You don't need to reach the summit to realize a mountain is high.

Man, this place, St. Joan de Mediona, was beautiful. It is in the wine-growing region of Catalonia. You know, the Catalonia that wants to separate from Spain. All I can say is bona sort. (that is Buena suerte to you Spaniards) There are only 800 people in this village living together peacefully in close quarters.

My good friend, with whom we stayed, has cancer, his prognosis is looking good, thankfully. He has a beautiful family.

Mountains, mountains, everywhere and I need a drink. My friend and I are metaphorically climbing mountains, prolonged and incomprehensible, thirsty stuff, but if and when we reach the top, we win! We are cured. His cancer vanishes; my PD becomes the stuff of legends, a sort of grand slam small-poxian victory. In the meantime, we can see the summit and know that cure awaits us - someday.

I didn't climb any mountains in Mediona, but since flat ground around Catalonia is all but non-existent, I was always ascending or descending, usually in a maze of narrow streets, but, here is the good news: I did it without the use of my trekking poles and never, not for one second, did I feel like festination would interrupt my triumphant stroll. We trudged about 4 miles everyday (4 days). A couple of times I forgot to take my medication and would start off the day with tremors that would quickly disappear as the miles went by, slowly. My God, how slowly I walk!

CONCLUSION: Exercise works. It can diminish the symptoms of PD and, I believe, the lack of symptoms means exercise is slowing the progression of the disease. So work boy, work, and the truth of my conclusion shall be revealed.

We all have the same mountains to climb.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made straight and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Well, I am not so sure about that glory of the Lord stuff, but it doesn't hurt to cover all bases.

"Dream big, like the Eiffel Tower"

It is not very impressive in pictures but when you stand beside it and look up, WHOA, VERTIGO! I am talking about the Eiffel Tower rising over 980 feet, just to poke your god in the eye and remind him/her who is boss in this neighborhood. It rises in all its glory practically in our backyard, so we have gone over a few times, day and night. This thing is massive, intricate and beautiful. The crowds are a deterrent but, what the hey, it is the most popular attraction in the city.

The sight of 3 machine gun toting soldiers on patrol looking for bad guys, while initially filling me with confidence, did not fill me with confidence, if you know what I mean.

But enough of the travelogue. My purpose here is 2-fold. First to tell you another human dog story. Stories in which the owner thinks the dog is human. You might recall the guy at South Beach berating his dog for barking at another dog "Stop it. I don't even know you anymore!". This new human dog story took place at La Tour Eiffel. The owner said to the dog, "Let's go boy" and the dog ran ahead onto a side road. The owner stopped the dog and very gently said,"Now, did we stop and look for cars. No we did not...." and the rest of his lesson was lost to me as we moved further ahead. Enough to make you laugh.

Enough to make you cry.

My second purpose is to warn the PwP tribe to take their medication in a timely fashion and try not to miss a scheduled dose. If you do, for many of you (us) you will lose your voice and have "brain farts" forgetting words and speaking too softly to be heard. It makes intelligent discourse impossible. It is best to remain silent and avoid the sympathy of those around you or take your voice training more seriously than I did.

There is danger here. If you keep on low talking, you might convince someone to wear a puffy shirt on TV and become the object of ridicule in an episode of Seinfeld.

I plan to go back to my voice therapist and take the training seriously this time. I urge you to do so too.

A private message to my friend with the unused training apparatus in her basement (you know who you are). I got you a present that will conjure up my thoughtfulness in bringing a piece of Paris home for you.

If it doesn't itch, I will wear it.

I am here in Paris, the city of sights. There is a chic here that I did not know existed. My personal style is, well, maybe best described as teenage grunge.....kind of a prairie meltdown. In this city, where men wear scarfs in the summer and not to ward off the cold, I stood out like the Eiffel Tower itself. (Note to reader: The use of the past tense in the last sentence is deliberate, because I got what I needed - a crash course on style and chicness.)

Chicness: according to Collins English dictionary, a noun meaning "the condition of being stylish or elegant

Well, let's pretend "elegance" is not required. I had to be in style. To solve my condition, my wife took me shopping and upgraded my personal style with a jacket that has all the flavor of a train porter in the 1950's or a baccarat dealer in Monaco. But I like it, and I no longer appear to be a prairie bumpkin. My only fear is that I now dress so well, people might think I am gay (not that there is anything wrong with that!)and I would hate to disappoint some callow fellow.

But, enough of GQ and on to PD.

You remember that quaint joke about the handicapped guy and the TV evangelist?

Drowning with religious fervor, the evangelist places his hands on the head of the man on crutches and appeals loudly to god,"Lord heal this man" and removing his hand he adds, "The Lord has healed thee, throw away your crutches and walk." The man enthusiastically drops his crutches and......... falls flat on his face!

Not much of a joke you say? Well I tend to agree. I have included it as a preface to my story. I have thrown away my crutches (my trekking poles) and have not fallen flat on my face. In fact, I have walked at least 4 miles each of the last 3 days, sans poles, and have not felt the cruelty of festination once (here the blogger touches wood). Granted my race walking days are over; I have only one speed - glacial, but it feels good.

So, if you see a stylish slow walker passing by, wave, it might be me, or Stepin Fetchit in disguise.

Visitors in the past week

• United Kingdom 64
• Canada 58
• United States 25
• Russia 7
• France 3
• Netherlands 3
• Croatia 2
• Ukraine 2
• Germany 1
• Mexico 1

The moan zone beckons, so be strong

I believe I have the tremor dominant form of PD. I remember the first time I noticed the tremor. I had put in an hour in the swimming pool followed by some weight training and a run indoors. I left the building feeling proud of myself, thinking I had worked so hard it was causing my right hand to shake. It faded away a minute later and I thought nothing of it. For some time after, PD would only make an appearance after a good run but then, one morning while I was on vacation, the shaking started spontaneously, without the provocation of any instigator. Diagnosis: Early stage Parkinson's.

You all know that not all PWP have a tremor. About 20% are tremorless and for the other 80%, while tremor may be the most noticeable symptom; we are not immune to the other delights of the condition. Parkinson's does not follow a script; it does what it wants to do.

It turns out that if you have to have PD, tremor dominant is the type to have because it seems it is the slowest to progress. But, PD can ignore this finding and send you to its last stage as quickly as it does with non-tremor victims. You just never know. But fight the good fight. It would be easy to submit to the eccentricities of the enemy. We must think positively and avoid the alluring darkness.

Have I mentioned you should also..ah.. exercise?

Quit farting around PD. Make up your PD mind because I have made up mine. I am going to thrive in spite of you.

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