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.
9.9.2004
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.
9.7.2004
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.
9.6.2004
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).
