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
8.9.2004
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.
8.2.2004
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.
