Except in the sense that, you know, "We're all special." (There was a Dad here who revealed that his daughter's bedroom is crammed with soccer trophies, and the girl's terrible at soccer.)
Having said I'm not special - "having said that" sounding, I'm aware, suspiciously like "Please ignore the previous assertion" - every time I've visited this spa, there's been this nine-piece mariachi band, ribboned along the top of Mount Kuchima - which I've been told is a sacred mountain - that plays musical numbers that are exclusively for me. I know they're exclusively for me, because the songs have my name in them. And, having checked around, I've discovered that nobody here sees this band other than me.
Which, I'm aware once again, is a case for my being special. Though it's equally a case for my being crazy.
During the early stages of this visit, my band had been disappointingly absent. Then, two days ago,
(I guess they'd been on vacation. Even invisible bands need a break. There may be an "Invisible Band" union that demands it.)
I was on the morning hike, the only exception to my "no exercise" rule. (I take a hike in the morning, and that's it. After that, it's back my unswervingly indolent routine of "hammock, nap and bath." Interrupted only by a massage. Yeah, I know. It's good.)
I thought I had been abandoned. But then, after three music-less mornings, the mariachian silence was eruptively broken.
My boys were back!
There they were, nine laughing, mostly middle aged gentlemen, decked out in all-black outfits, festooned with braided trim, silver discs, and oversized, black sombreros, playing the traditional trumpets, fiddles and guitars.
The band opened with a rollicking Mexican rhythm, ending each verse, singing,
"Mr. Pomerantz is on the trail."
With every new verse came an improvisatorily different rollicking rhythm, each variation more imaginative and intricate than the variation before it.
And all ending with,
"Mr. Pomerantz is on the trail."
Then, the band segued into instrumental fragments of familiar tunes, by which I mean melodies I knew.
The identifiable Lone Ranger theme song blared out:
"Buh-duh-dum, buh-duh-dum, buh-duh-dum bum bum
Buh-duh-dum, buh-duh-dum, buh-dah-dum bum bum
Mr. Po-mer-antz is on the trail..."
Then came the familiar first line from Peter and the Wolf:
"Bum, bum, ba-dum bum bum
Ba-dum bum bum, ba-dum bum bum
Mr. Po-mer-antz is on the trail."
Then, at a certain point, when the hike got tougher, I was all by myself, having lost contact with the faster hikers in front of me, and could not see the slower hikers behind. Catching the mood of my solitude, my personal accompaniment relaxed into a plaintive, yet still encouraging ballad, this time delivered with the full lyrical package, which went like this:
"Alone on the trail, Mr. Pomerantz
Alone as he travels along
There is no one ahead
There is no one behind
There is no one but us,
Singing this song.
Alone on the trail, Mr. Pomerantz
Being careful that he doesn't slip
He goes slow down the hills
So he won't take no spills
While his nose, it continues to drip."
I did not make that up. If I had, I'd have been more complimentary.
Tomorrow, when I leave, I expect to be serenaded off the premises with three spirited repetitions of,
"We're very glad you came, Mr. Pomerantz"
"And please come back again."
I'm sure I will. Besides how spectacular it is here, I owe it to the band.
Their songs don't fit anybody else.