Slow Down To Be Inspired.

/ By / In / 1 Comment

Stories leak in these narrow passageways.

“A writer will find inspiration anywhere. You just have to look and see it, that’s all. Then write about it.”

It was 50-years ago when we first visited Barcelona. With backpacks and a few Pesetas we fell in love with the place. The city seemed to be a cheaper, seedier, more exciting scene back then, but maybe that’s just a memory I like to hold on to. I’m sure that scene still exists for the young who still seek it out as we did 50-years ago. Barcelona has certainly grown up.

I’ve always loved roaming the small pathways and narrow streets of this old city. Finding new places to explore, to sit on a bench and enjoy the morning sun reveal itself especially with a cafe con leche in hand. Trying my language skill or lack of skill with anyone who will listen or just watching the locals parade by. I find it intriguing after wandering around the maze of tiny narrow streets and exit to the surprise of the wide straight boulevards like Sant Joan, La Ramblas, or Passage de Placa Catalunya, a total contrast. I’m sure it was all designed to socialize the locals, bring them together for their “El Paseo” evening ritual.

If I ever stop observing I’ll be finished. Experience is captured and retold through the small details I observe and turn into stories.

I’ve learned to slow down, to just sit and observe life. “Tranquillo” was said to me on more than a few occasions when I first arrived. It basically means calm down/relax. Waiters seemed to take pleasure in telling me this when I asked for the check. I was given free glasses of wine and told, “You are not in American now, sit and enjoy the day.” It took a while to catch on. This was from my first days in Barcelona.

Then I discovered the evening stroll in Spain, in any part of the country and nearly all year round, the evening begins with “El Paseo”, a leisurely stroll through the streets, meeting and greeting friends and family. It is the dividing line between the working day and the evening, signalling a slowing down of tempo, a shift from activity to leisure.

 The Spanish culture has some interesting rituals. I first became aware of “El Paseo” which translates to “a leisurely usually evening stroll” when I first arrived in Spain. I couldn’t sleep so decided to go for a walk in the evening with no particular destination and instantly became aware of how crowded the streets were. So many of the streets were filled with people just leisurely walking around. There were family’s, couples, young people, old people, and just about every other combination. They all seemed to be going somewhere important, but in no particular hurry, so I decided to join the river of people to see what was going on. This lasted for about an hour until I finally realized that there was no particular destination and they were just walking around the neighborhood streets. That was my first experience of the Paseo. I loved just watching life stroll past. I found it refreshing since this type of thing just isn’t common in the US. 

Much like the “Siesta” or afternoon nap this tradition is part of the culture and many locals find it puzzling that it’s not common in the US. I’ve witnessed this “Paseo” in the other European countries I visited including Italy, Greece, France, and Portugal. The more I observed people participating in this ritual the more I enjoyed it. I’m so lucky to live in a city where I can go leisurely walking around after days end. This type of thing does not happen in LA or the Bay Area, even in the summer when the temperature is agreeable. Maybe the fear of being shot or stopped by the police has something to do with it.

During the Paseo locals will often stop at a bar for an apertivo, or to just talk, and some even shop in one of the many stores still open and lining the streets. This goes on for a few hours until everyone is ready for a late tapas bite. If you are ever in Spain you should slow down and definitely participate in the Paseo, it’s a way to work off the days food and drink in the local customs. It’s a tradition that’s dates back hundreds years.

Talk to any Spaniard today the whole concept would be met with nonchalance. After all, while El Paseo is a nice tradition, it’s just a part of daily life and no different from a morning cafe con leche and pastry. This can be due to the physical benefits associated with walking after dinner, which include aiding digestion, regulating blood sugar levels and helping you torch a few calories ahead of that late night tapas. But there’s more to it than simply helping you maintain a healthy weight. You observe life.

With the rise of digital entertainment and online socialization among the young, the internet age has caused a decline in El Paseo, which has been unofficially relegated to older adults in many Spanish cities and mid-size towns, while you’re still likely to see the whole town turn out each evening in smaller, non-urban areas. But there’s an argument to be made that the preservation of this quintessential ritual is now more important than ever.

Once I learned to slow down I’ve had so much more time for more important things like enjoying the here and now. And for that I am forever grateful.

The Ghost From The Cornfield – How I Stopped Smoking

/ By / In / 3 Comments

The Ghost From The Cornfield
How I Stopped Smoking
By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

The flickering TV screen illuminated the dimly lit living room. I was mesmerized, watching Shoeless Joe Jackson in Field Of Dreams glide across the makeshift baseball diamond, the cornstalks swaying gently in the summer breeze. Then, it happened.

Another figure emerged from the rustling cornfield, a gaunt, hollow-eyed man with a desperate look in his eyes. He stumbled towards Ray Kinsella the farmer, his hand outstretched.

“Got a smoke, Ray?” he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The man’s desperation, his gaunt face, his eyes pleading for relief – it struck a chord deep within me. This wasn’t just a character in a movie; this was a chilling glimpse into the potential consequences of addiction.

Here, trapped in a timeless limbo, was a man forever bound to his craving, forever haunted by the ghost of nicotine. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Was this my fate? Was I destined to spend eternity craving that fleeting, addictive supposed pleasure?

The image of the ghostly smoker, forever reaching out for a cigarette that would never come, became a powerful motivator. It was a stark reminder of the insidious nature of addiction, a warning that the consequences could extend far beyond the physical damage.

From that moment on, quitting smoking became more than just a matter of improving my health. It became a matter of escaping a potential eternity of craving. It was time to break free from the chains of addiction that threatened to bind me forever.

The journey was not easy. The cravings hit hard, unexpected waves of desire crashing over me. The ghost of nicotine, ever-present, whispered temptations in my ear, promising fleeting moments of solace. There were times when I almost succumbed, when the allure of a single cigarette seemed to outweigh the fear of eternal servitude.

But I remembered the gaunt face of the ghostly smoker, his eyes pleading for release. I remembered the chilling realization that addiction could transcend death, that the cravings could persist in a chilling, eternal limbo.

And so, I persevered. I walked more, I ate healthier, I filled my days with activities that kept my mind occupied. I sought support from friends and family, and I learned to recognize the triggers that unleashed the ghost of nicotine.

Slowly, gradually, the cravings subsided. The phantom limb twitched less frequently, the whispers grew fainter. I began to breathe easier, to sleep more soundly.

Years later, the memory of the ghostly smoker still lingers, a poignant reminder of the dangers of addiction. But now, instead of fear, it fills me with a sense of accomplishment. I have broken free from the chains that bound me, escaped the clutches of the ghost of nicotine, and reclaimed my freedom.

The ghost of addiction may still linger, a faint echo of a past I no longer recognize, but I am no longer its prisoner. I am free.

 

—30–

 

 

Retrospect – The Pigeon War of 1952

/ By / In / 4 Comments

 

Retrospect – The Pigeon War of 1952

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

So, let me take you back to the bustling streets of Boston in 1952. My grandfather, a city boy through and through, loved to regale us with tales of his urban escapades. And none was more legendary than The Pigeon War of 1952.

“It was a crisp autumn morning,” Gramps would start, leaning back in his chair. “I was just a young buck, running errands for old Mr. Thompson, the newsstand guy on Tremont Street. He had the best spot in the city, right next to the bagel cart and across from Boston Common.”

Now, in the city, pigeons are everywhere. But back in ’52, they were more than just a nuisance—they were a menace. Mr. Thompson had been waging a losing battle against these winged rats for years. They’d steal his newspapers, dive-bomb his customers, and generally cause havoc.

“One day,” Gramps continued, “Mr. Thompson had had enough. ‘We need a plan, kid,’ he said to me. ‘These pigeons are ruining my business. It’s time to fight back.'”

Gramps and Mr. Thompson devised a scheme so elaborate, it would make a military strategist proud. They armed themselves with water balloons, slingshots, and even a makeshift pigeon trap made out of a cardboard box and some breadcrumbs.

“The first attack came at dawn,” Gramps said, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “Mr. Thompson and I were ready. The pigeons swooped down, thinking it was business as usual. But not this time.”

With a battle cry that echoed through the streets, they launched their counterattack. Water balloons flew, slingshots snapped, and pigeons scattered in every direction. For a brief moment, it looked like victory was theirs.

But then, the pigeons regrouped. It was like something out of a Hitchcock movie. They came back with reinforcements—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. The sky darkened with their numbers.

“We were outnumbered, outgunned, and out of water balloons,” Gramps said, shaking his head. “But we didn’t give up. We fought until the bitter end.”

In the end, the pigeons claimed victory that day. Mr. Thompson’s newsstand was a wreck, and Gramps was covered in feathers and pigeon poop. But they’d earned the respect of the neighborhood. Word of their valiant stand spread, and people came from all over to support Mr. Thompson’s newsstand, if only to hear the tale of The Pigeon War of ’52.

“And that’s how we saved the newsstand, even if we lost the battle,” Gramps would finish with a grin. “Never underestimate the power of a good story.”

Years went by, and the story of The Pigeon War of ’52 became a cherished family legend, told and retold at countless gatherings and here I am now telling it to you. My grandfather’s escapade turned into a symbol of resistance, resilience and camaraderie, a reminder that even in the face of the most ridiculous challenges, a bit of humor and determination could carry you through.

 

Epilogue:

As I grew older, I often walked by the spot where Mr. Thompson’s newsstand once stood. It had long since been replaced by a sleek coffee shop, but in my mind’s eye, I could still see the old man and my grandfather, battling the pigeons with water balloons and slingshots.

Whenever life threw me a curve ball, I’d think back to Gramps’s story and smile. It wasn’t just about the pigeons or the chaos—it was about facing adversity head-on, finding the humor in every situation, and when it is all over and done always having a good story to tell.

And so, the legacy of The Pigeon War of ’52 lives on, a testament to the indomitable spirit of city folk and the continued power of a well-told tale.

 

–30–