Bomb On Board Part 2

Everyone had been seated and we were asked to fasten our seat belts. After what seemed like forever, the engines fired up and the plane started taxying down the runway. I'd passed the point of no return. Was I making the biggest mistake of my life? I was going to some unknown place, where I didn't know a living soul, with limited, very limited resources ...and I would soon be 35,000 feet up in the air. I was dizzy from the combination of excitement, fear, concern, anxiety, and the rush of adrenaline.

We'd only been airborne a short while, but I was starting to feel comfortable with it all. Then, suddenly, the plane made a 180 degree turn, a turn so severe that for awhile, it was almost on its side and people were falling out of their seats. The stewardess (back when they were called stewardesses) announced that we were returning to the airport for minor repairs. Hey, I'd seen too many plane disaster movies; they always say something like "...minor repairs" or "...minor technical difficulties". Something was very, very, wrong. That nagging inner voice, the one that kept warning me I was making a mistake ...I should've listened to it.

I wasn't the only one realizing that this was more serious than the announcement had implied. Despite being asked to fasten seat belts, the passengers became very agitated and unruly ...wanting to know, "What the hell is going on!"

The beating in my chest was so violent, I thought I was having a heart attack. Despite all, I didn't, I just couldn't, allow myself to succumb to the fear. I had to hold myself together. Losing control was not an option.

Finally, the airport was in sight and the runway rose up very quickly to meet us. The tires screeched and roared as they gripped the asphalt. Even with my inexperience, I knew this was not the normal way to land a plane. The plane finally stopped, but we weren't anywhere near the air terminal. The door was opened and the stewardesses, foregoing any display of calm, instructed each passenger to forget about luggage and exit the plane by jumping onto the slide.

We all disembarked, and were gathered together in the air terminal where we witnessed a lot of activity with police cars, sirens and men clad in protective gear boarding the plane with dogs.

Now, had I been up on current events, or even one to read an occasional newspaper, I would've been aware of the then-current bomb threat targeting TWA. Perhaps I would've taken another airline. Anyway, there I was sitting in the airport, finally relinquishing control, and shaking uncontrollably. Had I the ability to cry, I think I would have. A reporter witnessed my dismay, and decided he'd interview me as one of the passengers of the flight from which they were removing the bomb ...the very real bomb that hadn't yet exploded.

After several hours, [they] assigned us another flight. Had I the choice, I wouldn't have taken it ... the first incident being a sign that I wasn't meant to do this. But I didn't have a choice, I had no where to go but forward. So I got on the plane. To compensate for the "inconvenience", all amenities were free. That meant an open bar ...of which I took full advantage. And thus, I said goodbye to New York. It may not have been a graceful exit, but it surely was a dramatic one.

My name appeared in the article that ran the following day in the New York Daily News. The reporter had use my statement from that interview back in the air terminal. At the time, I didn't get to see the article since I was already in California. However, Bernie had saved the clipping and sent me a copy after I'd settled in San Francisco. I attempted to scan it for this post, but it's old, damaged, and itself a poor photocopy of the original newspaper, so the scan was unreadable. Instead, I reconstructed the article here. (In addition to the verbatim copy, I also attempted to reproduce the look and format of the original article.)

!!Be sure to read THE ARTICLE to see
what a close call this really was!!

Quote of the Week: "Just tell yourself, Duckie, you're really quite lucky..."

Bomb On Board Part 1 (Prologue)

Although I was born in Philadelphia, I spent my entire childhood in Atlantic City, a very small town, where I led a small uneventful life. As I became aware of thing happening in other parts of the world, I developed wanderdlust ...spurred on by the music of James Taylor and other folk musicians of the time who sang reverently about travelling being on the road. All this stirred something in me. I wanted to see more, do more, be more.

My first taste of "adventure" was to move to Gotham City. For all that I experienced ...the new people I met, the restaurants, the theatres, the Coney Island Cyclone... it really wasn't all that different. And it was only a 2 1/2 hour bus ride from where I'd come, Atlantic City. I didn't feel like I'd really gone anywhere.

My best friend, Bernie, had gone to and come back from California, and I was totally mesmerized by the fact that he'd done such a fantastic thing. Could I be so daring. Sure! I could this.

My mom had died the year before, (my father died when I was very young), and I wasn't really all that close to the rest of the aunts, uncles, and cousins that made up my loosely connected family. There was no reason for me to remain in that area, that part of the country. I was unencumbered and free to go anywhere in the world I chose ...so I chose California.

I quit my job ...actually, I gave one-month's notice. The security deposit on my Brooklyn Heights apartment was equal to one-months rent. I didn't want to loose that, but I wouldn't be around to collect it, so in that final month, I just didn't pay my rent. At the end of the month, when the real estate company was starting to make legal noises, I was packed and on my way out the door.

I called one of those companies that buys all your stuff in one lot. I donated all my superfluous clothing to Good Will ...all that was left after Bernie and some other friends raided my closets. So, by the end of the month (March 1972), I left my [empty] apartment, with my one duffel bag over my shoulder, dropped off the keys, and got on the subway to the airport. There was no turning back; there was nothing to go back to. It was not a very graceful exit, but I was on my way. I made a concerted effort to conceal the mountain of anxiety that had taken up residence in my stomach.

As I'm writing this, I wonder if I could've gotten a better price on the ticket if I'd made a reservation earlier. But at the time, I didn't know anything about the protocols of air travel. This was going to be my first time ever on a plane ...my first time in an airport. I was winging it as I went along.

I got my ticket and waited in the coffee shop for the hour until my flight left. I was much too excited to read anything, so I ate.

As I sat there, thinking that I was fitting in with all the other seasoned travellers, I was unaware that I was wearing my anxiety and naivety like a billboard. One traveller sitting there in the coffee shop noticed this and inquired, "This your first time on plane?" Actually I was relieved to abandon the pretense. I revealed that it was [my maiden voyage] and how exciting it was to be going to California. "Oh, I'm going to California too. My name is Louis, Louis Gossett."

It was nice to talk to someone. It helped pass the time, which seemed like eons, until the palne was ready for boarding. At the time, his name meant nothing to me, but ironically one of the first movies I saw here in California ...some many months later... was "The Landlord" in which he had a role. I sat there in the darkened theater wanted to shout out, "Hey, I know him!"

Okay, so now I'm boarding the plane. What was so great about this? It was nothing more than a crowded bus. Granted, a bus that was going to fly, but I kind of expected something a little more elegant. I later learned that the luxury I had anticipated came [at a price] with first class. This was hardly a disappointment, though. I was about to take my first plane ride ...and it was going to be quite an adventure.

(To be cont'd.)

Quote of the Week: "No matter where you go, there you are."

Tagged Again

So that's what a "meme" is. Anyway, I've been tagged again. (Thanks a lot, Lillie ...I'm telling the Big Guy about this.)

I was tagged once before where I got to make up my own [10] topics. This has a preset (a - z) topic list, so okay, I'll go 'round one more time.

•  accent: As soon as I open my mouth, I'm always asked, "Do you come from New York?" I still have a New Yawk accent despite having lived here for the past 34 years, and having lived there for only three. Actually, it's a New Joisey accent; they're very similar.

•  booze: Pinot Noir, or if we're talking spirits, a bourbon manhattan (straight up, hold the cherry).

•  chore I hate: Laundry (Oh why did you have to remind me.)

•  dogs/cats: Severe allergy to pet dander -- can only tolerate them for short periods. However, I identify with cats, the large jungle variety.

•  essential electronics: Any electronic "toy" eventually becomes essential. The non-essential ones are those whose purchase I've not yet been able to justify.

•  favorite perfume: Subtlety is the key. A little goes a very long way.

•  gold/silver: Keep it simple. I pity the fool who thinks an abundance of jewelry is an attractive look.

•  hometown: Philadelphia > Atlantic City > New York > San Francisco -- (San Francisco IS my hometown).

•  insomnia: Never been a problem. I can sleep anytime, anywhere. Naps have become my new favorite pastime.

•  job title: Jack of all trades, master of none ...but pretty good at several.

•  kids: Love the concept, not very interested in the physical model until they're over 30.

•  living arrangements: Okay, we're finished cuddling, now move over and let me sleep.

•  most admired trait: My humor ...but only by those who "get me".

•  number of sexual partners: It's not about quantity, (he says with a blush), it's about quality.

•  overnight hospital stays: Two! One (in 1981) too embarrassing to talk about, and the second (in 2000), a collision with a blood clot.

•  phobia: Acrophobia (fear of high places), or more accurately Catapedaphobia (fear of falling or jumping from high places).

•  quote: "Use what you can and let the rest go by."

•  religion: I understand its importance to many, but it, (the organized variety), does nothing for me. However there is my sense of spirituality which is, uhh, undefinable.

•  siblings: Biological: none. My adopted family: three. (Don't ask, it'd take much to long to explain.)

•  time I usually wake up: When the sunlight hits my face. If it's still dark, fuh-getta-bout-it.

•  unusual talent: Ability to teach myself what I need to know to do what I want to do.

•  vegetable I refuse to eat: Okra and asparagus.

•  worst habit: Always making it "about me" ...but making great strides, if not at breaking the habit, at keeping it under control.

•  exotic x-rays: MRI of my brain. They say that the brain is a "biggest" sex organ. Oh, that's, e"x"otic

•  yummy foods I make: Broccoli and potato quiche; plum and white wine soup; zucchini muffins; carob and applesauce brownies; tomato and apple chutney.

•  zodiac sign: Virgo - Born at 4:30:45 p.m. (Eastern Daylight Savings Time) on September 16th, 1947 at Philadelphia General Hospital, in Philadelphia Pennsylvania, in the fourth floor maternity wing on a rainy summer afternoon, after a lengthy labor of 36 hours during which...

Lee's already been tagged, Lillie tagged me, so that leaves Gloria-jean -- You're It! I won't tag Rodney 'cuz he's on hiatus. Besides, I tagged him before. I also tagged schaumi and meander the last time, so I won't tag them again ....unless they want to play. C'mon, why not? :)

The Midweek Jibe - Wk: 22 '06

I'm instituting a new feature. The format of this blog has been a weekly posting on a subject about which I'd make [considerable] comment ...and that will continue. But there are always things happening ...that image I saw, that remark I heard, that asinine statement made by some politician... that I'd like to make a simple comment about without committing to an entire article. Hence the birth of the Midweek Jibe. (It won't always be a "jibe"; it may very well be a positive remark.)
Note:This feature will be superceded by the second installment of those weekly articles that may have a "Part 2".

I wanted to comment on how here, in San Francisco, art and culture are made so readily available to everyone without consideration to class or economic status. My point... This weekend, they're featuring Madama Butterfly at the War Memorial Opera House and it will be attended by the usual throng of opera goers. What's new this time is they're also featuring a simulcast of the performance that'll be broadcast on huge screens in Civic Center Plaza. This broadcast is free and all are encouraged to bring lunches, blankets, lawn chairs, and what-not and stretch out on the plaza's lawn and enjoy the opera.

San Francisco does this kind of thing all the time. They're always having free concerts in the park, but this is the first time the opera has been simulcast in this way.

From The Bay To The Breakers

I found myself feeling anxious, irritated and a bit annoyed for [what seemed like] no apparent reason. After awhile, I realized what was causing the dis-ease.

There's a helicopter whose "geostationary" flight pattern is directly overhead. The monotonous drone of its rotor blades is filtering through the low-level din of this usually quiet Sunday morning. That's what was getting on my nerves. Why the hell does it need to stay just there. It's too high up to read it's markings but it's probably some news helicopter reporting on the activity below. But there's nothing happening below. Then it hits me. The Bay to Breakers Marathon. The course is right down my street ...well, one block over. As I look out the window, I can see the first of the runners speeding by. The rest of the marathoners are on their way.

Note that I'm writing this at 8:15 a.m. (PDT).

Pretty soon, the neighborhood will be drowning in a sea of bodies. The first wave seems to be passing now. These are the legitimate runners. The regular Kenyans (who very frequently come in first) along with other professional marathoners who come each year for this foot race. Accompanying them are the other runners who've also trained for and "run" the race. Then, there's a lull.

Then comes the waves of the San Francisco participants. This is the bulk of the race, the group of people ...some running, some walking, many of whom have dressed up in all kinds of outlandish getups and costumes... that considers this an annual mobile party. And there's also the usual contingent of "naked runners". It's like a second Halloween, with the marathon itself being the theme, instead of ghosts and goblins. To see some of these "marathoners", just google "bay to breakers" for the myriad posts and pictures that have been (and will be) made available.

I should've realize this was marathon Sunday when I saw all the porta-potties lining one side of the park across the street. This was a very good idea. You see, last year, there were literally hundreds of people (men, women and children) relieving themselves behind the trees which hadn't grown fully enough to provide sufficient cover. (The park and its trees are only a year old.) But when you gotta go, you gotta go ...and they went. So, as unsightly as is this procession of green cubicles, it's preferable to last year's spectacle.

In the past, I've walked the race and even ridden my bike, but I've never run it. It's not that long a course. It runs from one end of the city (San Francisco Bay), through the city streets, on through Golden Gate Park, to the other end ([Pacific] Ocean Beach) and is only 12 kilometers (7.46 miles) -- a little over 1/4 the length of a full marathon (which is 42.2 kilometers / 26.2 miles). However, you do encounter several steep hills. One such formidable incline is referred to as "Heartbreak Hill" ...and rightly so. It has proven to be the breaking point of many of the unskilled and untrained. Hey, this hill, which is right down the street from where I live, is a bitch to even walk up; I generally go several blocks out of my way to go around it.

The race was scheduled to start at 8:00 a.m. (PDT). [Most of] the runners will finish within the first hour. It'll take quite a few hours for the last of the other participants to cross the finish line ...for them it's not really a race. For the remainder of the day there will be various activities and parties throughout the city. Many people will remain "in costume", so it's not at all unusual to see a Chinese dragon floating down the street supported by its six inhabitants ...or a couple of bearded ballerinas in pink tights and tutus ...a woman in a wedding gown and running shoes ...or a few complete naked [men and women] with nothing on but their painted costumes. Ahh, San Francisco.

Last year, a Kenyan had the winning time of 34 minutes and 49 seconds.

The Kenyan Gilbert Okari, won again this year with a time of 34 minutes and 20 seconds ...(amended to this post after the results were available).

Quote of the Week: "It's not the journey that wears you out, it that grain of sand in your shoe."

Midnight Express (Part 2)

There I was, completely immersed in the moment, enjoying my lunch in full appreciation of the gentle breeze that seemed to exist only within the confines of the palm's shadow. My gaze casually wondered about the surrounding buildings as I considered which ones to photograph. I was totally oblivious to any people that were about.

All of a sudden, armed men from all around ...maybe seven or eight ...closed in on me, grabbing me by both arms, confiscating my lunch, my cameras, and my tripod. They were frantically chattering in Spanish and hostiley dragged me off into this building that seemed to be some sort of headquarters or police station.

"What...what's going on here...who are you...what did I do...where are you taking me...what are you doing with my stuff?" All my queries went unanswered as they indicated they didn't understand English.

They "escorted" me up the steps, into this dark foreboding building, and into a dimly lit room where I was instructed to sit in this wooden chair. They laid all my stuff out on the large table which was the only other piece of furniture there in this room that was lit only with the light coming through the three small narrow windows up near the ceiling along one wall.

They all left save one very stern, bespectacled guard who had a big black moustache that seem too big for his face. I tried to communicate with him but he was not being receptive. He did, however, seem to speak some English. "Empty your pockets, put it all there!"

Oh shit! I'd totally forgotten about the pocketful of grass camouflaged as cigarettes. I'd decided it was safer keeping it with me as opposed to leaving it behind in a hotel room ...since it wasn't exactly a 4-star hotel. I remember thinking that that decision would be my undoing. I'd seen the movie "Midnight Express". I saw what could happen to you in a foreign land if you were caught in possession of contraband. Oh my God, I was going to die in a Mexican prison.

Surprisingly, I kept my cool. The guard inspected my cameras, opening them up and removing the film. Funny thing, though. He confiscated the film that was in the cameras, but not the other rolls of exposed film there in the camera bag. After seeing that each container held only a film cassette, he placed it back in the bag. He inspected the quiver and seemed disappointed to find that it only contained a tripod.

As I stared at the Winston package lying there on the table, I was sure [he] could hear my heart pounding in my chest. He moved the pack around the table several times as he rifled through all my other belongings ...but he never picked it up or looked inside. This guy couldn't possibly have cared less about that pack of "cigarettes". Not very thorough police work, if you ask me. But that was a thought I had way after the fact. At that moment, I was thinking, starting to hope, that I might not get busted for having the grass.

After he'd finished his inspection, it was obvious that I was not a threat to him or his organization ...whatever it was. You see, this was not just a police station, but some clandestine organization that I just happened upon, and [I surmised] they thought I, with all this photographic equipment, was spying. Yeah, right! Me, a spy.

When it became apparent that I was simply a tourist on vacation taking pictures, his attitude change considerably, as he revealed [through his conversation] that his English was as good as my own. I thanked him, gathered up my stuff, and left the facility. As I placed the cigarette pack back in my jacket's breast pocket, I offered a silent prayer of gratitude to whomever was responsible for my having just dodged that bullet.

I spent three days there in Mexico City, but that episode had soured the experience and I couldn't wait to leave. However, after a brief stop in Guadalajara, I ended up in Puerto Vallarta where I spent a glorious week basking in the sun.

Quote of the Week: The body is the soul's prison unless the five senses are fully developed and open.

Midnight Express (Part 1)

I was telling some friends this story the other night, and thought my mis-adventure in Mexico would make an interesting post.

This was quite awhile ago, way before 9/11, back when I used to smoke grass, back before drug-sniffing dogs, back when one would actually consider transporting your stash on your person while traveling by air.

Anyway, I decided to take a trip to Mexico. I'd never been out of the country before. I hadn't even been out of San Francisco since I'd arrived five years before. Like I said, I did smoke grass ...a lot. I'd gotten into the habit of smoking it regularly as a substitution for the cigarettes I'd just quit. (This was my first attempt which only lasted 2 years. I didn't successfully stop smoking cigarettes until ten years later.)

I was going out of the country and I wouldn't have access to any smoking material. I realized I'd have to take some with me. I came up with the idea to take a pack of [filtered] ciggies, empty out the tobacco, fill the cylinder with grass, close the end, and re-insert the "joints" back into the pack filter side up so that it resembled a regular pack of cigarettes. I even carried them in my jacket pocket in plain view. Just as I suspected, no one even gave the pack of "cigarettes" a second thought. Granted, something like that would never work today, but then ....

Okay, so I arrive in Mexico City. Boy, was it a dirty place. I had considered New York dirty ...after I'd moved here to an impecably clean, well-manicured San Francisco. But Mexico City was really disgusting. Puerto Vallarta, the last leg of my trip, was really nice, though. It was all sandy beaches and not at all "industrialized", but that has nothing to do with this story.

First day in Mexico City. I go into the bathroom, "lock" the door, turn on the exhaust fan, and fire up a joint. I was feeling somewhat smug and quite accomplished at how I'd pulled this all off. But I had to be careful. This was a far cry from walking down San Francisco's streets with a joint in your hand. This was a whole new environment and I had to be cool.

At the time, I'd just gotten into photography and carried my camera(s) and tripod around with me everywhere. I even fashioned a quiver to carry the tripod over my shoulder. So with this nice buzz going, I ventured out into the Mexican day. My first reaction was culture shock. I was truly surprised that nobody gave a damn that I was an American. Outside of the hotel, nobody made any attempt to converse in English ...or cared that I didn't understand Spanish. I don't know what I expected. Maybe that everyone would accommodate me since I was from the US. Wrong!

So, I wandered aimlessly about the city, photographing everything, and understanding nothing. Despite having lived in close proximity to a Puerto Rican community (in New York), the few Spanish words I'd managed to pick up were grossly inadequate.

As it drew toward midday, I decided to stop and have the milk and pastry I'd just picked up at a nearby bakery. It wasn't a park, just a green area with trees, but it was a welcomed shelter from the blazing hot sun. I took my cameras from around my neck and laid them down on the grass, parked my tripod quiver against the tree, and settled in for what I thought would be a pleasant siesta. Wrong!

This little patch of green was in front of an official building. Not official-looking by US standards, but different from the surrounding architecture. Actually, I hadn't even noticed it. But I would.

(To be cont'd.)

Quote of the Week: "Sooner or later, everyone stops smoking."

On Aging

There are actual clinical situations that create a disharmony between the mind and body, psychological imbalances like gender dysphoria or the eating disorder, anorexia. But for many people, there is a disharmony generated by the onslaught of imagery reinforcing the concept that youth ...and only youth ...is beauty. If you're not young, (and thin), you're not beautiful. And being rich doesn't hurt. :)

I recently read a post about this disparity between the age you feel and the age you are ...or more precisely, the age you look.

I started thinking in personal terms and how this disharmony was something I, too ...and probably everyone else ...has experienced.

I have several photographs [displayed] of myself at different stages ...30 years ago ...20 years ago ...ten years ago. As I look at each one, I recognize and relate to the person I see. He's still very much alive and a part of who I am ...and how I see myself.

When I purposely look in the mirror, I see the person I want to see. My perception is skewed in favor of how I see myself. But then, there are those time when I pass a mirror or glass pane and accidentally catch my reflection. I'm surprised by the older stranger I see there. That's not me; I don't look that old.

Inside I feel as young as those images in the photographs. And although that may be true, when I start to reflect back on who I was then, I realize that I've been there and done that. I don't want to be that person again. I much prefer who I am now. Maturity comes with experience, knowledge, growth, insight, and wisdom. I think maturity has its own special beauty. And as long as I don't allow Vogue, GQ, or People to define who I am, that beauty shines through. "It's not easy being green", but I'm happy being just who I am.

In all honesty, I'm not totally unaffected by this pressure to be perceived as young(er). I'll soon be 60, but that's just a number. I don't act 60, I don't think 60, I don't live the life of a 60 year old person, and although I look older, I still don't look 60. So, although I never lie about my age, I'm hesitant to volunteer the information. People, including myself, have preconceptions about what "60" means. So when you say you're 60, you've already been pigeonholed and saddled with certain percepts and expectations. So by withholding that bit in information, people tend to relate to me in terms of "as old as I act and feel".

Quote of the Week: "Nothing makes you so old as the desire to remain young."

Did You Know: About Tea

I'm a tea drinker; an avid tea drinker. I drink it all the time, all the day long ...something my dentist is not so thrilled about. Although I do occasionally enjoy herb infusions, I mainly like black teas.

Did you know: Tea was discovered, as legend has it, in 2737 B.C. by the Chinese Emperor Shen Nong, who was a skilled ruler, creative scientist, and patron of the arts. One of his edicts required that all drinking water be boiled as a hygienic precaution. One summer day while his servants were preparing water for the court to drink, dried leaves from a nearby bush fell into the boiling water, and it was infused with a brown liquid. As a scientist, the Emperor was interested in the new liquid, drank some, and found it very refreshing. And so, tea was created. This myth remains as such, but many believe it relates closely to the actual events.

Did you know: As with coffee, all teas come from the same plant (camellia sinensis), and the different flavor characteristics are determined by the region in which it's grown (i.e. China, India, Sri Lanka, Java, etc.)

Did you know: It's the processing that determines whether a tea is "white", "green", or "black". Just as the flavor of coffee is further influenced by how it's roasted, tea is processed differently to produce different results.

After harvesting, some tea is crushed to expose its enzymes. The leaves are allowed to ferment -- (the enzymes oxidize and turn the tea black). White and green tea leaves are not fermented at all. (Note: white tea differs from green tea in that the leaves are harvested before they open fully, when the buds are still covered by fine white hair.) Oolong tea leaves are crushed only slightly to achieve partial fermentation. Black tea leaves are thoroughly crushed, exposing more enzymes to oxidation for full fermentation.

Did you know: The "orange" in orange pekoe has nothing to do with the color or the flavor. Pekoe is a corruption of Bai Hao, the Chinese words for "white hair", which refers to the fine downy growth on the underside of the leaf. The first teas of this quality brought to Holland were presented to the royal family, the House of Orange, and as a marketing ploy, this type of tea was promoted as Orange Pekoe to suggest royal quality. The name stuck.

Did you know: There are grades (read quality) of teas which are determined by what part of the plant the leaves come from.

1. OP - Orange Pekoe denote a specific leaf -- the third one from the top of the plant. OP leaves are left whole or in large pieces during processing, and generally have a dark, well twisted appearance.
2. FOP - Flowery Orange Pekoe refers to teas produced using the top two leaves of the new growth.
3. GFOP - Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe is the same as FOP, but containing a high proportion of "golden tips", which refer to the unopened bud at the top of the plant.
4. TGFOP - Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe has more of the sweet flavorsome tips than GFOP, and is an extremely high grade.
5. FTGFOP - Fine Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe is generally accepted as the most "tippy" of the leaf grades, and is the most sought after, especially for Darjeeling teas.
6. SFTGFOP - Super Fine Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe An extremely rare find, this grade supersedes (5). For Assam teas, the leaves contain sweet golden tips in abundance, and are consequently referred to as "GT."

As a child, I only knew Lipton's tea and always used the brand name synonymously for the product ...like Kleenex, Xerox, Jello, and Q-tips.

Then I discovered the different quality teas and, with the exception of a brief foray into the coffee realm (back in the 70s ...before Starbucks), tea became and remains my beverage of choice. In fact I use it as a means of consuming my 64 (plus) ounces of water each day.

I'm always sampling new teas, but my favorites, in order of preference, are: Irish Breakfast (a blend of assam and african black teas.), Earl Grey (a blend of black teas flavored with bergamot.), Prince of Wales (a blend of keemun and oolong teas with a hint of black currant.), Ceylon/Orange Pekoe (a blend of orange pekoe teas from Sri Lanka.), English Breakfast (a blend of assam and ceylon black teas.), and Black Currant (a blend of black teas flavored with the leaves of the black currant.). Funny thing is, I still appreciate Lipton's blend, perhaps because it's so familiar ...but it's really not bad at all. I do, however, avoid mentioning this around tea "snobs". It never fails to raise a few hackles.

For more information on teas, see "TeaMuse Article" and "M&P Teas", two sites from which many of the above facts were culled.

Quote of the Week: "Tea does our fancy aid, repress those vapours which the head invade and keeps that palace of the soul serene."