layover to acquaint my body with different time zones (and possibly let my bags catch up with me, in the event of misplaced baggage). I also hoped to explore somewhere I’d never been, and when I mapped out all the flight options, Paris was the winner.

It turns out that people go to Paris because Paris is wonderful. There’s no other way to say it.

Everything looked like it had been plucked right out of my high school French textbook, which was cool because I genuinely enjoyed French class. (I don’t remember any French, mind you. But I enjoyed it.)

I was instantly charmed from the moment I opened my balcony window and gazed over the city. My love only grew from there.

Where to stay

I wanted to be within walking distance of Musée d’Orsay, my top priority of things to see. So I found Hôtel de l’Université, a sweet little place in Saint Germain des Prés. It’s on the left bank and nestled in a quiet section of the city but still close to good restaurants, shops, and many tourist sites. It was also well within my budget.

Next time I would probably stay somewhere in Le Marais, which is a bit livelier, has more of a foodie scene, and is historically known to be the LGBTQ+-friendly district.

Where to eat

The first mistake I made in Paris was something I do too often when I travel — I wait to eat until I become ravenous, then I find myself in a place with few options, and I snarf down something sub-par. And so it was at Musée Rodin, when I was about to eat my own hand. I ordered something from the on-site cafe, because sometimes museum cafes are terrific, but this one was very sad.

Now every time I see The Thinker, I will assume he’s pondering why the soup is cold and the pasta tastes like glue.

From that point on, I visited Paul each morning and kept a loaf of bread on me at all times. Kind of like a Boy Scout, but armed with a baguette instead of a pocket knife.

For really excellent Thai food, I loved Street Bangkok, which has locations all over the city. (Yes, I went all the way to Paris for Thai food, and it was delicious.)

I could’ve eaten the fresh dumplings every single day at Raviolis Nord Est.

While wandering, I was lucky enough to stumble across the oldest cafe in Paris, Le Procope, which serves traditional French fare.

Honestly, I don’t remember everything I consumed as I ate my way around the city. But there was one night where I walked through the Latin Quarter and ordered one small thing from nearly every place I encountered, from vegan fast food to tiny pastries, and it was one of the best nights of my life.

I also couldn’t resist these sweeties from Laouz.

What to do

With such a limited amount of time, I figured a tour would be the quickest and easiest way to see a lot of landmarks and orient myself. (Here are some of my recommendations. I do earn a small commission if you book one from that link.)

• I booked a vintage motorcycle ride with Retro Tour Paris, which was so fun. My tour guide was kind and accommodating, customizing the tour to include everything I wanted to see. But the best thing about it was that so many people smiled and waved as we rode by. It felt like I was interacting with Paris rather than getting shepherded through it, which has been my experience with other kinds of tours.

• I also wanted to maximize my museum time, so I bought the Paris Museum Pass in advance and booked time slots whenever possible, so I could skip the lines and breeze right in.

While I risked getting museum-ed out, I’m impressed with the sheer amount of art and beauty I squeezed into my few days. Here’s a little taste. (Also I cried, because that’s what happens sometimes when I see magnificent things.)

• I’m a fragrance-phile, so I couldn’t leave Paris without visiting the Musée du Parfum and creating my own scent with Fragonard.

Tips

• I read way too many guidebooks in advance that warned against taking the Métro. So that was my next mistake. I spent my first two days clomping 15 miles/day all over Paris in my hiking boots, and I ended up injuring my right ankle to a point where I didn’t know if I could climb Kilimanjaro — the whole reason I was heading to Tanzania. When I finally gave in and took the Métro, it was so fast and easy, I felt foolish for not using it earlier.

That said, pickpocketing is a real problem in any city on any public transportation system, so be very aware of your belongings.

• I do advise getting the Paris Museum Pass. It was a great deal, and the sites are varied enough that you won’t get bored. It also saved time, since I avoided the massive lines.

• Finally, don’t be like me. My biggest mistake of all was that I didn’t give myself enough time in Paris.

My Necklace Took a Trip of Its Own in Zanzibar

September 3, 2023

After one night resting up in paradise, it was time to leave the tranquil Pongwe area for my next stop on Zanzibar, the livelier village of Paje.

But first, a massage.

I’ve said before that I don’t take time to relax when I travel, and that goes for spa treatments too. Even though I love massages, unless I can squeeze it into something I’m already doing, (like getting a massage during the night markets in Thailand), it’s not a priority.

So that goes to show just how wrecked I was after climbing Kilimanjaro: Relaxation became top priority.

The massage therapist, Margaret, gave me a few minutes to undress, and I folded my clothes onto a nearby chair before I eased myself onto the table. At this point, my calf muscles seemed permanently clenched. There were knots in my back. My body was speckled with bruises and sunburn.

The moment Margaret pulled my hair away from my neck and put her hands on me, I audibly groaned with relief.

She paused for a moment and touched the chain around my neck. “May I remove this?”

I had totally forgotten about the necklace. I wear it every day and never remove it, so it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Nodding, I told Margaret to go ahead. She unlatched the chain and showed me where she was placing it, atop my pile of clothes.

As the massage proceeded, my mind wandered to other things. Like, wow, this woman works miracles and I hope my toenails don’t fall off in her hands. And finally, I have to pee.

I had to pee so bad. This is why I am bad at relaxing. Because I cannot regulate my beverage intake well enough to go 90 minutes without a bathroom break. Suddenly a toilet was all I could think about, and I willed the massage to be over as fast as possible.

Relief

The moment Margaret left the room, I yanked my clothes off the chair and dashed for the restroom, which was connected to the massage room. Afterward, relieved, I got dressed, walked out the door, tipped Margaret, and left.

I didn’t even remember the necklace until I was in Paje, more than an hour and a $50 taxi ride away.

Any stress that had dissipated during the massage returned and hit me with a wallop.

My necklace. I couldn’t think of anything else in my life that was at once so worthless but also so precious. I’d purchased the necklace in Greece, just a few nights after my emergency surgery in Athens. It was a tiny evil eye, smaller than my pinky fingernail, and it hung on the most delicate silver chain.

Fresh off a medical issue, I wanted an evil eye for protection. A talisman. But it also served as a beautiful reminder of Greece, the place that lives in my heart. I’d worn it every day since.

Maybe I could find something close, I thought, and scoured the internet. Somehow there were approximately 78 million evil eye necklaces on the world wide web, and none of them were similar to mine. I remembered how my family and I walked through dozens of tourist shops until I found the perfect one — and when we found this necklace, it was just 15 Euros. It was the only one like it.

Even if I could find another, this one was irreplaceable.

Lost and found

I messaged the hotel on WhatsApp, but I didn’t have much hope, because I didn’t even know if my necklace was there.

I assumed that when I yanked the clothes off the chair, I launched the necklace somewhere. But where? What if it fell behind something? Or what if another client picked it up? What if they threw it away?

“We have located your necklace!” someone from the hotel replied.

Next we had to figure out how to get it to me.

I’d hoped that Pongwe to Paje was a well-traveled route. Perhaps another hotel guest was coming this way?

They weren’t.

The hotel employee suggested I take a taxi back to Pongwe, pick it up, and return to Paje. But I couldn’t stomach the thought of paying $100+ to go back and forth.

I was still weighing the cost when I received a message with good news: There was a taxi driver who was headed my direction, and he could bring me the necklace. I’d have to pay for the trip and for his time, but it would be far less than $100.

The lesson

I remember hearing a story once about how Cher hired a separate limo just for her wigs. It sounded like the height of decadence — not only did Cher have these exquisite wigs, but the wigs had their own driver, and they traveled without her. Think of all the adventures Cher’s wigs must have!

Now my necklace was the broke girl’s version of Cher’s wigs, traveling around Zanzibar before returning to me. I loved thinking about that, imagining all the places it might go.

Here’s the other gift I received.

The hotel couldn’t tell me what time to expect the driver, and I didn’t want to miss him, so I agreed to hang out at my place in Paje and wait. Luckily, I was staying at Mr. Kahawa Waterfront Suites, a stylish and comfortable boutique hotel that also happens to be located on the most picturesque, pristine stretch of beach. When I tired of watching the kitesurfers, I could take a cool dip in the pool.

Hours into my wait, as I lounged by the water, read a book, and luxuriated in solitude, I realized that my necklace was forcing me to stay in relaxation mode. So maybe that evil eye gave me some protection after all, and protected me from myself.

And yes, I’m wearing the necklace right now.

I named her Cher.

•••

Chasing rest and relaxation in Zanzibar

September 2, 2023

I couldn’t go all the way to Tanzania without making a side trip to Zanzibar, an archipelago boasting white sugar-sand beaches, lush forests, and turquoise water.

So after I summited Mount Kilimanjaro, I made the quick hop from mainland Arusha to Unguja Island, Zanzibar, a zippy flight that took about 90 minutes.

Zanzibar instantly did something to me. You know the sensation of wearing tightly tied hiking boots for a long time — and them taking them off? The loosened laces, the heaviness falling away, the blood rushing back. That’s what landing in Zanzibar felt like. An unbinding.

On arrival

I wasn’t interested in staying at a party hostel or bustling town, which why my first stop was Pongwe Bay Resort, perched along a shimmery teal bay near sleepy fishing villages and seaweed farms. My goal here was to unwind, which I find difficult to do when I travel. I’m usually the person who will try every activity a hotel offers, wander the area for miles, and have a long list to sights to see.

This trip, however, I knew I needed rest and recovery. The steep descent on Kilimanjaro left my feet battered and bruised. My bones ached from sleeping on the mountain. I had been cold for days; a mere 48 hours earlier, my tears were frozen to my cheeks. What I needed was comfort and quiet.

Pongwe promised nothing but sunshine, flowers, gentle ocean waves. The most popular sightseeing spot is a small, fine-dining restaurant located on its own teensy island. It sounded perfect.

I had been so focused on Kili, though, that I was ill-prepared for the Zanzibar part of my trip. I hadn’t packed any beachwear or footwear beyond hiking boots. And while I assumed I could pick up some budget-friendly flip flops and sundresses along the way, I didn’t have a chance to stop anywhere between the airport and hotel.

Was I going to be miserable?

So this is heaven

When I saw the remote location of the resort, I imagined myself clunking around a tropical paradise in my stinky boots. Then the proprietor of the place intervened.

“Just so you know, this is a no-shoes resort,” said the owner, a handsome Italian man. “All of our paths are made of soft sand or cool stone, so please do not wear shoes anywhere.”

As if that wasn’t amazing enough, I arrived at 9 a.m., well before the 3 p.m. check-in. However, my room was already ready.

“Unless you want breakfast …?” the owner said.

I did want breakfast, because I had to leave my other hotel at 4 a.m. and hadn’t had time to eat. But I don’t like spending money on a hotel breakfast, which tends to be overpriced and underwhelming.

“You know you booked a room that includes food, right?” the owner said. My stomach rumbled in response. He gestured to a room adjacent to the dining area, filled with buffet tables covered with luscious fruits and homemade dishes.

I was already about to weep with joy when he added, “We’re running a special right now on massages. Seventy-five minutes for $40. Let me know if you’d like to book anything.”

Yes. Yes, I would be booking something.

The owner confirmed that I was only staying one night and asked what time I’d be checking out.

“Checkout is usually at 10, but nobody has the room booked after you, so you can stay as long as you’d like,” he smiled. I thanked the man profusely, and I apologized that I’d only booked one night.

He shrugged, “So you must live this one day to the very fullest.”

•••

I Went to Cirque Du Soleil For the First Time. Here’s What It Was Like.

September 1, 2023

I’ve been interested in Cirque du Soleil ever since the company was founded in 1984. But I honestly never thought I’d see Cirque for a few reasons: 1. The performances usually take place in large cities. 2. I don’t tend to see shows when I travel. 3. I am very bad at making plans. (I once tried to buy same-day tickets to see LOVE in Las Vegas. It was Valentine’s Day, so … yeah. I struck out harder than my freshman year homecoming date.)

This time, however, was different. This time Cirque came to me.

For a very limited time, the touring production of Cortéo is appearing at Palm Desert’s Acrisure Arena, and I had an opportunity to attend on opening night.

Written by Daniele Finzi Pasca, founder of the Swiss clown troupe Teatro Sunil, Cortéo is the story of an Italian clown named Mauro who watches his own funeral procession. Beginning with Mauro’s deathbed, the procession unspools into a carnival atmosphere with dreamy scenes that look back at childhood memories but also take the viewer into otherworldly, ethereal realms.

First off, I’ll admit that I was nervous about taking my 9-year-old son to the show, since he is a vibrating ball of existential dread. I wondered how Cortéo would tackle mortality and how the show would present concepts of death/ the afterlife. I worried it would leave us feeling melancholy or distressed.

Would it be scary?

Worse, would the clowns be creepy?

Now I can firmly say my biggest worry is that my son will run off and join the circus. He was CAPTIVATED.

“This is so joyful,” he whispered as the performers leaped from one oversized bed to another, showing off gravity-defying acrobatic skills.

“Please don’t be joyful at home,” I whispered back. His bed doesn’t have good springs.

Photo: Cirque du Soleil

I also didn’t know if a circus would feel relevant today, when we have access to so much and can watch fantastical stories with jaw-dropping special effects on our own screens. In an era of AI, what did acrobats, aerialists, and some Italian clowns have to offer?

Well, I don’t want to give it all away, in case you end up seeing Cortéo yourself, but I was surprised and delighted. The show was far funnier than I expected but also weirder, like a Fellini fever dream. There were big, remarkable moments with gymnasts in spinning hoops and aerialists on swinging chandeliers (“That is not safe,” my son said). But the small, quieter scenes made an impact too.

I appreciated the innovative use of the set in its entirety — the trap doors and swooping angels, the balloonist who floated above the audience, the trampoline that ran the length of the stage and seemed like a runway to something beyond this world. It felt both grand and intimate, a real marvel.

Then there were the performers who were so strong and skillful, they seemed to be some other magnificent species entirely. Watching them was like gazing at Beyoncé, like, are you sure we’re all humans here?

Of course, they are human. And that’s key to why Cirque resonated for me and won me over.

It’s not just that Cirque is good despite not having special effects — it’s good because it doesn’t have special effects. At a time when reality is increasingly virtual, here was something real. Here was something alive, (albeit wrapped up in a story about death).

For me, the magic of Cirque lies in the fact that it is wildly human, and what they’ve created in Cortéo embodies life in all its beauty, power, and absurdity.

And when it all comes to an end, let’s hope we go in a cloud of glitter too.

About Me.

Maggie Downs is an award-winning journalist with more than 15 years of professional writing and editing experience. She lives in Palm Springs, Calif., with her husband, a blind dog and one ninja cat.
Contact her at maggiedowns (at) gmail (dot) com.

About Me.

Maggie Downs is an award-winning journalist with more than 15 years of professional writing and editing experience. She lives in Palm Springs, Calif., with her husband, a blind dog and one ninja cat.
Contact her at maggiedowns (at) gmail (dot) com.

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