“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.”

Many years ago I attended a film screening at the University Film Archives at U.C. Berkeley. Having recently discovered the poetry and personality of Fernando Pessoa, I was interested in almost anything Portuguese, and this film attracted me.

I have searched for it many times since then but have never been able to find it again. I cannot remember the title. I know almost nothing about it except the feeling it left behind.

At the beginning of the film appeared a quote from Heraclitus:

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.”

That thought has remained with me for decades.

At the time I knew little of Portuguese history. As the years passed and my own connection to Portugal deepened, the film became more meaningful in memory than it even was when I first saw it.
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The story concerned a group of friends tied to the underground artistic resistance to the Salazar regime, a generation shaped by exile, political repression, and the leaving behind of Lisbon by many young artists and intellectuals. After the suicide of one of their friends, the group reunites years later. One of them tries to understand who the others have become in his absence from Portugal.

I remember very little else. Yet the emotional atmosphere of the film never left me.

Now, in advanced age, I realize how profoundly true Heraclitus’ words are. If one lives long enough, one may pass through many different lives while still carrying the same name and face. Entire worlds disappear. Places change. Friendships alter. Countries reinvent themselves. Even our own inner landscape becomes unfamiliar.

You cannot truly go back.

And if you do return, neither you nor the place is the same.

Perhaps that is why certain objects become so important to us.

Years ago, while helping stage a house for a jazz-loving friend, I found an old image on tin in a vintage shop on College Avenue in Oakland. It showed a wild-looking pianist at the keyboard beneath the words “Alcazar d’Été — Fragson.” I knew nothing about it, yet it spoke to me immediately. I bought it and hung it on my wall, where it has remained for nearly fifteen years.

During various purges and reorganizations of my life, I never let it go.

It felt somehow like a friend.

Only recently did I finally look up its history. It was a famous poster by the French artist Adrien Barrère depicting the music hall entertainer Harry Fragson, a performer beloved in Paris in the years before the First World War. Fragson himself lived a tragic life and died violently at the hands of his mentally disturbed father.

Yet none of that was what first reached me.

What reached me was the spirit inside the image: the raw theatrical energy, the melancholy beneath performance, the sense of another vanished world still somehow alive.

It is strange the things we live beside for years without fully understanding. We only know they matter.

If you live long enough, you begin to realize that much of life cannot truly be recovered.

The worlds we loved vanish even while we are still alive to remember them.

Yet somehow we continue carrying fragments forward: a voice, an image, a sentence from a forgotten film, the face of a pianist from another century pounding at a piano beneath the lights of Paris.

We gather these fragments almost without knowing why.

Perhaps because they reassure us that although the river keeps moving, something in us still remembers having once stood on its shore.

Not the same river.

Not the same city.

Not the same life.
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And yet something essential continues traveling beside us, quietly recognizing itself across time.
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Returning from a journey requires a certain emotional adjustment. It can feel a little like the week after final exams—something intense and free absorbing has ended, yet it is difficult to focus immediately on what comes next.

Perhaps I anticipated this before leaving for Mexico, because I purchased several concert tickets for performances here in the Bay Area, hoping to ease myself back into a more rooted life at home through one of my greatest pleasures: live music.

First on the list was the unexpected treat of a visit to Oakland by the Joscho Stephan Trio from Germany. The concert was held at the historic First Presbyterian Church of Oakland downtown.

I have followed Joscho ever since seeing his name associated with a Django Reinhardt Festival in British Columbia years ago. Last Saturday evening I arrived filled with joyful anticipation, along with friends I had invited to share the experience.

The event was sold out and the audience of jazz lovers was wonderfully enthusiastic. The performance itself was simply over the top.

Although Joscho’s music is deeply influenced by the style of Django Reinhardt, he moves easily through blues, pop, rock, and classical influences. He began playing at a very young age under the guidance of his musician father, whose band performed popular cover music, so Joscho knew Beatles songs long before beginning formal musical studies.

At the time, classical music was the primary music taught in German schools, and he studied it dutifully before discovering Django Reinhardt and becoming devoted to jazz Manouche.

After the concert I was able to greet the musicians and purchase their newest CD while squeezing through the happy crowd gathered around them. Nice fellows!

For years I have followed Joscho Stephan on YouTube and social media and have admired not only his extraordinary talent but also the thoughtful independence of his career. In a recent interview he discussed remaining an independent artist—organizing performances, scheduling tours, producing recordings, and operating his own Gypsy Music Academy both online and at his studio in Germany.

His repertoire is wonderfully varied. He gives his own energetic interpretation to blues, jazz, pop, classical works, and original compositions. He likes things fast, improvisational, and full of dazzling fingerwork.

Celebrated guitarists like Biréli Lagrène—one of my longtime favorites—have even participated at the Academy.

What impresses me most is how well Joscho seems to balance artistic passion with genuine generosity toward his audience. This listener certainly felt rewarded.



During quiet moments on my Mexico trip, I also discovered a television series previously unknown to me: The Mentalist. Since it ran for seven seasons, I thought it would keep me pleasantly occupied during my month away.

What surprised me was how deeply impressed I became with the lead actor, Simon Baker.

Beyond his beautiful and welcoming smile, there was something intriguing about his relaxed, understated acting style. Since returning home, I have watched many interviews and found myself increasingly drawn not only to his acting but also to his work as a director and producer.

Films such as Breath, High Ground, and Limbo reveal the complexity, beauty, and soul of Australia in ways that feel deeply authentic to an outsider like myself.



My next concert adventure will transport me once again to Mexico—this time through the sounds of Veracruz

Among the many musical traditions of Mexico, Son Jarocho remains one of my favorites. With its indigenous instruments, including the harp and the jawbone, its rhythmic dancing, and its often mischievous, gossipy lyrics, it is impossible not to smile while listening

The concert will take place at Freight & Salvage in Berkeley, a venue that consistently offers an extraordinary variety of music to enthusiastic audiences who sometimes end up dancing in the aisles.

For now, my antennas are out, searching for more experiences like these. Thanks to gradual improvements in my physical condition, along with the ease of Bay Area public transportation, I feel increasingly able to participate again in the world around me.

And when I cannot be there in person, I am grateful for the many gifts shared online through YouTube and other media, allowing curiosity and inspiration to continue flowing into everyday life.

When we adopted our two kittens a year ago, they arrived in a carrier no larger than an overnight bag, with blue eyes, oversized ears, and all the uncertainty of small creatures suddenly transported into a new world. They were siblings, but even then very different beings.

One was thoughtful and observant. The other — Jenga — seemed already prepared to negotiate with the universe.

Now, one year later, they have become elegant young cats with long bodies, shining coats, established opinions, and complete confidence that my home belongs equally to them. Especially the couch.

They remain deeply bonded. They sleep folded into one another like punctuation marks, groom each other with solemn dedication, and race through the house in midnight celebrations that I hope will someday diminish, though I am beginning to suspect this may simply be wishful thinking.

At present, however, we are facing a new challenge: the temptation of the outdoors.

Jenga has discovered that beyond the door lies an entire kingdom of moving leaves, birds, scents, shadows, and neighborhood intrigue. He sits near the doorway with enormous seriousness, as though contemplating an expedition across unknown continents. Every opened door represents possibility.

And yet, despite his explorer’s heart, he is unmistakably a mama’s cat.

He wants adventure, certainly. But preferably with me nearby.

I have begun to realize that what he seeks may not simply be escape into the wider world, but shared experience — sitting together near the open air, watching movement in the garden, smelling the wind, participating in the mysterious life beyond the walls while still connected to home.

There is something touching about a young cat trying so hard to balance independence with attachment. One can almost sense the internal dialogue:

“I love you very much… but there are leaves moving outside.”

Meanwhile, his sister watches all this with what appears to be complete philosophical clarity. In her view, the couch remains an excellent and sufficient universe.

The first year with cats has been both challenging and delightful. They bring disorder, companionship, comedy, affection, and a kind of lively unpredictability into a home. Slowly, they stop being kittens and become themselves — distinct little beings with recognizable philosophies of life.

Jenga’s philosophy, I think, is becoming clear:

“I shall explore the world… but my mother should probably come too.” 🤪

I had been planning my March trip to Mexico carefully. After a winter marked by medical challenges, I was only just beginning to feel steadier. Walking was still difficult—I relied on my poles, and airport assistance had already been arranged. So when I received a message from Alaska Airlines informing me that my direct flight had been changed to a connection, I knew immediately that wouldn’t work.

Fortunately, I was able to rebook onto an earlier direct flight on March 23.

My son Justin drove down from Sebastopol the day before. He spent the night, and early the next morning he delivered me safely to the airport, staying until I was settled into the care of the wheelchair attendant. From there, everything unfolded with surprising ease. The gentleman assisting me even offered to stop for coffee or food, and I chose a sandwich that looked manageable for the flight. That small kindness felt like a good omen.

The journey to Puerto Vallarta went smoothly.

At the airport, my daughter Ariel was waiting. She drove me to the Hotel Emperador, right on the beach in Zona Romántica. I was exhausted—it had been a long time since I had done anything so physically demanding—but I also felt quietly triumphant. I had made it.

That first evening, I stayed in. I still had half of my sandwich, which turned out to be enough. I sat and watched the ocean, the sun lowering itself into the horizon, people gathering for their evening rituals along the beach. It was enough simply to be there. I went to bed early and slept deeply.

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The next morning, I had promised myself a walk along the Malecón.

And I did it.

With my poles, slowly and steadily, I walked all the way to the end and back. It was gentle, pleasant, and quietly encouraging. Afterwards, I sat down for breakfast by the sea—coffee, something simple, and the feeling that perhaps I was returning not just to a place, but to myself.

That day, I walked more than I had in months. I wandered near my old neighborhood, bought coffee to use during my stay, and allowed myself to re-enter the rhythms of Puerto Vallarta at my own pace.

That evening, Ariel joined me to hear my friend Alejandro and his quartet play at Cuates y Cuetes. The music was extraordinary—jazz carried by guitar, violin, saxophone, and bass. There was something deeply familiar in it, something that reminded me of my long connection to this place. I stayed only for part of the evening—I tire easily now—but it was enough.

I returned to my room, content, and again slept well.

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The days that followed settled into a gentle rhythm.

Walking. Resting. Small tasks.

I visited the man who had taken my belongings on consignment when I gave up my apartment the previous year. He surprised me by offering a full payout instead of continuing small payments over time—a kindness that simplified things greatly.

I stopped into a little shop I’ve always liked—La Bodega—and bought a pair of shorts and a beach bag, small tokens of continuity. I had a meal at a favorite Italian restaurant—spaghetti carbonara and even a glass of wine—and walked the short distance back to my hotel under the evening sky.

Each day, I did a little more. A pedicure one afternoon. Ice cream another. Nothing dramatic, but everything meaningful.

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Eventually, it was time to leave for Lo de Marcos, where I had rented a beachfront apartment for the month.

Ariel picked me up, and we drove north. Along the way, we stopped for fresh seafood—simple, delicious, the kind of meal that belongs exactly where it is eaten. By the time we arrived, we were full and content. That first night, we did little more than sit on the terrace, watching the waves and the sunset.

The quiet there is different.

Deeper.

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Soon after, we joined my daughter Laura and her family in San Pancho. They have spent several spring vacations there, and we have made a tradition of joining them.

There were days at the beach, watching the children—now nearly grown—play in the ocean. An Easter brunch at the polo club, a gathering we’ve shared for years. Long, easy conversations. Laughter.

One afternoon, the children held a handstand contest in their pool—three of them, determined and joyful. We served as judges. It was one of those simple, perfect moments that somehow holds more than it seems.

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Back in Lo de Marcos, the days returned to stillness.

Ariel went into town occasionally—for physical therapy, for classes—leaving me on my own for stretches of time. At first, even the stairs felt uncertain. But gradually, I found my confidence again. The beach became manageable. The small town walks, too.

There is a quiet satisfaction in that kind of return.

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Now, my days are simple.

I sit on the terrace and watch the waves. Pelicans glide in long, effortless lines. Other birds—three or four kinds—circle and dive, intent on their own purposes. Watching them, it becomes clear how small one’s own concerns really are.

Life continues, beautifully, without us.

The beach fills briefly in the evenings—volleyball, laughter, families gathering—then empties again by dusk, as if everyone quietly agrees that it is time to go home for dinner.

It is peaceful here.

Perhaps too peaceful for a full life, we’ve wondered. Ariel is considering a house nearby, but the quiet may be more than she wants. For me, right now, it feels like exactly enough.

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I have already asked about returning next year.

The answer was mostly no—already booked—but I managed to secure a few weeks at the end of March and beginning of April.

That feels right.

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For now, I sit, I watch, I listen.

And I am grateful to be here.