10.23.2004
A Letter to Amy on Her Return
From Katie Bowler
Amy,
You have been gone twelve months. They have grown longer for you like a tiring museum, painting after painting, name after name, until you can't consume another stroke and instead look forward to the plane landing in Boston so you can fall into kitchen hours at your parents‚ turkey-dinner home and slip slowly across the country, east to west, flying quiet with the lights 9 p.m. airplane dark over my Mississippi River, reciting your crooked letter, crooked letter, humpback, humpback lines, going home, touching down beside the Rockies with them warm around you as you taxi home, past Arapahoe Avenue now, past Pearl, going home. You were gone one month when Audrey was born. You sent letters from Antarctica on my maternity leave; I read 23 books, saw 19 movies, corresponded with two strangers while your hands became raw learning dish-soap kitchen lessons, an artist experiencing the infinite white near the South Pole, the acid whites and yellow whites, the blue whites and Zhivago whites, all of them whiter until they dissipated into Pacific blue˜and then the postcards arrived, exotic and numbered, filling envelopes, half a dozen of them at a time telling treasure stories—like the malamute and the open Jeeps—or the olive trees flashing in the train windows˜how the frogs zipped through the water in the rainforests of Costa Rica—or in Nepal, how you found a wallet on the ground and reached for it, four kids laughing, the old money-on-a-string trick—and then the Sydney Opera House, its smooth texture, its shape like an exploding unpeeled globe, and how inside, everything is wide and empty and exposed.
You wrote from Italy about the crowded buses; the letter sat six days in a hospital room. I tried over and over as the mornings wired into five a.m. indigo, staring at a little baby full of tubes, trying to tell her the story of Rapunzel—but I couldn‚t even remember if Rapunzel ever escaped. I set my version on a Mediterranean island where the coral was the color of Antarctic ice. Friends brought sweatshirts when I realized I was cold. A fifth grade friend is a nurse now, she stood in the doorway saying my name over and over while I tried to place her voice, her face looking three a.m. white—your letter on the nightstand, my daughter maybe dying, as though opening your letter might take me into the sounds outside the window—and finally I walked out after weeks had passed, the New Orleans streets littered with sad Christmas lights, and I stood in CCs in a borrowed sweatshirt, ordering a triple latte, reading your letter as I moved toward the corner, the morning sun burning my cheeks, your letters in straight penmanship lines on the pages, and then there you are, on page three, waking up in a tent in Italy, the September stars around you, a glacier at your back, the sky a glittering canvas˜a sign of the things to come.
From Katie Bowler
Amy,
You have been gone twelve months. They have grown longer for you like a tiring museum, painting after painting, name after name, until you can't consume another stroke and instead look forward to the plane landing in Boston so you can fall into kitchen hours at your parents‚ turkey-dinner home and slip slowly across the country, east to west, flying quiet with the lights 9 p.m. airplane dark over my Mississippi River, reciting your crooked letter, crooked letter, humpback, humpback lines, going home, touching down beside the Rockies with them warm around you as you taxi home, past Arapahoe Avenue now, past Pearl, going home. You were gone one month when Audrey was born. You sent letters from Antarctica on my maternity leave; I read 23 books, saw 19 movies, corresponded with two strangers while your hands became raw learning dish-soap kitchen lessons, an artist experiencing the infinite white near the South Pole, the acid whites and yellow whites, the blue whites and Zhivago whites, all of them whiter until they dissipated into Pacific blue˜and then the postcards arrived, exotic and numbered, filling envelopes, half a dozen of them at a time telling treasure stories—like the malamute and the open Jeeps—or the olive trees flashing in the train windows˜how the frogs zipped through the water in the rainforests of Costa Rica—or in Nepal, how you found a wallet on the ground and reached for it, four kids laughing, the old money-on-a-string trick—and then the Sydney Opera House, its smooth texture, its shape like an exploding unpeeled globe, and how inside, everything is wide and empty and exposed.
You wrote from Italy about the crowded buses; the letter sat six days in a hospital room. I tried over and over as the mornings wired into five a.m. indigo, staring at a little baby full of tubes, trying to tell her the story of Rapunzel—but I couldn‚t even remember if Rapunzel ever escaped. I set my version on a Mediterranean island where the coral was the color of Antarctic ice. Friends brought sweatshirts when I realized I was cold. A fifth grade friend is a nurse now, she stood in the doorway saying my name over and over while I tried to place her voice, her face looking three a.m. white—your letter on the nightstand, my daughter maybe dying, as though opening your letter might take me into the sounds outside the window—and finally I walked out after weeks had passed, the New Orleans streets littered with sad Christmas lights, and I stood in CCs in a borrowed sweatshirt, ordering a triple latte, reading your letter as I moved toward the corner, the morning sun burning my cheeks, your letters in straight penmanship lines on the pages, and then there you are, on page three, waking up in a tent in Italy, the September stars around you, a glacier at your back, the sky a glittering canvas˜a sign of the things to come.
9.23.2004
QUESTIONS OF TRAVEL
Elizabeth Bishop
There are too many waterfalls here;
the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep traveling, traveling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"
- Brazil, 1965
Elizabeth Bishop
There are too many waterfalls here;
the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep traveling, traveling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"
- Brazil, 1965
9.14.2004
TODAY!
"My country 'tis of thee, TODAY, sweet land of liberty, TODAY, of thee I sing, TODAY, OF THEE I SING! TODAY!!"
- Neil Diamond
We've been singing this all day (Erik started it, of course). We've just landed at Logan Airport in Boston. I'm anticipating the relaxing confidence of knowing the language and systems and the nuances of the culture. Approaching an information counter, knowing I'll be able to phrase my query exactly, and understand the response fully. Relaxed knowing my parents will pick us up at the end of this last bus ride -- the end of impersonal hotels and meals in restaurants.
Excited to see the faces of everyone I love, like Dorothy coming home at last and waking up to her old life, infused with the experience of her travels.
"My country 'tis of thee, TODAY, sweet land of liberty, TODAY, of thee I sing, TODAY, OF THEE I SING! TODAY!!"
- Neil Diamond
We've been singing this all day (Erik started it, of course). We've just landed at Logan Airport in Boston. I'm anticipating the relaxing confidence of knowing the language and systems and the nuances of the culture. Approaching an information counter, knowing I'll be able to phrase my query exactly, and understand the response fully. Relaxed knowing my parents will pick us up at the end of this last bus ride -- the end of impersonal hotels and meals in restaurants.
Excited to see the faces of everyone I love, like Dorothy coming home at last and waking up to her old life, infused with the experience of her travels.
9.13.2004
WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE BRITISH AND THE IRISH?
To the Brits it's always serious but never hopeless,
and to the Irish, it's always hopeless but never serious.
+ + + + +
Thus, my time descending into Dublin was the last I read James Joyce or contemplated anything in earnest (a habit that reveals my British anscestry). The rest of the time was spent with Guinness in hand, surrounded by the constant ironic humor of Johnny and his friends.
We also managed to do a bit of sightseeing in the countryside, and toured Dublin in one of those duck vehicles that navigates on land and in water. Saw U2's recording studio, and the book of Kells at Trinity College.
To the Brits it's always serious but never hopeless,
and to the Irish, it's always hopeless but never serious.
+ + + + +
Thus, my time descending into Dublin was the last I read James Joyce or contemplated anything in earnest (a habit that reveals my British anscestry). The rest of the time was spent with Guinness in hand, surrounded by the constant ironic humor of Johnny and his friends.
We also managed to do a bit of sightseeing in the countryside, and toured Dublin in one of those duck vehicles that navigates on land and in water. Saw U2's recording studio, and the book of Kells at Trinity College.
9.09.2004
DUBLINERS
Descending into Dublin, our last destination. Reading James Joyce, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" (He was born there). Erik's pointed out the green fields below, a giant kelly green carpet perforated with darker green borders of trees. The seats in front of me are also puncutated - upholstered with a pattern of Gaelic and English phrases - and I can hear a murmuring under the engines, like I'm swimming through language, like Joyce resides here above the cloulds and is getting a kick out of listening to me read his words.
I'm about to see Johnny O'Regan, who I met when we were 18. We worked together one summer at the Stop-n-Shop bakery on Cape Cod, filling donuts and defrosting white bread. I remember clearly the first day we worked together, and I asked what he was humming and he said "Christine" by House of Love, and that he missed his music, living in his car at the campground and I invited him over to my Aunt Joyce's to listen together. And that was the start of a summer love and a more lasting friendship, though we've barely talked in 10 years. I'm about to meet his 4-year old son, Jake.
Descending into Dublin, our last destination. Reading James Joyce, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" (He was born there). Erik's pointed out the green fields below, a giant kelly green carpet perforated with darker green borders of trees. The seats in front of me are also puncutated - upholstered with a pattern of Gaelic and English phrases - and I can hear a murmuring under the engines, like I'm swimming through language, like Joyce resides here above the cloulds and is getting a kick out of listening to me read his words.
I'm about to see Johnny O'Regan, who I met when we were 18. We worked together one summer at the Stop-n-Shop bakery on Cape Cod, filling donuts and defrosting white bread. I remember clearly the first day we worked together, and I asked what he was humming and he said "Christine" by House of Love, and that he missed his music, living in his car at the campground and I invited him over to my Aunt Joyce's to listen together. And that was the start of a summer love and a more lasting friendship, though we've barely talked in 10 years. I'm about to meet his 4-year old son, Jake.
9.07.2004
SHAOLIN MONKS AND JAPANESE PUNK
No, we didn't go back to Asia -- we're still in London. Tonight we saw an impressive Kung Fu performance by authentic Shaolin Monks ala Kill Bill, flying through the air and breaking concrete on their stomachs while lying on knives and nails. The production value was outstanding, and the physical feats more amazing in person than on film. Especially when done by 6-year olds.
Last night we went to Notting Hill Arts Center for an evening called "Sticky Rice" featuring a girl band from Japan, Yumi Yumi. Adorable and rockin'. This city is vibrantly multi-cultural, more than I expected, and more than any other European city we've been to.
Today's visit to the Tate Modern (more contemporary art) was disappointing, in that we couldn't really appreciate the offering, as saturated as we are. Though it's a wonderful collection. We cut the visit short to live out my fantasy of having high tea in London -- just to arrive to the CLOSED teahouse. We drank beer and watched the sun set behind the buildings at Trafalgar Square instead.
We've been packing in all the typical tourist stuff as well: riding the red double-decker bus through Piccadilly Circus; watching buskers in front of Punch & Judy; watching the moon rise behind Big Ben and Westminster Abbey; trying to get the guard at Buckingham Palace to talk (and annoying him by standing next to him for a photo op).
Tomorrow we fly to Dublin, our LAST destination before flying back to the homeland.
No, we didn't go back to Asia -- we're still in London. Tonight we saw an impressive Kung Fu performance by authentic Shaolin Monks ala Kill Bill, flying through the air and breaking concrete on their stomachs while lying on knives and nails. The production value was outstanding, and the physical feats more amazing in person than on film. Especially when done by 6-year olds.
Last night we went to Notting Hill Arts Center for an evening called "Sticky Rice" featuring a girl band from Japan, Yumi Yumi. Adorable and rockin'. This city is vibrantly multi-cultural, more than I expected, and more than any other European city we've been to.
Today's visit to the Tate Modern (more contemporary art) was disappointing, in that we couldn't really appreciate the offering, as saturated as we are. Though it's a wonderful collection. We cut the visit short to live out my fantasy of having high tea in London -- just to arrive to the CLOSED teahouse. We drank beer and watched the sun set behind the buildings at Trafalgar Square instead.
We've been packing in all the typical tourist stuff as well: riding the red double-decker bus through Piccadilly Circus; watching buskers in front of Punch & Judy; watching the moon rise behind Big Ben and Westminster Abbey; trying to get the guard at Buckingham Palace to talk (and annoying him by standing next to him for a photo op).
Tomorrow we fly to Dublin, our LAST destination before flying back to the homeland.
9.06.2004
LONDON UNDERGROUND
Got on the plane this morning in Casablanca, and was delighted to hear, "Good morning." English! Music to my ears. From my internet perch I can see red double decker busses zooming past, and a red neon "Time Out" sign across the street.
We have just 2 full days here in Jolly Old, which is more than we can afford. The pound is worth about $2. For example, we shared one Subway sandwich for dinner, no chip or soda, and spent the equivalent of $8. Luckily, the museums are free (though we're sick of museums).
+ + + + +
We spent our last 5 days in Morocco in a beautiful restful fishing town on the Atlantic Coast called Essaouira. (Thanks Joel!) It was perfect, exactly the peace and quiet we were looking for.
>>>Wandering the inviting narrow cobblestone streets of the medina; eating fresh olives, prickly pear fruit, chickpeas (and Erik tried escargot) from street vendors; laying on the beach in the strong African sun; watching sunset on the Atlantic from the ramparts (that were in Orson Welles' "Othello"); chasing and picking up the hundreds of kittens who wander in packs; shopping for handmade Berber carpets; biking up the coast to a secluded beach where we watched camels walk along shore (and carry tourists); making our way to a small village on the hill to drink mint tea where Jimi Hendrix spent some time; poking around the port, watching fishermen auction the catch of the day; bathing in the traditional Hammam with the locals; waking up late to breakfast waiting outside our door (and playing Scrabble till noon).
Got on the plane this morning in Casablanca, and was delighted to hear, "Good morning." English! Music to my ears. From my internet perch I can see red double decker busses zooming past, and a red neon "Time Out" sign across the street.
We have just 2 full days here in Jolly Old, which is more than we can afford. The pound is worth about $2. For example, we shared one Subway sandwich for dinner, no chip or soda, and spent the equivalent of $8. Luckily, the museums are free (though we're sick of museums).
+ + + + +
We spent our last 5 days in Morocco in a beautiful restful fishing town on the Atlantic Coast called Essaouira. (Thanks Joel!) It was perfect, exactly the peace and quiet we were looking for.
>>>Wandering the inviting narrow cobblestone streets of the medina; eating fresh olives, prickly pear fruit, chickpeas (and Erik tried escargot) from street vendors; laying on the beach in the strong African sun; watching sunset on the Atlantic from the ramparts (that were in Orson Welles' "Othello"); chasing and picking up the hundreds of kittens who wander in packs; shopping for handmade Berber carpets; biking up the coast to a secluded beach where we watched camels walk along shore (and carry tourists); making our way to a small village on the hill to drink mint tea where Jimi Hendrix spent some time; poking around the port, watching fishermen auction the catch of the day; bathing in the traditional Hammam with the locals; waking up late to breakfast waiting outside our door (and playing Scrabble till noon).
8.30.2004
CAFE AU LAIT
One of my greatest delights while traveling is finding the best breakfast spot. The place the locals come, small and busy, with round silver tables and stacks of fresh pastries. There's a woman standing at the entrance behind a large griddle frying flat bread; I'm eating a piece with honey. An energetic young waiter serves coffee and yogurt drinks swirled with pink jelly.
+ + + + +
Yesterday a man said to me as he passed, "Marriage?" and I said "Yes" thinking he was asking me if I was (I lied to deter him). Encouraged, he stopped and asked again, meaning did I want a husband (him) and I said "I already have one" (again, to deter). He said (smiling) "In Islam we have 4 wives, 4 husbands!"
Similarly, in Fez an older man (the same one who offered advice about patience) jokingly offered Erik 20 camels for me.
One of my greatest delights while traveling is finding the best breakfast spot. The place the locals come, small and busy, with round silver tables and stacks of fresh pastries. There's a woman standing at the entrance behind a large griddle frying flat bread; I'm eating a piece with honey. An energetic young waiter serves coffee and yogurt drinks swirled with pink jelly.
+ + + + +
Yesterday a man said to me as he passed, "Marriage?" and I said "Yes" thinking he was asking me if I was (I lied to deter him). Encouraged, he stopped and asked again, meaning did I want a husband (him) and I said "I already have one" (again, to deter). He said (smiling) "In Islam we have 4 wives, 4 husbands!"
Similarly, in Fez an older man (the same one who offered advice about patience) jokingly offered Erik 20 camels for me.
8.29.2004
MARRAKESH
The main attraction here (besides Berber carpets and leather bags) is the Djemma El-Fna, a large open plaza, which attracts a football-stadium sized crowd every evening at dusk. People gather in clumps around henna artists, snake charmers and monkeys by day; musicians, actors, boxers and games at night. And of course there's people watching.
The first scene we approached drew me in with a bright light. I expected to see something esoteric, but instead, a putting green appeared once the crowd parted. As we made our way, I was groped on the sly no fewer than a dozen times. Later, a little girl approached me, smiled pleasantly at first, and then more seriously lifted a small bean between my eyes, running off to deliver it to three men in white coats.
A long line of bright lights and numbered metal signs emerged from the smoke, revealing dozens of food stalls, each proprietor demanding us to sit at their long wooden benches. We sat at vendor #22, and had a delicious dinner of olives, bread, Moroccan salad (beet, carrot, cucumber, potato, tomato), and lamb shish-kebab. The stall to our right was serving an Arab delicacy, sheep's head, and the tables were alarmingly lined with their wares.
+ + + + +
I'm wondering about the Muslim women's dress, and what the differences mean. Some wear long sleeves and skirts and a head covering wrapped tightly under the chin bearing only face and hands. Others wear a long loose brocade robe with hood and no head scarf. My least favorite (aesthetically and politically) is the long robe, pointy head cloth (like a Christian nun's), and a thin black scarf tightly masking the face from just under the nose, effectively muting the wearer.
+ + + + +
We're off today for Essouiara, a small town on the Atlantic coast. The temperatures should be more tolerable there, and the touting a great deal less since it is not a big tourist destination. I hope Erik can make the 2-hour bus ride. He's doubled over, says he feel like someone's flossing his guts with barbed wire. Must have been the chicken and cous cous from last night's dinner. Poor guy!
The main attraction here (besides Berber carpets and leather bags) is the Djemma El-Fna, a large open plaza, which attracts a football-stadium sized crowd every evening at dusk. People gather in clumps around henna artists, snake charmers and monkeys by day; musicians, actors, boxers and games at night. And of course there's people watching.
The first scene we approached drew me in with a bright light. I expected to see something esoteric, but instead, a putting green appeared once the crowd parted. As we made our way, I was groped on the sly no fewer than a dozen times. Later, a little girl approached me, smiled pleasantly at first, and then more seriously lifted a small bean between my eyes, running off to deliver it to three men in white coats.
A long line of bright lights and numbered metal signs emerged from the smoke, revealing dozens of food stalls, each proprietor demanding us to sit at their long wooden benches. We sat at vendor #22, and had a delicious dinner of olives, bread, Moroccan salad (beet, carrot, cucumber, potato, tomato), and lamb shish-kebab. The stall to our right was serving an Arab delicacy, sheep's head, and the tables were alarmingly lined with their wares.
+ + + + +
I'm wondering about the Muslim women's dress, and what the differences mean. Some wear long sleeves and skirts and a head covering wrapped tightly under the chin bearing only face and hands. Others wear a long loose brocade robe with hood and no head scarf. My least favorite (aesthetically and politically) is the long robe, pointy head cloth (like a Christian nun's), and a thin black scarf tightly masking the face from just under the nose, effectively muting the wearer.
+ + + + +
We're off today for Essouiara, a small town on the Atlantic coast. The temperatures should be more tolerable there, and the touting a great deal less since it is not a big tourist destination. I hope Erik can make the 2-hour bus ride. He's doubled over, says he feel like someone's flossing his guts with barbed wire. Must have been the chicken and cous cous from last night's dinner. Poor guy!
8.26.2004
ROCK THE KASBAH
Can I just complain a little bit? Do you mind?
The internal hard drive of my brain is full. I'm finding it really hard to muster up the tone of "Wow, see how amazing the world is" right now. Yeah, yeah, so this medina in Fes is the oldest medieval city in the world. Okay, I've now visited 6 of the 7 continents. So what, I stayed in the neighborhood in Tangier where William Borroughs wrote "Naked Lunch."
I know I shouldn't be feeling this way, but all I really want is my old life back, NOW. Errands and bills and all. I'm sick of being a ghost, floating through all these beautiful places, not knowing the language, meeting people and forgetting them again within an hour, packing again and again (the same 3 shirts).
It's really hot here, can you tell? Hotter than India, because the air doesn't move. It's Africa, after all. So hot we couldn't sleep in our room, opted for the roof instead.
This morning while we drank our Moroccan mint tea (they call it Moroccan Whiskey), the old man in front of us (who was born in Wisconsin) turned around and said, "Patience!" (in reference to Moroccan coffee) , and then extrapolated it as a key for living. I'm short on patience as well as memory.
+ + + + +
We took the train from Seville to Algeceris, then crossed over the Straight of Gibraltar (yes, we saw the "rock") via ship to Morocco, and spent one night in the port town of Tangier. It has an interesting history, having been an "Interzone" (international territory) during the 40's and 50's. During those years, it was a fashionable resort renowned for its popularity with artists, writers, bankers, exiles and pedophiles.
The train to Fes was a harbinger of heat to come, as the air conditioning gave out early into the journey. Excruciating in the 100+ F sun. Interesting to all of a sudden be thrown into Muslim culture: people speaking Arabic and French combined; more conservative dress and behavior; Moorish influences in the architecture. Prickley pear replaced olive trees (which were ubiquitous in Spain) as the main greenery flashing by.
Can I just complain a little bit? Do you mind?
The internal hard drive of my brain is full. I'm finding it really hard to muster up the tone of "Wow, see how amazing the world is" right now. Yeah, yeah, so this medina in Fes is the oldest medieval city in the world. Okay, I've now visited 6 of the 7 continents. So what, I stayed in the neighborhood in Tangier where William Borroughs wrote "Naked Lunch."
I know I shouldn't be feeling this way, but all I really want is my old life back, NOW. Errands and bills and all. I'm sick of being a ghost, floating through all these beautiful places, not knowing the language, meeting people and forgetting them again within an hour, packing again and again (the same 3 shirts).
It's really hot here, can you tell? Hotter than India, because the air doesn't move. It's Africa, after all. So hot we couldn't sleep in our room, opted for the roof instead.
This morning while we drank our Moroccan mint tea (they call it Moroccan Whiskey), the old man in front of us (who was born in Wisconsin) turned around and said, "Patience!" (in reference to Moroccan coffee) , and then extrapolated it as a key for living. I'm short on patience as well as memory.
+ + + + +
We took the train from Seville to Algeceris, then crossed over the Straight of Gibraltar (yes, we saw the "rock") via ship to Morocco, and spent one night in the port town of Tangier. It has an interesting history, having been an "Interzone" (international territory) during the 40's and 50's. During those years, it was a fashionable resort renowned for its popularity with artists, writers, bankers, exiles and pedophiles.
The train to Fes was a harbinger of heat to come, as the air conditioning gave out early into the journey. Excruciating in the 100+ F sun. Interesting to all of a sudden be thrown into Muslim culture: people speaking Arabic and French combined; more conservative dress and behavior; Moorish influences in the architecture. Prickley pear replaced olive trees (which were ubiquitous in Spain) as the main greenery flashing by.
8.23.2004
"LIFE IS LIKE A NAPKIN"
(Alejandro on how small the world is)
One day we're climbing up Ob Hill together in Antarctica and the next he's showing us around his hometown of Sevilla.
Typical Spanish breakfast at Casa Ricardo in the Bronx of Sevilla, Rocheambert: Toast with ham and olive oil, cafe con leche and orange juice. The cafe is in an early 70's-style strip mall under brown and orange awning looking out to tan brick high-rise apartments (where we are staying). The local dog, veinte y uno (21), continually asserts his dominance over the customers' dogs. This place has a real neighborhood feel, friends meeting and greeting, chatting and kissing, sharing a table. Regulars. This is decidedly NOT a tourist haunt.
It's been good seeing Alejandro's roots, his country, his home. He showed us the neighborhood he grew up in, the apartment where his mother was born, the plazas he played in, the church and school he attended.
Last night we went out Spanish style: from place to place to place until 4am. First, J-bar, a 40-year old nondescript hole-in-the-wall serving one kind of beer from one tap -- the local Cruzcampo. We drank 3 small glasses each and ate small strips of salted dried fish while Alejandro explained the origin of the term "tapas."
In the old days, when they would open a beer, they would turn the top ("tapa") over and rest it back on the mouth of the bottle to keep the flies out. To keep the top from blowing away, they would weigh it down with an olive or a small bit of ham. Hence, the birth of the tapas tradition.
From there we moved on to "La Carboneria," an old building where his grandmother used to come buy coal and oil for her lamps. Today it is a sprawling bar where we heard flamenco piano and ate "chorizo al infierno" (sausages cooked over fire at our table).
We finished the evening at a dance club called "El Teatro" (still a theatre by day). I don't know how they do this every weekend -- we were exhausted the entire next day.
(Alejandro on how small the world is)
One day we're climbing up Ob Hill together in Antarctica and the next he's showing us around his hometown of Sevilla.
Typical Spanish breakfast at Casa Ricardo in the Bronx of Sevilla, Rocheambert: Toast with ham and olive oil, cafe con leche and orange juice. The cafe is in an early 70's-style strip mall under brown and orange awning looking out to tan brick high-rise apartments (where we are staying). The local dog, veinte y uno (21), continually asserts his dominance over the customers' dogs. This place has a real neighborhood feel, friends meeting and greeting, chatting and kissing, sharing a table. Regulars. This is decidedly NOT a tourist haunt.
It's been good seeing Alejandro's roots, his country, his home. He showed us the neighborhood he grew up in, the apartment where his mother was born, the plazas he played in, the church and school he attended.
Last night we went out Spanish style: from place to place to place until 4am. First, J-bar, a 40-year old nondescript hole-in-the-wall serving one kind of beer from one tap -- the local Cruzcampo. We drank 3 small glasses each and ate small strips of salted dried fish while Alejandro explained the origin of the term "tapas."
In the old days, when they would open a beer, they would turn the top ("tapa") over and rest it back on the mouth of the bottle to keep the flies out. To keep the top from blowing away, they would weigh it down with an olive or a small bit of ham. Hence, the birth of the tapas tradition.
From there we moved on to "La Carboneria," an old building where his grandmother used to come buy coal and oil for her lamps. Today it is a sprawling bar where we heard flamenco piano and ate "chorizo al infierno" (sausages cooked over fire at our table).
We finished the evening at a dance club called "El Teatro" (still a theatre by day). I don't know how they do this every weekend -- we were exhausted the entire next day.
8.17.2004
WHERE WILL WE BE ONE MONTH FROM TODAY?
(a game we like to play)
The answer? The USA!
(I really didn't mean for this to be so annoyingly rhymey.)
I can almost taste the biscuits at Dot's Diner...
+ + + + +
But right now I'm being jostled into the present, sipping tea at the counter of the cafeteria car on the train from Bilbao to Madrid. My tea remains unsweetened -- I've sacrificed flavor for art (as one should, if need be). The sugar packet contains a small plastic spoon in its own attached compartment (!) and will be a unique specimen in my treasured sugar packet collection.
In fact, the point of our trip to Bilbao (and the theme of our European segment) was art. A pilgrimage of sorts to the Guggenheim designed by architect Frank Gehry (opened in 1997). I've had a small photo of this inspired masterpiece taped to my computer for two years, and the desire to visit in person. Equal parts sculpture and building, this art museum -- sublime, sensual, lyrical, functional -- represents to me the best of human nature applied, and heralds optimism for our future.
Immense arced walls of titanium curve into towering cathedrals of glass grounded by smooth limestone blocks. Exterior moves to interior which connects back thoughtfully to exterior with windows to the river setting and city beyond. (See link at right for photos and history)
The museum houses an equally inspired collection of Modern and contemporary art, beginning outside the entrance with the playful "Puppy" by Jeff Koons, a 3-storey sculpture of a terrier covered with a skin of live flowers.
We spent the entire day immersed in the works of James Rosenquist, Mark Rothko, Bill Viola, Gerhard Richter, Jenny Holzer, Jim Dine, Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and others. It was one of the highlights of my whole trip. After all, "art is why I get up in the morning" (to borrow a line from Ani DiFranco).
+ + + + +
Backing up a bit ... after our relaxing week in the Alps at the Rifugio Boccalatte with Luke and Lucy, we hiked to another (busier and less friendly) rifugio on the popular "Tour du Mont Blanc" route. Our packs are getting quite heavy, so two days of backpacking was plenty (the whole tour takes 10).
From Courmayeur, we took the train to a quaint city called Como, on a beautiful glacial lake in the foothills north of Milan. We had an idyllic couple of days, window-shopping for Italian shoes, feeding the birds, eating, and biking around the lake.
Milan was like a ghost town -- apparently all of Southern Europe heads to the Mediterranean for the month of August. Luckily, the city's main attraction, the Duomo (Gothic cathedral) remained open. I felt very small inside.
+ + + + +
We flew from Milan to Barcelona on my birthday, and spent most of the day dragging luggage around looking for a hotel. The Dramamine and PMS combined with the heat didn't help my mood. These are the moments I really notice how weary I am of being homeless and living out of bags. Erik was remarkably good-natured despite my crankiness (one of his gifts), and we managed to have a lovely celebration that evening at a local tapas bar.
We spent almost a week in Barcelona, drinking in the outstanding art museums (plus a day lazing on the Mediterranean). From Antonio Gaudi (another outstanding architect) to Dali to Miro, Picasso, Tapies -- Barcelona was a veritable art history lesson. One of my favorite exhibits was at the Miro museum, titled, "The Failure of Beauty :: The Beauty of Failure".
"The exhibition is about how great dreams and utopias that seem so splendid in the abstract are doomed to failure when we try to materialise them, because they presuppose an entirely new, ideal society that can never exist." (see link at right)
My favorite pieces were a prescient portrait of the twin towers by Joseph Beuys titled "Cosmos and Damien"; photos of precarious arrangements of everyday objects: "Equilibrium is at its most beautiful shortly before it collapses."; and some interesting drawings of utopian architecture (i.e. immense glass structures spanning the alps.)
Another favorite exhibition (along the same lines) was called "Art and Utopia: Limited Action"
(see link at right). It proposes that the poetry of Stephen Mallarme was a precursor to modern art, with its hold on language and its dissemination. The exhibition was a confluence of poetry, typography and visual art. Wonderful.
One of my favorite quotes from the exhibit: "This is not hell, but a street; not death, but a fruit stand." -- Ovind Fahlstrom
+ + + + + `
"The art of our time is noisy with appeals for silence." -- Susan Sontag
(a game we like to play)
The answer? The USA!
(I really didn't mean for this to be so annoyingly rhymey.)
I can almost taste the biscuits at Dot's Diner...
+ + + + +
But right now I'm being jostled into the present, sipping tea at the counter of the cafeteria car on the train from Bilbao to Madrid. My tea remains unsweetened -- I've sacrificed flavor for art (as one should, if need be). The sugar packet contains a small plastic spoon in its own attached compartment (!) and will be a unique specimen in my treasured sugar packet collection.
In fact, the point of our trip to Bilbao (and the theme of our European segment) was art. A pilgrimage of sorts to the Guggenheim designed by architect Frank Gehry (opened in 1997). I've had a small photo of this inspired masterpiece taped to my computer for two years, and the desire to visit in person. Equal parts sculpture and building, this art museum -- sublime, sensual, lyrical, functional -- represents to me the best of human nature applied, and heralds optimism for our future.
Immense arced walls of titanium curve into towering cathedrals of glass grounded by smooth limestone blocks. Exterior moves to interior which connects back thoughtfully to exterior with windows to the river setting and city beyond. (See link at right for photos and history)
The museum houses an equally inspired collection of Modern and contemporary art, beginning outside the entrance with the playful "Puppy" by Jeff Koons, a 3-storey sculpture of a terrier covered with a skin of live flowers.
We spent the entire day immersed in the works of James Rosenquist, Mark Rothko, Bill Viola, Gerhard Richter, Jenny Holzer, Jim Dine, Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and others. It was one of the highlights of my whole trip. After all, "art is why I get up in the morning" (to borrow a line from Ani DiFranco).
+ + + + +
Backing up a bit ... after our relaxing week in the Alps at the Rifugio Boccalatte with Luke and Lucy, we hiked to another (busier and less friendly) rifugio on the popular "Tour du Mont Blanc" route. Our packs are getting quite heavy, so two days of backpacking was plenty (the whole tour takes 10).
From Courmayeur, we took the train to a quaint city called Como, on a beautiful glacial lake in the foothills north of Milan. We had an idyllic couple of days, window-shopping for Italian shoes, feeding the birds, eating, and biking around the lake.
Milan was like a ghost town -- apparently all of Southern Europe heads to the Mediterranean for the month of August. Luckily, the city's main attraction, the Duomo (Gothic cathedral) remained open. I felt very small inside.
+ + + + +
We flew from Milan to Barcelona on my birthday, and spent most of the day dragging luggage around looking for a hotel. The Dramamine and PMS combined with the heat didn't help my mood. These are the moments I really notice how weary I am of being homeless and living out of bags. Erik was remarkably good-natured despite my crankiness (one of his gifts), and we managed to have a lovely celebration that evening at a local tapas bar.
We spent almost a week in Barcelona, drinking in the outstanding art museums (plus a day lazing on the Mediterranean). From Antonio Gaudi (another outstanding architect) to Dali to Miro, Picasso, Tapies -- Barcelona was a veritable art history lesson. One of my favorite exhibits was at the Miro museum, titled, "The Failure of Beauty :: The Beauty of Failure".
"The exhibition is about how great dreams and utopias that seem so splendid in the abstract are doomed to failure when we try to materialise them, because they presuppose an entirely new, ideal society that can never exist." (see link at right)
My favorite pieces were a prescient portrait of the twin towers by Joseph Beuys titled "Cosmos and Damien"; photos of precarious arrangements of everyday objects: "Equilibrium is at its most beautiful shortly before it collapses."; and some interesting drawings of utopian architecture (i.e. immense glass structures spanning the alps.)
Another favorite exhibition (along the same lines) was called "Art and Utopia: Limited Action"
(see link at right). It proposes that the poetry of Stephen Mallarme was a precursor to modern art, with its hold on language and its dissemination. The exhibition was a confluence of poetry, typography and visual art. Wonderful.
One of my favorite quotes from the exhibit: "This is not hell, but a street; not death, but a fruit stand." -- Ovind Fahlstrom
+ + + + + `
"The art of our time is noisy with appeals for silence." -- Susan Sontag
8.09.2004
YOU KNOW YOU'VE TRAVELED TOO LONG
When you start wondering about the universality of paisley print.
When you start wondering about the universality of paisley print.
8.02.2004
THE HILLS ARE ALIVE
(with the sound of cowbells)
Day 5 here at Rifugio Boccalatte, a mountain hut perched at 9,000 feet in the Italian Alps near the border of France and Switzerland. It’s expertly managed by our good friends Luke and Lucy (who we met in Antarctica). The hut serves food and sleeping quarters for serious mountaineers here to climb the Grand Jorasses – one of the classic “4,000 meter” routes.
Unlike the climbers, we took the easy way up – via helicopter. Hands down the most exciting flight of my life. I felt like a rock star. Our arrival coincided with the hut’s re-supply, so this was our reward for helping with the shopping.
As I type, Erik’s out on the porch watching one of five French climbers paraglide down from the 13,802 ft. summit. Their guide (also French) has climbed up and paraglided down the world’s highest 7 summits. Like I said, serious climbers.
Yesterday at 4AM “The Spanish” finally arrived back at the hut after 27 hours of climbing. Some groups finish in 9 hours. There was another group behind them that were in trouble – and a helicopter arrived shortly after 5 AM for the rescue.
It’s been deliciously relaxing being here with nothing much to do but sit perched on the porch watching the glacier spill into the green Valle D’Aoste below; moving from inside to outside in tidelike fashion with the sun. Lucy pops in and out delivering bottles of mineral water to climbers and serving soup to middle-aged excursionists; answering the phone in her delightfully boisterous Italian, “REFUGIOBOCCALLATE,BONJOURNO!”
We’ve done some short hikes above the hut – I actually set foot on a glacier! I’ve been enjoying doing minor domestic tasks: dishes, mending, making cookies with Lucy. Comforting after so many months on the road. Erik and Luke have regressed to pre-pubescent activities, shooting off their homemade potato gun and watching the grey water splat out onto the rocks after flushing the toilet.
Tomorrow we’ll leave our gracious host and hike back down to the valley of cows.
(with the sound of cowbells)
Day 5 here at Rifugio Boccalatte, a mountain hut perched at 9,000 feet in the Italian Alps near the border of France and Switzerland. It’s expertly managed by our good friends Luke and Lucy (who we met in Antarctica). The hut serves food and sleeping quarters for serious mountaineers here to climb the Grand Jorasses – one of the classic “4,000 meter” routes.
Unlike the climbers, we took the easy way up – via helicopter. Hands down the most exciting flight of my life. I felt like a rock star. Our arrival coincided with the hut’s re-supply, so this was our reward for helping with the shopping.
As I type, Erik’s out on the porch watching one of five French climbers paraglide down from the 13,802 ft. summit. Their guide (also French) has climbed up and paraglided down the world’s highest 7 summits. Like I said, serious climbers.
Yesterday at 4AM “The Spanish” finally arrived back at the hut after 27 hours of climbing. Some groups finish in 9 hours. There was another group behind them that were in trouble – and a helicopter arrived shortly after 5 AM for the rescue.
It’s been deliciously relaxing being here with nothing much to do but sit perched on the porch watching the glacier spill into the green Valle D’Aoste below; moving from inside to outside in tidelike fashion with the sun. Lucy pops in and out delivering bottles of mineral water to climbers and serving soup to middle-aged excursionists; answering the phone in her delightfully boisterous Italian, “REFUGIOBOCCALLATE,BONJOURNO!”
We’ve done some short hikes above the hut – I actually set foot on a glacier! I’ve been enjoying doing minor domestic tasks: dishes, mending, making cookies with Lucy. Comforting after so many months on the road. Erik and Luke have regressed to pre-pubescent activities, shooting off their homemade potato gun and watching the grey water splat out onto the rocks after flushing the toilet.
Tomorrow we’ll leave our gracious host and hike back down to the valley of cows.
7.26.2004
TOUR DE LANCE
Well, we're STILL in Paris -- could have stayed 6 MORE days, it's such a beautiful city. The museums! The Seine!
We just came back from our perch above the Champs Elysees, watched Lance roll in to win his 6th Tour (after the parade of brands before-hand -- quite disturbing, how they try to disguise marketing as a cultural event). I love the feeling of pride and awe seeing atheletes compete at that level. I actually sang along (quietly) while they played our national anthem at the end.
Off to Chamonix, where we'll meet up with our friend Luke (from Antarctica) who runs a mountaineering hut in the Italian Alps with his wife Luci. We're really looking forward to visiting with them, and being high in the Alps.
+ + + + +
FROM A PLACARD @ THE PICASSO MUSEUM
"The mythic trilogy: bullfight, crucifixion, minotauromachy -- bears witness to the absolute commitment of an artist who lived his creation as a perpetual struggle against death."
- - - -
ALECHINSKY @ THE POMPIDOU (MODERN ART)
"In today's times, which zip by like electronic data, a painting is not just a silent image, but a still one, too, made by hand. Nature's hand, armed with a stick sporting hairs. You dip this brush in pigments mixed with binder and, hoping to put down maximum amounts of spontenaeity and thought, you apply it to the classic rectangle of canvas or paper. Also know as: the painting now in progress. ...a painting, in all its enigmatic materiality, vulnerability and poetry, might still encounter an eye existing 'in it's wild state'."
Well, we're STILL in Paris -- could have stayed 6 MORE days, it's such a beautiful city. The museums! The Seine!
We just came back from our perch above the Champs Elysees, watched Lance roll in to win his 6th Tour (after the parade of brands before-hand -- quite disturbing, how they try to disguise marketing as a cultural event). I love the feeling of pride and awe seeing atheletes compete at that level. I actually sang along (quietly) while they played our national anthem at the end.
Off to Chamonix, where we'll meet up with our friend Luke (from Antarctica) who runs a mountaineering hut in the Italian Alps with his wife Luci. We're really looking forward to visiting with them, and being high in the Alps.
+ + + + +
FROM A PLACARD @ THE PICASSO MUSEUM
"The mythic trilogy: bullfight, crucifixion, minotauromachy -- bears witness to the absolute commitment of an artist who lived his creation as a perpetual struggle against death."
- - - -
ALECHINSKY @ THE POMPIDOU (MODERN ART)
"In today's times, which zip by like electronic data, a painting is not just a silent image, but a still one, too, made by hand. Nature's hand, armed with a stick sporting hairs. You dip this brush in pigments mixed with binder and, hoping to put down maximum amounts of spontenaeity and thought, you apply it to the classic rectangle of canvas or paper. Also know as: the painting now in progress. ...a painting, in all its enigmatic materiality, vulnerability and poetry, might still encounter an eye existing 'in it's wild state'."
7.22.2004
BONJOUR!
Arrived in Paris two days ago, delivered at last from the third world into the long comfortable arms of conspicuous consumption. After landing at the Charles DuGalle airport, I relaxed into the vision of airport as shopping mall, knowing it meant public toilets with paper, tap water you can drink, and streets that are free of feces and urine. But it also means first-world prices, which has us a little nervous.
+ + + + +
Yesterday we climbed the famed Eiffel tower at sunset, which doesn't come until 10 pm here. Up close the metal hull seemed more industry than myth and romance. Below on the lawn spectators sat with wine as if it were the 4th of july -- the tower sparkling and twinkling to eclipse the starry sky.
+ + + + +
Breakfast: 1€60 - 2 croissants et 1 cafe
Lunch on the Seine: poppy baguette, cammembert cheese, red pepper, red wine, chocolate beignet
+ + + + +
Musee D'Orsay was a dream: (some of) the West's finest paintings curated in a superb manner, in an inspired piece of architecture. A refurbished old train station: giant center hall under arched roof with early 19th c. sculpture charging down where the trains once pulled into station. First floor: pre-impressionists (sculpture alongside paintings); Second floor: Art Nouveau (including furnishings); Third floor: Impressionists and post-impressionists. Seeing what came just before and just after the featured Impressionists gave the historical context necessary to bring appreciation of these truly amazing works to another level. The brushwork, texture, color, content, is so much freer, expressive, wild, alive, than of their predecessors. My favorites: Odilon Redon, Toulouse Lautrec, Henri Rousseau, and of course, VanGogh.
+ + + + +
Dream of surfing a tidal wave that turned to ice and was scraped away by Zambonis
° ° °
Dream of the mechanical camel safari ride that was too short and cost too much
° ° °
Dream of thousands of miniature ducklings (the size of baby chicklets) which I scooped up by the handful to save them being stepped on
Arrived in Paris two days ago, delivered at last from the third world into the long comfortable arms of conspicuous consumption. After landing at the Charles DuGalle airport, I relaxed into the vision of airport as shopping mall, knowing it meant public toilets with paper, tap water you can drink, and streets that are free of feces and urine. But it also means first-world prices, which has us a little nervous.
+ + + + +
Yesterday we climbed the famed Eiffel tower at sunset, which doesn't come until 10 pm here. Up close the metal hull seemed more industry than myth and romance. Below on the lawn spectators sat with wine as if it were the 4th of july -- the tower sparkling and twinkling to eclipse the starry sky.
+ + + + +
Breakfast: 1€60 - 2 croissants et 1 cafe
Lunch on the Seine: poppy baguette, cammembert cheese, red pepper, red wine, chocolate beignet
+ + + + +
Musee D'Orsay was a dream: (some of) the West's finest paintings curated in a superb manner, in an inspired piece of architecture. A refurbished old train station: giant center hall under arched roof with early 19th c. sculpture charging down where the trains once pulled into station. First floor: pre-impressionists (sculpture alongside paintings); Second floor: Art Nouveau (including furnishings); Third floor: Impressionists and post-impressionists. Seeing what came just before and just after the featured Impressionists gave the historical context necessary to bring appreciation of these truly amazing works to another level. The brushwork, texture, color, content, is so much freer, expressive, wild, alive, than of their predecessors. My favorites: Odilon Redon, Toulouse Lautrec, Henri Rousseau, and of course, VanGogh.
+ + + + +
Dream of surfing a tidal wave that turned to ice and was scraped away by Zambonis
° ° °
Dream of the mechanical camel safari ride that was too short and cost too much
° ° °
Dream of thousands of miniature ducklings (the size of baby chicklets) which I scooped up by the handful to save them being stepped on
7.17.2004
MIRACLE: GET THE KEY RING WITH YOUR LOVELY NAME ON A GRAIN OF RICE
(10 July 04)
As usual sitting writing in a cafe for breakfast -- our main vocation on these luxurious days with nothing to do. Manali was a pit, and the all-night bus ride there from Dharamsala was as miserable as I had expected. We stayed a few K away from Manali in a lovely little village called Vashist, perched up above the river with views of the forested Himalaya at the top of the valley. This quaint little place had two dark and elaborately carved heavy wooden temples, and our guest house was situated across from one. The other housed the public baths -- hot springs in deep concrete open air pools with high walls. (A cow just walked by as I type and Erik said, "I just never get over seeing the cows on the street. I love it!") It was interesting to watch the village women, squatting, washing themselves and their clothes at once. At the center of the temple grounds was an ancient looking Hanuman temple, and some Shiva-worshipping holy men lurking intensely in the shadows by a fire.
+ + + + +
TAGLANGLA PASS :: ALTITUDE 17,582 FEET
"You are passing through second highest pass of the world. Unbelievable is it not?"
(11 July 04)
485 kilometers from Manali to Leh > > > Roughly 24 hours of driving over two days >> up up up into the heart of the Himalaya "be gentle on my curves" the sign says > > > Sheer dropoffs rusting old painted bits of "goods carrier" truck below and myth-making cliffs above and glaciers further above and still thousands of feet of towering rocks above that. > > > Up up up above pine forests and rivers leaving toy road below up where rock becomes dust and there's nothing left but sky.
+ + + + +
WELCOME BHARATPUR :: HIMALAYAN DHABA & RESTAURANT :: ALTITUDE 15,000 FEET
(12 July 04)
We slept cozy with our travel companions in a round yellow circus tent ringed with raised futons and heavy blankets. A Ladakhi woman offered us milk tea and a simple meal of vegetable noodles and blankets for the encroaching high-altititude cold. Sleep came fitfully, excited, I woke up every hour just to make sure I was still breathing. 15,000 feet!
+ + + + +
LADAKH : THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN OF INDIA
(13 July 04)
The people of Ladakh remind me, in body and spirit, of they land they inhabit: a wide and open valley on a high plateau (11,000 feet) surrounded by the ancient mountains which gave birth to all of India's sacred myths. At the center of this austere desert valley is the Indus river, creating an oasis of green abundant fertility under bright sun and deep blue sky little puffy clouds. Hot days yield to windy afternoons and downright chilly evening -- foretelling of the bone-chilling Ladakhi winters.
Leh is the color of bones. Clay brick and straw buildings rise out of the dust and climb up the barren hillsides to meet a castle high on the ridge. Himalayan peaks ring around, enclosing the city in purple.
+ + + + +
THIKSEY GOMPA
(15 July 04)
Woke up (well-rested) at 5:30 and climbed the steps up to the hillside Buddhist monastery for morning puja (prayers). Two monks in red robes trumpeted across the valley from the rooftop, beginning the daily ritual. Early morning light streaked through cloudcover across the Himalaya. When the mountains had been sufficiently awakened, we wandered timidly into the prayer hall. Monks of all ages muttered sleepily along with disembodied chanting piped in from some secret sanctuary. Like a beatnik performance, voices came in and out, strong at times then fading out replaced by another inspiration, according to no prescribed rhythm. Some sat silently, swaying and others muttered privately. At intervals horns would blow, symbols would clang, and two elaborately painted drums beat in unison. Witnessing this I felt privvy to some world secret, that perhaps these early morning mutterings were solely responsible for waking up the earth each day.
After awhile, a few younger monks raced in to serve Tibetan hot butter tea followed by more young monks offering powdered porridge, spooned into the tea from large metal buckets. After a few rounds of this (chanting all the while) the monks seemed more lively -- especially the youngest ones who chanted the loudest in rote, playfully pushing and shoving then racing to be the next to serve tea.
(10 July 04)
As usual sitting writing in a cafe for breakfast -- our main vocation on these luxurious days with nothing to do. Manali was a pit, and the all-night bus ride there from Dharamsala was as miserable as I had expected. We stayed a few K away from Manali in a lovely little village called Vashist, perched up above the river with views of the forested Himalaya at the top of the valley. This quaint little place had two dark and elaborately carved heavy wooden temples, and our guest house was situated across from one. The other housed the public baths -- hot springs in deep concrete open air pools with high walls. (A cow just walked by as I type and Erik said, "I just never get over seeing the cows on the street. I love it!") It was interesting to watch the village women, squatting, washing themselves and their clothes at once. At the center of the temple grounds was an ancient looking Hanuman temple, and some Shiva-worshipping holy men lurking intensely in the shadows by a fire.
+ + + + +
TAGLANGLA PASS :: ALTITUDE 17,582 FEET
"You are passing through second highest pass of the world. Unbelievable is it not?"
(11 July 04)
485 kilometers from Manali to Leh > > > Roughly 24 hours of driving over two days >> up up up into the heart of the Himalaya "be gentle on my curves" the sign says > > > Sheer dropoffs rusting old painted bits of "goods carrier" truck below and myth-making cliffs above and glaciers further above and still thousands of feet of towering rocks above that. > > > Up up up above pine forests and rivers leaving toy road below up where rock becomes dust and there's nothing left but sky.
+ + + + +
WELCOME BHARATPUR :: HIMALAYAN DHABA & RESTAURANT :: ALTITUDE 15,000 FEET
(12 July 04)
We slept cozy with our travel companions in a round yellow circus tent ringed with raised futons and heavy blankets. A Ladakhi woman offered us milk tea and a simple meal of vegetable noodles and blankets for the encroaching high-altititude cold. Sleep came fitfully, excited, I woke up every hour just to make sure I was still breathing. 15,000 feet!
+ + + + +
LADAKH : THE JEWEL IN THE CROWN OF INDIA
(13 July 04)
The people of Ladakh remind me, in body and spirit, of they land they inhabit: a wide and open valley on a high plateau (11,000 feet) surrounded by the ancient mountains which gave birth to all of India's sacred myths. At the center of this austere desert valley is the Indus river, creating an oasis of green abundant fertility under bright sun and deep blue sky little puffy clouds. Hot days yield to windy afternoons and downright chilly evening -- foretelling of the bone-chilling Ladakhi winters.
Leh is the color of bones. Clay brick and straw buildings rise out of the dust and climb up the barren hillsides to meet a castle high on the ridge. Himalayan peaks ring around, enclosing the city in purple.
+ + + + +
THIKSEY GOMPA
(15 July 04)
Woke up (well-rested) at 5:30 and climbed the steps up to the hillside Buddhist monastery for morning puja (prayers). Two monks in red robes trumpeted across the valley from the rooftop, beginning the daily ritual. Early morning light streaked through cloudcover across the Himalaya. When the mountains had been sufficiently awakened, we wandered timidly into the prayer hall. Monks of all ages muttered sleepily along with disembodied chanting piped in from some secret sanctuary. Like a beatnik performance, voices came in and out, strong at times then fading out replaced by another inspiration, according to no prescribed rhythm. Some sat silently, swaying and others muttered privately. At intervals horns would blow, symbols would clang, and two elaborately painted drums beat in unison. Witnessing this I felt privvy to some world secret, that perhaps these early morning mutterings were solely responsible for waking up the earth each day.
After awhile, a few younger monks raced in to serve Tibetan hot butter tea followed by more young monks offering powdered porridge, spooned into the tea from large metal buckets. After a few rounds of this (chanting all the while) the monks seemed more lively -- especially the youngest ones who chanted the loudest in rote, playfully pushing and shoving then racing to be the next to serve tea.
A TRIP TO THE POST OFFICE
First you must visit a tailor, who wraps your parcel in newsprint, and then sews an ivory linen pouch to the exact size. He expertly whip-stitches the last edge shut, and then seals the seams with hot red wax. Arriving at the post office at last, the clerk informs you that parcels are only accepted between 10:00-1:00; come back tomorrow. The next morning, 11:00, stand in line and fill out form and pay then stand in another line for the receipt (which advises in small print that aum is the sound of the universe and wishes you peace) and hope that the bundle makes it home.
First you must visit a tailor, who wraps your parcel in newsprint, and then sews an ivory linen pouch to the exact size. He expertly whip-stitches the last edge shut, and then seals the seams with hot red wax. Arriving at the post office at last, the clerk informs you that parcels are only accepted between 10:00-1:00; come back tomorrow. The next morning, 11:00, stand in line and fill out form and pay then stand in another line for the receipt (which advises in small print that aum is the sound of the universe and wishes you peace) and hope that the bundle makes it home.
7.08.2004
HIMALAYAN QUEEN
(toy train from Shimla to Kalka)
We finally made it to the cool heights of the Himalaya -- what a relief. Currently we're in Dharamsala, for the Dalai Lama's birthday celebration. The handlebar-mustachioed machismo and dry desert heat of Rajastan, and the frenetic religious fervor of the Ganges has been replaced by the placid wide faces of beautiful Tibetan women in traditional dresses.
In delirium from our 20-odd hours of travel and sleeplessness, we ended up missing all but the last 5 minutes of the official celebration performances -- but not the air of the occasion (or the delicious food, like mutton momos (dumplings).
To backtrack -- from Rishikesh we traveled to Shimla, where we spent 2 days in the quintessential hill station, 6,000 feet in the Himalayan foothills. Cobblestone buildings lined steep narrow walkways with all manner of Indian sweet shops and bazaars. In the crisp air and pine trees atop misty mountaintops, we felt we'd time-traveled to some alternate Indian/Alp nation.
Shimla was "discovered" by the British in the early 1800's, and chosen as the government's summer refuge from the stifling heat of Delhi. From those heights, roughly 1/5 of the world's population was ruled.
Of course, the town had existed before the British arrived, but ironically as Shyamala, the abode of the dark Hindu goddess Kali. Little evidence of her remains in today's cheerfully tidy Aspen of the Himalaya.
The day of our toy train ride back to the lowlands, we woke up early to climb the steep hillside to the Jakhu temple -- a shrine to Hanuman, the monkey/man-hero of the Hindu religious epic, "The Ramayana". Appropriately, the trail and temple are home to a large community of rambunctious monkeys -- waiting to ambush temple visitors. Most carry sticks for protection. I narrowly avoided having a real monkey on my back.
After our delightful journey winding down the valley in the Himalayan Queen (and before the torturous all-night bus ride up to Dharamsala) we had an interesting layover in Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab.
The 50-year old city plan was designed by French architect Le Corbusier. Although mirroring the rational and modern arrangement of an ancient city in the same place, his gridlike and impersonal division into sectors and zones made the city feel like a military base cum strip-mall. I prefer the older cities of India, where streets spiral into black holes and cubby-hole temples.
In contrast, the Nek Chand rock garden (which we visited at sunset) was one of the most inspired places I've been to, in India or elsewhere. Acres of land were covered with rock alleys lined with beautiful and bizarre sculptures made of stone and recycled bits of metal and porcelain. Lined up, they looked like soldiers for the cause of the imagination. "Phase three" included a waterfall and tall concrete canyons leading to a giant hall of swings hanging in high archways. I met the artist -- a gifted spirit who has been working here since 1958.
Carl Lindquist aptly describes the garden: "Built of industrial waste and thrown-away items, it is perhaps the world's most poignant and salient statement of the possibility of finding beauty in the unexpected and accidental."
Check out the link at right if you'd like to read more about Nek Chand, or see photos of the garden.
(toy train from Shimla to Kalka)
We finally made it to the cool heights of the Himalaya -- what a relief. Currently we're in Dharamsala, for the Dalai Lama's birthday celebration. The handlebar-mustachioed machismo and dry desert heat of Rajastan, and the frenetic religious fervor of the Ganges has been replaced by the placid wide faces of beautiful Tibetan women in traditional dresses.
In delirium from our 20-odd hours of travel and sleeplessness, we ended up missing all but the last 5 minutes of the official celebration performances -- but not the air of the occasion (or the delicious food, like mutton momos (dumplings).
To backtrack -- from Rishikesh we traveled to Shimla, where we spent 2 days in the quintessential hill station, 6,000 feet in the Himalayan foothills. Cobblestone buildings lined steep narrow walkways with all manner of Indian sweet shops and bazaars. In the crisp air and pine trees atop misty mountaintops, we felt we'd time-traveled to some alternate Indian/Alp nation.
Shimla was "discovered" by the British in the early 1800's, and chosen as the government's summer refuge from the stifling heat of Delhi. From those heights, roughly 1/5 of the world's population was ruled.
Of course, the town had existed before the British arrived, but ironically as Shyamala, the abode of the dark Hindu goddess Kali. Little evidence of her remains in today's cheerfully tidy Aspen of the Himalaya.
The day of our toy train ride back to the lowlands, we woke up early to climb the steep hillside to the Jakhu temple -- a shrine to Hanuman, the monkey/man-hero of the Hindu religious epic, "The Ramayana". Appropriately, the trail and temple are home to a large community of rambunctious monkeys -- waiting to ambush temple visitors. Most carry sticks for protection. I narrowly avoided having a real monkey on my back.
After our delightful journey winding down the valley in the Himalayan Queen (and before the torturous all-night bus ride up to Dharamsala) we had an interesting layover in Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab.
The 50-year old city plan was designed by French architect Le Corbusier. Although mirroring the rational and modern arrangement of an ancient city in the same place, his gridlike and impersonal division into sectors and zones made the city feel like a military base cum strip-mall. I prefer the older cities of India, where streets spiral into black holes and cubby-hole temples.
In contrast, the Nek Chand rock garden (which we visited at sunset) was one of the most inspired places I've been to, in India or elsewhere. Acres of land were covered with rock alleys lined with beautiful and bizarre sculptures made of stone and recycled bits of metal and porcelain. Lined up, they looked like soldiers for the cause of the imagination. "Phase three" included a waterfall and tall concrete canyons leading to a giant hall of swings hanging in high archways. I met the artist -- a gifted spirit who has been working here since 1958.
Carl Lindquist aptly describes the garden: "Built of industrial waste and thrown-away items, it is perhaps the world's most poignant and salient statement of the possibility of finding beauty in the unexpected and accidental."
Check out the link at right if you'd like to read more about Nek Chand, or see photos of the garden.
7.01.2004
"YOU TWO ARE ONE MOON...
in my city for the first time" (from a poem by Yassin, our driver to the Kalumargh fort on the edge of the desert in Rajastan)
+ + + + +
29 June :: Haridwar :: Big Ben Restaurant :: Breakfast
It's nice to be sitting inside, the luxury of air conditioning and quiet. Muffled beeps come in softly, in contrast with the harshness of how everything(heat, noise, touts) comes at you on the street.
Bicycle rickshaws here. Interesting to catalog in passing each city's unique transport. It would make a good picture table book. How do these skinny men carry these loads? In this heat?
Thinking about Jodpur, fondly of Narayan Singh, and his hospitality and open heart and policy of treating his guests like family. Even fondly of his talking too much: monologues about friendship, "they must be welded. Do you know where that term comes from? Welded -- two things become one", about his career as an aeronautical engineer, his award for fastest long-haul flight from Jodpur to Madras. He showed us the photo of India's first Prime Minister, Neru, shaking his hand at the ceremony.
Narayan's genuine interest in us was in striking contrast to the treatment we receive in general here. Erik summed it up nicely by saying if we fell asleep on the street, we'd likely be eaten alive.
+ + + + +
Stepping into the Ganges with Erik felt important. We were surrounded by tens of thousands of Hindu pilgrims, there to wash away the equivalent of their sins. I felt dizzy getting in, and clear-minded and open-hearted. Afterwards we stood on the ghat (steps) to watch the priests perform the daily Ganga Aarti ritual at sunset. The fire ceremony was accompanied by chanting and leaf boats carrying flowers, candles, and incense as offerings to the river goddess. Against my will it felt like a magical place.
The spot is called HARI-KI-PAIRI, the footstep of God, where the god Vishnu left his footprint in stone. This is also a highly auspicious location because it is purportedly the precise spot where the Ganges leaves the mountains and enters the plains.
+ + + + +
The dream of being forsaken
The dream of diving (unharmed) with sharks
The dream of a dry pool full of kittens
The dream of cleaning shit
The dream of the painted letter to Debbie in Antarctica
(format stolen from Jonathan Safran Foer)
+ + + + +
30 June :: Rishikesh :: Coffee Shop overlooking the Ganges and the Laxman Jhula Footbridge
The two young Indian men sitting next to me at the coffee shop are twisting Rubix cubes. Brings us back to 1982. Yesterday Erik saw a sadhu (renunciate monk) with a miniature one tied to the top of his walking stick.
The sounds here are typical of India: Temple bells ringing, the drone of priests chanting, the constant loud beeping of traffic.
+ + + + +
India, more than any other country we've visited seems to have resisted becoming westernized through and through. It will be interesting to come back in 20 years to see how they've incorporated the technology of the West and if the culture inevitably invades as well.
+ + + + +
I should be flattered, but I find it annoying (I'm grateful I'm not famous) that people often stop me on the street wanting to take a photo of their family with a Western (white) person. And I find it even more annoying that even MORE people (dozens a day) stop me to shake my hand and ask me my name and where I'm from. They're probably just being welcoming (and aren't I a bitch), but my privacy and personal space feels invaded. Like when I was lying down on the train, and a girl entered my cabin and took my hand (then asked my name and started the typical script). I suppose a great deal of my aversion is that 3/4 of these well-wishers then ask for money or for you to eat at their restaurant or buy silk in THEIR emporium or give them chocolate or one school pen. I'm looking forward to Paris, where nobody knows your name.
in my city for the first time" (from a poem by Yassin, our driver to the Kalumargh fort on the edge of the desert in Rajastan)
+ + + + +
29 June :: Haridwar :: Big Ben Restaurant :: Breakfast
It's nice to be sitting inside, the luxury of air conditioning and quiet. Muffled beeps come in softly, in contrast with the harshness of how everything(heat, noise, touts) comes at you on the street.
Bicycle rickshaws here. Interesting to catalog in passing each city's unique transport. It would make a good picture table book. How do these skinny men carry these loads? In this heat?
Thinking about Jodpur, fondly of Narayan Singh, and his hospitality and open heart and policy of treating his guests like family. Even fondly of his talking too much: monologues about friendship, "they must be welded. Do you know where that term comes from? Welded -- two things become one", about his career as an aeronautical engineer, his award for fastest long-haul flight from Jodpur to Madras. He showed us the photo of India's first Prime Minister, Neru, shaking his hand at the ceremony.
Narayan's genuine interest in us was in striking contrast to the treatment we receive in general here. Erik summed it up nicely by saying if we fell asleep on the street, we'd likely be eaten alive.
+ + + + +
Stepping into the Ganges with Erik felt important. We were surrounded by tens of thousands of Hindu pilgrims, there to wash away the equivalent of their sins. I felt dizzy getting in, and clear-minded and open-hearted. Afterwards we stood on the ghat (steps) to watch the priests perform the daily Ganga Aarti ritual at sunset. The fire ceremony was accompanied by chanting and leaf boats carrying flowers, candles, and incense as offerings to the river goddess. Against my will it felt like a magical place.
The spot is called HARI-KI-PAIRI, the footstep of God, where the god Vishnu left his footprint in stone. This is also a highly auspicious location because it is purportedly the precise spot where the Ganges leaves the mountains and enters the plains.
+ + + + +
The dream of being forsaken
The dream of diving (unharmed) with sharks
The dream of a dry pool full of kittens
The dream of cleaning shit
The dream of the painted letter to Debbie in Antarctica
(format stolen from Jonathan Safran Foer)
+ + + + +
30 June :: Rishikesh :: Coffee Shop overlooking the Ganges and the Laxman Jhula Footbridge
The two young Indian men sitting next to me at the coffee shop are twisting Rubix cubes. Brings us back to 1982. Yesterday Erik saw a sadhu (renunciate monk) with a miniature one tied to the top of his walking stick.
The sounds here are typical of India: Temple bells ringing, the drone of priests chanting, the constant loud beeping of traffic.
+ + + + +
India, more than any other country we've visited seems to have resisted becoming westernized through and through. It will be interesting to come back in 20 years to see how they've incorporated the technology of the West and if the culture inevitably invades as well.
+ + + + +
I should be flattered, but I find it annoying (I'm grateful I'm not famous) that people often stop me on the street wanting to take a photo of their family with a Western (white) person. And I find it even more annoying that even MORE people (dozens a day) stop me to shake my hand and ask me my name and where I'm from. They're probably just being welcoming (and aren't I a bitch), but my privacy and personal space feels invaded. Like when I was lying down on the train, and a girl entered my cabin and took my hand (then asked my name and started the typical script). I suppose a great deal of my aversion is that 3/4 of these well-wishers then ask for money or for you to eat at their restaurant or buy silk in THEIR emporium or give them chocolate or one school pen. I'm looking forward to Paris, where nobody knows your name.
