Summer Vacation at Audrey’s. Chp. 4

 

Audrey

This series of blog posts is all about my sentimental summer journey—as you may have noticed. Home and family. Two or so more of these and then I move on to Bamako, Mali and dance and, if I can figure out how to get there, Timbuktu. But for now, back to Summer 2010.

  FAMILY HISTORY

I’m on my way to my cousin Audrey’s on dad’s side of the family—Audrey’s mom, Helen, was the youngest sister, born in Minnesota, a few years after the family journey from Norway. Audrey my childhood hero, a teenager when I was only a scrawny 7 year- old. She loved riding horseback and took me with her although I was pretty disappointing as a horsewoman—I really only liked to read about horses, not actually hang around with them. Mom got pretty black Queenie for me when I was seven or eight but I just never connected with her. Audrey took me bareback riding on her pinto or on Queenie. Apparently I liked to run around the warm summer farm in my faded little hand-sewn dresses without underpants because I have one of those snapshot memories of Audrey refusing to take me riding until I put some pants on!

Queenie’s Twin

Aunt Helen seemed very glamorous to me as a kid. When I stayed with her I got to read the True Romance magazines of which she had many and eat store-bought breads. While my mother’s breads and cinnamon rolls were suburb still…they were homemade. And while Helen could bake with the best she did keep those Bismarcks around that, for me, had that city-aura attached to them!

Audrey was beautiful. Robert and I thought she was the most beautiful and the most fun person we knew. When at age 17, she married Otis, we were devastated. Felt like an old guy (after all he was all of six or so years older than Audrey) had robbed us of our best friend.

Audrey and Otis have led eventful lives. I have stayed with them many times from early days when Otis worked in the wood and the kids were little and Audrey baked chocolate cakes all dark and moist with strange ingredients like tomato soup and mayonnaise. I think I was supposed to help with the kids but really I just wanted to hang around with my idol. There were years of moving back and forth to Montana, Washington and Alaska with Helen and Lloyd and Delores (also my cousin and Audrey’s big sister) when Audrey was a kid and then years of lumberjacking, ranching, gold-mining, farming in Alaska, Wyoming but mostly Minnesota after she was married.

Audrey and Otis bought the farm at Gemmell where Randy, David, Linda and Terri grew up. Otis had a perfect lawn bordered with the offspring of Mom’s white, burgundy and rose-pink peonies and a glorious raspberry patch. He wrote two books about his Alaska adventures and built all manner of wooden crafts when he retired. Audrey worked with developmentally disabled adults in Northome nursing home’s ICF-MR program before ailments from those camp cooking, horseback riding years forced her to retire.

Physically the farm got to be too much for the two of them and they were forced to move out of their beloved north woods where wolves howled nearby, bears with cubs trailing behind crossed Highway 71 every now and then within sight of the house, and it was easy for Otis to get up to his fishing spot on the Bigfork River and Audrey to go drink coffee with Violet. They wound up in the pleasant little Canadian border town of Roseau where Terri, the youngest, and most settled child lives.

I spent a lot of time with Audrey and Otis over the years, once living in a tiny bedroom in their Gemmell house with my worldly possessions, mostly books, a giant old computer and border collie Max crowded in about me. This was a lost time between my San Francisco, Minneapolis and San Diego lives—all taking place during the ten years between my Albuquerque lives! It was a favorite time; I wrote and wrote and lived on bread and raspberry jam and Otis’ pancakes or, best of all, those deep-fried golden flaky breakfast walleye. Eventually I had to go back to real work and move on but it truly was great while it lasted.

Food of the gods

THE PRESENT

Heading North

August 2010: That was then. This is now. Driving north from Sioux Falls, hugging the Minnesota-Dakota (south and north) border but staying on the Minnesota side. It is pretty much all corn all of the time with soybeans for variety.  Nice, neat stereotypical farms. Like farms are intended to be. This is not MY Minnesota of woods and lakes but I am happy just to be here. It is truly a good thing to be a Minnesotan I believe.

Roseau is a fairly typical small town known primarily as the birthplace of the snowmobile and Polaris industries. You can take a tour of the plant responsible for many of the world’s truly obnoxious additions to forest trails, winter or summer, if you so choose. Or you can just appreciate the fact that Polaris may be almost-singlehandedly responsible for the economic well-being of this area and appreciate the process if not necessarily the product.

According to the official City of Roseau website this is called an environmental transitional area where the north woods of poplar and spruce meets the prairies of the Red River Valley and the tamarack bogs which stretch north into Canada.

Audrey lives in a retirement apartment complex; Otis nearby in a nursing home. Years of hard physical work have taken a toll on their bodies and Otis has some form of Alzheimer’s or dementia that is slowly taking him into another fog-filled kind of world. However Terri and her family are always about and the other kids visit when they can.

It’s good to be here. We spend happy hours times talking about the pleasures of aging, about the dastardly deeds of Republicans and about our kids and my brother and her sister.

A treat that I always hope for on my trips up here is the walleye dinner out at Terri’s. Huge platters of the world’s greatest fish (I may have already said that once or twice in this blog!) and a chance to see the babies and horses that have arrived or grown since my last visit. What a lovely bunch they are. Teri’s kids are well and happy and prospering and daughter, Niki, has her own two babies, Landon and Clara. MANY pictures of Clara are included here because she is a sort of magic child, looking like baby Viking princesses must have looked. Clara does have a healthy dose of Scandinavian blood and her grandma and mom are north-country blondes so she’s obviously following in their footsteps. Terri and husband, Brian, are serious horse people so three sleek steeds in shades of black, red and cream occupy the green pastures surrounding their comfortable ranch home.

And a lovely time was had by all—especially me. Tomorrow I will turn south into the woods and lakes leading to Grand Rapids. And brother Robert and sister-in-law, Marsha.

Still on Summer Vacation. Chp. 3

ART DAY in Sioux Falls

Tiger and Cub

Green Pastures

Reading Magic

MORNING WITH SCULPTURE

 Phillips Avenue is busy this morning—what with the kids blocking foot traffic to stroke the tiger and her cub, so deceptively friendly—before she pounces. Funny she’s not interested in the sheep so close by. Probably waiting to attack the kid just lying there in the middle of the street reading, she’ll only have to carry her prey down the block to feed her baby.

Canteen Lady

Historical, whimsical and mysterious characters greet us as we stroll along Sioux Fall’s main street. Canteen Lady only takes us back to WWII but Robert the Bruce recalls times of yore and then Abel offers something for the faithful and Bacchus for wine lovers.  Cabin Fever is me as a kid and it’s January in Minnesota.

SculptureWalk is a politically-correct mix of representational and abstract sculpture with many pieces that do not quite fit either category. In the nonfigurative category, I am thrilled to find two pieces by Albuquerque artist Joe Sackett. Joe is an interesting and eclectic guy and his work reflects those qualities: Twenty-Seven (China) is a cube made out of 27 steel handlebars of Chinese made bicycles around a hub of smaller bike parts and Persona offers a personal statement about core personalities constrained by societal expectations and regulations.

Joe Sackett’s Twenty-Seven (China)

SculptureWalk must be unique in the US; a deliciously diverse collection of sculpture by artists across the country who loan the pieces to the exhibit for one year. Anyone can vote for the “People’s Choice Award” which is then purchased as part of the City’s permanent collection, and a number of the sculptures are purchased by the various sponsoring businesses  for display at their sites.

Melt

It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood. August; sunny; friendly, admiring and amused pre-lunch strollers in a downtown trying to hang on like so many others all across the country. The stores sell quality-of-life kinds of things such as boutique clothing, antiques, souvenirs and books; the restaurants become jazz bars in the evenings and I’m told there are new apartment buildings as well, all hoping to attract youth and life back to a low-key but potentially lively city center.

Cousins Vivian and Marty (Richard’s wife’s; she was the Register of Deeds in Sioux Falls for many years and one of my mom’s favorite people in the world) and I eat ordinary sandwiches and then go to the sweet shop for extraordinary desserts  of caramel and cheesecake and oozing chocolate topped off with giant cups of coffee. Back to the car, stopping to pat one of my favorites, the friendly musk ox, Tundra, patiently waiting to get the year over with and get back to—the tundra. Although the artist is from Maryland so maybe he’s always restricted to city streets. No wonder he appears a little sad.

AFTERNOON WITH CREATURES

Time to leave the heart of artful Sioux Falls and head west on I-90 to Montrose and the Porter Sculpture Park. In an article in the Argus Leader, Peter Harriman describes the park like this: …”dozens of quirky metal sculptures constructed of old farm implements, water tanks and railroad steel plate.” He also says meeting the artist, Wayne Porter, is “…like running across Michelangelo at Wall Drug.” (Wall Drug started out as an ordinary drugstore in a very small South Dakota town and grew into a sort of shopping mall/western heritage museum, etc. about 60 miles from the Black Hills. It is primarily famous for its many billboards throughout South Dakota and beyond which, like Burma Shave signs, became an experience onto themselves.).

The Porter Sculpture Park is on a prairie hilltop so the visitor is always viewing the quirky creatures birthed in Porter’s fertile imagination against the backdrop of grazing lands, fields of corn and the occasional farm—or perhaps that’s the lair to which these strange and engaging beings retire at night. This is one of those magical places, like Christiania in Copenhagen or the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo where everyday experiences and things aren’t welcome.

There’s a golf cart for transportation or you can walk. Not many people. Wander. Connect with your inner child or inner demon or inner photographer.

Marj and the neighborhood dragon

Marty, the Prairie Nymph

 

The signature creature is a Bull Head which Porter says represents “an extinct Egyptian Long Horn…made mostly out of railroad plates welded together.” Bull Head is huge, overseeing the I-90 traffic, sympathizing perhaps with all the beef cattle within his purview that will soon be somebody’s steak, guarding the entrance to this netherworld of odd companions.

Coming down on the train from northern Minnesota when I was a kid, Sioux Falls represented THE CITY and the little house on Van Eps, the cousins, mom and aunt Mabel being sad with each other—unfaithful husband or hard times on the Minnesota farm stories, big meals with jovial uncle George teasing me, the smell of the Morrell meat packing plant where some relatives worked. I had no idea that in the future South Dakota would mean land of George McGovern and Sioux Falls would mean ART.

BACKROADS

August 22nd.  Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Cousin Vivian’s guest bedroom which I share with an overabundance of Elvis memorabilia. It’s so sticky stifling hot in Sioux Falls…not the cool rainy weather for which I am always and forever longing. The fan runs, it is four am, have slept myself out in the 30 hours since I arrived.

ABOUT FAMILY

This is a Family trip. Family is Family and blood is probably thicker than water. I’m proud of us. Solid working class immigrant stock. No one ever became rich or famous—not that that would be a bad thing. But what a lively collection of bakers and bus drivers, gold miners and lumberjacks, cooks and farmers, highwaymen (the kind driving snowplows and MNDOT vehicles) and enlisted men and policemen, ranchers and roustabouts. I have friends with amazingly intricate and even illustrious family backgrounds and histories. Their stories are fascinating, like visiting a foreign country. In comparison my family is so straight forward, so uncomplicated. Working class Americans and okay with that. They did what immigrants were supposed to do—and are still doing, working hard for little money. The old American Dream was alive and well with them but apparently there was no gene pool of great ambition, no longing for mansions or lavish lifestyles. The kids went a little further in school with each generation…and the Nesets and Florens and Tacks and Wolfes and Hahns and Lowreys and Gingeriches (no relation to Newt) moved ever so slowly into the lower middle class of teachers and nurses and managers, white collars overtaking blue, and there was migration from the  Minnesota, Dakota and Montana bases. Now there are new ethnicities and races and languages in the family, another result of the American dream. College degrees are proliferating and the new and next generations already or soon will include engineers, social workers and entrepreneurs.  Even now there may be a grandchild or great-grandchild among us with dreams of corporate takeovers or huge political victories but she hasn’t been identified yet.

COUSINS

The two cousins I will visit, one from my mom’s side of the family, one from my dad’s, nicely represent the first-born American generation. One worked at a bakery for more than 30 years; one cooked and baked in Yukon restaurants and Alaska gold mines and then worked as a caregiver for mentally disabled adults. One had two unsatisfactory husbands; one just one, mostly satisfactory. Each had two girl and two boy children who mostly do well or very well, except for one death. Most of the kids from that generation went to high school—only a few all the way to college.

So—in a neighborhood just hanging on to respectability in Sioux Falls SD and a retirement apartment on the almost-prairies of Roseau MN—they live their lives. Day to day it is all about family, friends, the weather, doctors, grocery and discount stores.  From time to time it’s about war or politics or crime or natural disasters like tornados and floods. In other words they’re pretty much like everybody else. One sincerely believes all politicians are corrupt and barely tolerates my need to check in with CNN occasionally.  She is a Democrat, or at least this is what I choose to believe, because she does not actually say anything good about either party. Like most working class older Americans she leads a modestly comfortable retirement thanks to the party of Roosevelt and Kennedy and Johnson! The other cousin, an outspoken Democrat, does pay attention to the political news and is more than a little disappointed with Obama, figuring that some of his pronouncements or lack thereof are handing the next election to the evil ones. She is also quite angry about the mosque being located near the world trade center site, first because she thinks it is just the wrong place at the wrong time, and also because she thinks it is yet another thing the Republicans can use against Obama. Whatever their misgivings about the political world, both cousins (and my whole family) appear to be generally free of the racism, nativism and general meanness that fuels the Republican Tea Party. People of the far northern plains and forests are a slightly different breed than the mid-Midwesterners—more of a frontier mindset. They have less of a quarrel with those who are ‘different.’ Maybe because the lumber camps and northern wheat fields were largely settled and worked by misplaced and misfits, wanderers and outlaws of every color and belief, from every part of the world.

I will have lunches and dinners with some of the children and grandchildren. Jobs, babies, colleges, horses, walleye, mashed potatoes, Grain belt beer, pie and coffee and coffee and coffee, old photographs. Family. So grounding, humbling, reassuring.  I take great pride and pleasure in it all.

AUGUST 22 – 24. MOM’S SIDE/SOUTH DAKOTA

Vivi and I visit the Floren and Wolfe family graves at the Pioneer Cemetery, just outside of Baltic, my mom’s hometown. This cemetery walk, paying tribute to our elders, is a biannual tradition. Grandma Magnhild Strom was born in Sweden on October 18, 1873. The family came to America, to Madison and then Baltic, South Dakota when she eight years old. She eventually married Ole Floren who came from Norway.  (Dad always claimed Mom’s stubbornness came from the quarter-Swede blood.) Grandpa Ole Floren built their farm in the rich bottomland of the Sioux River Valley and then dropped dead of a heart attack when his baby, my mother, was two. Everyone said he killed himself working morning, noon and night.  They are both buried here. My cousin Richard is here too. He is the cousin with whom I fought and argued from the time we met until the last time I saw him before he was killed when a prairie tornado upended his truck on a highway just outside of Sioux Falls. It’s not that we didn’t like each, those battles were just so much fun and the competition to win was fierce although I don’t remember either of us ever admitting defeat. Cousin Vivian’s daughter, Linda, is buried here—dead from devil cancer.   We pull a weed here and there and amble about the top of this windy hill, visiting the neighbors including Berthine B. Fersdahl, the daughter of John and Kirsti Thompson, according to her gravestone “The first white child born in Minnehaha County.” Whether that was a good thing is probably still debatable among the Lakota, Dakota and Sioux who were already being born here.

Sometimes we also go by the farm Ole Floren built—which my mother probably loved better than any place on earth. Her idea of how people should live was formed here. Work hard, worship god, take care of the land and the animals, and ‘do onto others as you would have them do onto you.’ The sturdy white house and big barn, sheltered by a healthy grove of cottonwoods, nestled among the corn fields, near the green-moist banks of the Sioux river. How could it not breed and sustain all of those good Midwestern, immigrant, and farm family values? Nothing is ever as it seems or should be though, is it? Ole died young, Magnhild kept the farm as long as she could but mom’s siblings Olaf and Mabel did not take to farming, the hired men drank, and eventually the farm was lost to the bank. Family farm good. Bank bad. Unfortunately most people who knew that truth deep in their bones and could vote accordingly are old or dead.

My route on the way home to Minnesota was carefully selected to avoid the land of commercial/corporate farming as much as possible so all through Nebraska, South Dakota and eastern Minnesota I traversed ranches and farms that at least give the appearance of not having fallen under the total control of Wall Street/Bank Street/Realtor Street. Although apparently all of the crops are planted with seeds genetically created, altered, controlled by the big guys like Cargill. Should I make a disclaimer here? My first job after high school was at Cargill’s Wayzata headquarter as a board marker—I was one of the girls, fresh into the big city, who wrote the grain quotes coming off the ticker tape machines onto the big blackboard for Oscar the grain buyer. Has the same ring as being a Rosie the Riveter doesn’t it? Out of a history book. I suppose I am old.

It is so comfortable here with Vivi. She is doing well, fairly happy and fairly healthy. Goes to her weight watchers weigh-in weekly and has largely banned Hershey bars from the house. She cares for her blind dog and glossy black cat. Bookkeeps for one son, worries about the other and talks daily to her daughter, a long-time employee of Caterpillar, who is truly the family financial success story—making serious money by any standard and roving about the world for the company.  Vivi may be the kindest person I know. She is also the first person I ever heard say the word ‘fuck’—undoubtedly referring to one of her no-good husbands. And the only person in the family who can still make mom’s special brand of chicken and dumplings.

Ovidia’s Chicken and Dumplings:

Cook the chicken in boiling water in a pot filled with carrots and celery. When chicken is fairly tender, put it in a frying pan with BUTTER and brown. Then cover it with CREAM flavored with allspice and simmer until it is fall-off-the-bone tender.  Meanwhile make dumpling dough and drop into the pot of chicken broth and veggies. Dumplings should be chewy NOT all light and fluffy.

“EAT.” “The dumplings are too heavy aren’t they?” “I’m glad you like them, eat more.” “No, you have to eat more than that.” “Don’t you like them…you only had one helping?” “Eat more, we don’t want any leftovers.” “EAT.”

ROAD TRIP

Is there any action in the world that more represents personal freedom than getting in your car at an hour you have selected with the knowledge that you are about to drive away to a destination of your choice on roads you and only you have selected, you will stop to eat when and what you want, pee when the urge first occurs, nap if you feel like it, pick a motel based on your own requirements (wifi, next to a Starbucks, doesn’t have that cheap hotel smell) and drive at a speed you (and state laws) have determined? My definition of unalloyed freedom.

I like to travel with others on occasion, maybe a son or grandchild or possibly another family member, or a friend with whom I am very comfortable. Generally, however I prefer to travel alone and observe the world through my own eyes and ears and history.

When flying or training or bussing very many of the conditions of the journey are determined by others. The solo road trip is the only instance (besides hiking) where the traveler is mostly in charge.

Up early, throw last things in the car. Might need that sweater or want to read that book. Two vente skim lattes and a berry cake please. Odometer on 61451.

VIVA LA ROAD TRIP!

Just you and your car!

3,666 MILES

Late August 2010. Americans are angry or disappointed, the weather is hot, half the world’s children are hungry, work seems too much like work—must be time to drive the back-highways to Minnesota and contemplate all of that in the peace and quiet of my trusty Mazda, against a background of rolling rangeland, flat-out prairie, woods, farms, ranches, small towns and Dairy Queens. During the trip I stayed in Longmont, Colorado; Sioux Falls, South Dakota; Roseau, Minnesota; Grand Rapids, Minnesota and overnight, on the way home, in Emporia, Kansas. I spent most of that time on the road visiting with myself—a mixed blessing, and the time at my various destinations with friends, cousins and brother and sister-in-law (Democrats all—although one has some Republican in her background—which we don’t talk about). We ate and talked and visited other relatives and looked at art and George Clooney. I drove 3,666 miles.

 ROAD THERAPY

August 20th: I left Albuquerque with a case of the ‘blues,’ nothing serious, just that melancholic veil that occasionally falls between you and life. The blues can be caused by a myriad of things large or small and everyone has their own solution to drive them away. I once walked a couple of month funk away on Oceanside Beach in southern California. This time I would drive to a new state of mind on country roads. However, since the first day was all I-25 all of the time, including rush hour through Denver, I had a chance to wallow in this piteous condition for an extra day before driving the cure.

Actually it turned out to be impossible to maintain a bad mood while spending the evening and night with my favorite young friends in their gracious Longmont apartment. They represent the best of the generation that will soon be running things—worldly, well-traveled, smart, concerned with people, not so much with money, idealistic but comfortable with both humor and cynicism. They took me for my first visit to Boulder, home of all that is pleasant and politically-correct. I was a little suspicious—Boulder is touted as the only salvageable island in a sea of dreary suburbs metastasizing up the sides of the front range—almost too good to be true. It turns out to be a real place of real people. Pleasant rather than elegant. More comfortable than chic. We went to a Boulder International Fringe Festival dance event that was not at all ‘fringe’, and then we ate imaginatively concocted crab, corn and goat cheese pizza at a cozy corner table on a sidewalk full of attractive people under a warm summer moon enjoying comradely conversation. Auspicious beginning for any trip.

The Future

Boulder the Good

August 21st: Nice breakfast, perfect morning temperature and clear morning skies—what if my bad mood’s already gone before backroads therapy kicks in?  I head north on I-25 to Fort Collins and then began my happiness quest on 14 East. It worked. Open land, two-lane highway, thinking, problem-solving without consciously doing so, resolutions emerge. Write every day. Go to the gym every day. Never eat too much butter or drink too much wine. Understand that now that the car is paid for it will demand repairs. 80 miles, three gallons of gas—I am already better and it is so much cheaper than that other kind of therapy. Nice.

14 East runs straight east from Fort Collins to Sterling. Land gently rolling and maybe greener than usual for this time of year. Corn fields which will provide much of my viewing pleasure all of the way to the Canadian border, horses and black angus cattle everywhere everywhere—but since there are few more gorgeous sights than multi-colored herds of slick horses and fat black cattle I never tire of the view.  Country flattens out as the road skirts the Pawnee National Grasslands. There is an entire alternate almost invisible world all around us—that is the Native American past and present. So many place names acknowledging its existence, so little recognition of its strength and diversity. When I drive through the southwest or Midwest I sense the presence of this world so vividly—like mirages just over there on the horizon—or there—or there.

Land, lots of land….

Mid-morning I reach Sterling, Colorado, then take I-76 to Ogallala, Nebraska where it’s back to country roads—Highway 61 to be exact. Best road of this whole 3,666 miles. From Ogallala around the end of a large lake on the North Platte river 35 miles to Arthur, 33 miles to Hyannis, 67 miles to Merriman and then 19 miles to Martin, South Dakota, around a bend and up Highway 73, 46 miles to I-90. I love this road. Fairly narrow two-lane, those dusty villages (where you still fill up your car and then go inside to pay—remember that?), seeing almost no signs, passing about 10 ranches and meeting 20 or so cars all the way.

Rolling rangeland, herds of horses—shaped and colored and named so beautifully. Black beauties and copper-red sorrels and strawberry roans, reddish-brown bays and golden palominos with their black manes and tails, and those silvery dapple grays—pointillist visions in horseflesh. When I was a kid I drove my mother crazy begging for “Western Horsemen” magazines whenever they came out, expensive magazines that I only occasionally got! Those were the days when I walked up and down the lane to our house dreaming endlessly of the ranch in the west on which I would one day live. Downtown Albuquerque is my grown-up version of that dream. But I digress.

Home on the range.

The cattle I see are most clustered around the windmill-fed water tanks and now there are more Herefords than Angus. Stocky red with white heads instead of the shiny jet-black. I know the names of many breeds from growing up on a farm where my mom, the farmer in the family, knew and studied these things. Our small Minnesota herd had neither of these common western types which are raised for beef. We had milk cows including Chickadee, the pretty black and white Holstein; Rosie, “the friendly cow all red and white…,” probably a Shorthorn; Shorty, a big fat fawn Guernsey. My mom was as strong and determined a woman as I’ve ever known but she also had a very large sentimental side which included her love for pretty much all living creatures (except spiders and mean people) and poems about them. In honor of mom then:

 The Cow 

  The friendly cow all red and white,

I love with all my heart:

She gives me cream with all her might,

To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,

And yet she cannot stray,

All in the pleasant open air,

The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass

And wet with all the showers,

She walks among the meadow grass

And eats the meadow flowers.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Chapter I of my summer vacation ends as I cross through through the Badlands on Highway 73 and catch I-90 into Sioux Falls where my cousin waits up with milk and doughnuts.

South of …. South Dakota

My mom’s home

A Bookstore Too Far

The nice thing about little out of the way hotels is that they have few high-tech controls on anything. So my room can be turned on freezing at night and a heavy blanket goes on …and instantly warmed with almost-liquid tropical air by the time my morning instant Folgers is ready—even I could decipher the sign of the thermometer and the little off-on button above it. My perfect environment then—Minnesota winter night and the accompanying heavy quilts, and Philippine Island days of moving slowly through the heat—the moist heat—not the dry-roast oven heat of the southwestern US.

Yesterday in Singapore. I felt obligated to place myself at the heart of this island nation. I do not have much time here and some of it is taken up with adjusting to my halfway-around-the-world (almost) time zone (i.e. sleeping) and seeing work in the evening. So yesterday was devoted to my version of fully-experiencing Singapore. It’s the SHOPPING, stupid. This is shopping-land plus. My little guidebook says walk down Orchard Road for the full flavor of it all so I did. Started at 9am, walked for two hours, down a wide mostly tree-lined street. Each side bordered with SHOPPING CENTERS. Not stores most of the way…rather multi-story CENTERS. MANY OF THEM. And more often than not comprised of all of the high-end stuff of high-end spenders and skinny young women and slightly sinister-looking young or not-so-young men.  I always think of Rodeo Drive in Santa Monica as the epitome of high-fashion spending. Singapore is Rodeo Drive on speed, steroids, whatever—each high-rise mall with its own Gucci’s—the mall air, seriously refrigerated, is wafting out into the street laden with sneeze-inducing expensive scents. Two hours then down and two hours back—and too past-the-age when any thoughts of how much better I would look in something more pricey than a Dillard’s sale to even be tempted.

Made it to my destination. A bookstore. Of course. Select Books. A lovely quiet book place where I could find a stool to drag around to the different shelves and ponder the likelihood of reading something enough to carry it home. Finally nine books later I made my way back to the by now very hot and crowded street. All books by Asian writers or about and from Asia. A few very well-reviewed novels, travel lit by Peter Hessler, Country Driving: a Chinese Road Trip and yes, a new police/detective/crime novel from this part of the world, part of the Inspector Singh series. By Shamini Flint of Singapore. I would have liked some political/social/histories but the only ones I found were written by World Bank economists or started out as doctoral theses so I will have to look further in that vein. I know there isn’t a book yet written which probably can’t be ordered through Amazon, B & N, etc. but how do you know what’s out there without hanging out in bookstores. Browsing on line is really quite unsatisfactory. I once ordered a book about Mozambique and hauled it with me there only to find out I hadn’t read the description closely enough and it was actually written by missionaries out to convert them and us.

Then…the reason I am here…the Singapore Festival of the Arts and a performance of Cool by the Beijing Paper Tiger Theater Studio. Physical theater is probably the most apt description. An excellent experience. I am sure this company must have toured in the states—I simply haven’t known of them before. This was a quite gripping tableau of violence—the kind of plain old ordinary everyday violence we inflict upon each other routinely—not big-issue violence. Six actors of varying theatrical/dance backgrounds moved to a most demanding choreography and with quite a lot of improvisation. Afterward the director said that there was more improv than usual because of Singaporean rules and regs. Not sure what that means as “regulated Singapore” isn’t easy to observe—pleasant clean Singapore is what we see. Anyway here’s a description from the program. This performance piece, which includes installations, body work and strong visual elements, is considered to be ‘a Representative of the contemporary cruel theatre’. Its aesthetics of crudity and paradox, and the interpretation of the mediocre reality which presents you with neither the past nor the future, collides with the contemporary urban landscape of the rapidly developing China and the power behind this parvenu.

This would be another perfect piece to present in cooperation with Albuquerque’s Revolutions Theater Festival. Two images from Cool: 1) a big butcher’s table. Some characters are chopping chopping chopping all manner of vegetables…then through a hole in the center one of the actor’s (who has been crouching under the table) head comes up. It is a bloody hacked mask which looks to have been gouged and destroyed to get inside to the brains. At least this is my interpretation based on something I once read about a practice of the Chinese royalty, trapping a live monkey under the table, its head held in a hole in the middle and its brains eaten out by those sitting around the table while it was still alive. Yeah, well… and 2) same table but this time several of the actors are crouched under it, the table is wrapped in cellophane and smoke is pumped in so the image of the writhing bodies being suffocated is pretty graphic. Smog in Chinese cities?

After the performance, during a discussion period, the director was asked several questions about whether he was depicting life as currently lived in China. He said ‘well, he was maybe representing life everywhere wasn’t he?’ True enough since the factor of violence in our lives seems to grow and multiply on a daily basis. Also, since Singapore is 70-80% Chinese (and the most densely populated country in the world after Monaco—thanks Google) the issue of we Chinese and you Chinese is always present I suppose. Imagine it’s way more so in Taiwan. He was asked if the piece bothered the authorities and he said “you’d have to ask them…” with a bit of edge to his voice.

Now on with Sunday. Perhaps a Singapore Sling.

Singapore the Clean

Night skyline–Singapore

Welcome to ASIA

5:30 AM in Singapore. 3:30 PM in Albuquerque. And a day later here. Right? Thought my travels had made me very savvy about time zones and currency. Instead this crossing of the International Date Line has completely confused me…However, I’ve made it through my first day and night in Singapore so feel quite on track with art and walking and the very nice coffee/breakfast in the Raffles Hotel. Will have a Singapore Sling there before I leave. In honor of you, Marsha…and that long ago pretty red drink and I think you had on a blue-flowered sundress and became engulfed with giggles in the bar at Raffles. AS I remember Robert and I tried our best to share the joyful results of drinking Singapore Slings with our own special Norwegian version of effervescence. Here’s to travel then…

I am sad for the loss of Nelson Mandela’s granddaughter. And my daughter-in-law’s father is dying now as well. And although he is quite elderly and has lived a long and positive life the process of becoming an orphan is—for every child—full of regret for any missed opportunities of love, and great loneliness for someone you will never see again. Sandra is a believer, a devout Catholic, and I think that mediates the loss a little. I hope that is true for her; she’s been a very good and attentive daughter.

I’ve turned off the AC and am letting the muggy tropical dawn creep in and moisten my dry New Mexican skin. I do love that. I forget that the Africa I usually visit is not tropical so this for a humidity-lover is a rare treat.

Last night, first Singapore Festival of the Arts performance. A somewhat odd but overall quite pleasing event. Cargo Kuala Lumpur-Singapore by a Swiss-German company Rimini Protokoll. A perfect Revolutions Theater Festival piece actually, live performance/documentary/site-specific.  The audience sits in a converted cargo truck on bleachers looking out through side windows that are covered with a screen upon which a truckers’ journey from KL to Singapore is shown in live-documentary format, or open to the passing real live scene as we are driven around Singapore, especially around the port/shipping area. It is all very low-key. The two prime “drivers” are actually truck drivers of Indian origin who live and work in Malaysia. The “story” is about the lives of the workers who service Singapore in one way or the other. They tell their tales and those of other workers licensed as the workforce for the very rich and bustling city-state of Singapore. At one time we drove past the dormitories where the itinerant workers live sans family and privacy. Only different from the barracks around Johannesburg in degree of comfort (a very little more) and violence (probably a little less).

The piece is cleverly done with equal parts humor (out of nowhere—in a car park, along the roadside, in a passing car—a singer performs a popular song, or the frequent teasing of the drivers); road trip realities (availability of showers, overnight border stops, prepared lunches versus fast road food) and sobering facts about the lives of migrant laborers wherever such labor is used and abused.

The show is two hours of driving about the city, rather like one of those tourist double-decker bus tours with a little of the local dark side thrown in. The guy next to me was falling asleep so I offered him a piece of gum. He said, “Thanks so much…you know this is in short supply around here.”  I then remembered reading years ago of a ban on chewing gum in the city because of the nastiness of its chewed presence stuck on benches, shoe bottoms, etc.  Really don’t know if that still exists…am I smuggling illicit substances?

After the performance I walked back to my perfectly okay little cheap Chinese hotel through the warm soft night enjoying the lights of a big bold Asian city. Thought about how strange it would be to live in a city that has no countryside to which you can escape (without your passport in hand). It would be much like a friend described living in Hawaii—golden cage kind of feeling, I suppose.

I may meet some artists today, I will definitely find what is described as a great bookstore which focuses on the fiction and non-fiction of this region of the world. And I will find Sara a key chain. And have a Singapore Sling. All before tonight’s performance which is described as “representative of the contemporary cruel theater.” A company from Beijing.

Curbside Dining in Beirut

In the spring of 2009, I traveled to the Middle East, starting in Jordan, then to the West Bank and Israel, then Syria and finally by taxi! up to Beirut. Before traveling I had become quite fascinated with the history of Lebanon, starting years ago with Thomas Friedman’s “From Beirut to Jerusalem”, then Robert Fisk and “Pity the Nation” along with a few shorter pieces and film (especially “Waltz with Bashir”). I have been working on a dense but brilliant book, “Constructing Lebanon: A Century of Literary Narratives” published by the University of Florida, a book I may or may not get through it in this lifetime.

Coming into the City

Very green after Jordan and Syria

I am sitting on a curb in Beirut in the working class neighborhood at the very start of the Green Line, that famous division the Christians and Muslims of this city used for so many years as their bloody ‘line in the sand.’ I am a wanna be history nerd and curious traveler, spending my last day in this city exploring. Walking through the maze of streets, semi-lost for the last couple of hours, I finally ask someone with a bit of English for directions, he says “Yes, yes…Green Line,” nodding vigorously and pointing. But first a falafel shop entices me to pause in front of a window display of those wonderful crusty brown balls of chickpea delight and the men assembling the falafel sandwiches beckon me inside. I’m too hungry to resist and with sandwich in hand I move across the street for curbside dining just in front of a typical Beirut building—shot up and abandoned!

Across the street I’m eating my falafel sandwich … this broken building is near the beginning of the green line

There are only men out and about here. This is usual, even in relatively liberal Beirut, once you get away from the city center and into a Muslim sector. It feels lopsided. The men treat me with great respect and share pleasantries because I’m too old to threaten their standards of womanly propriety, but still I feel denigrated on behalf of my hidden sisters.

It is hot, but bearably so, nice here on the curb in this quiet street, with tahini running through my fingers, feeling grungier with each messy bite. But a falafel sandwich tastes very fine after an entire day walking the streets of this strangely pleasant, accommodating, bullet-riddled city. I’m tired and hungry and very happy exactly where I am at the moment.

To walk along the waterfront is a good way to get a sense of the beauty of and damage to “The Paris of the East.”

Watch “Waltz with Bashir” to see the animated battle along this very waterfront

The damage still shows

Near the waterfront is the famous Holiday Inn of Beirut. Here are some news flashes from a blog by Tim Fitzsimons, “Little Stories, Big Picture.”

BEIRUT LEFTISTS SEIZE HOLIDAY INN IN HEAVY ASSAULT; Hundreds Led by Armored Vehicle Capture Symbol of Rightist Defiance AT LEAST 43 ARE KILLED Other Heavy Fighting and Shelling Said to Continue in and Outside Capital BEIRUT

LEFTISTS TAKE HOLIDAY INN
By JAMES M. MARKHAM Special to The New York Times
March 22, 1976
BEIRUT, Lebanon, Monday, March 22 Hundreds of Muslim and leftist gunmen, backed by armored vehicles yesterday drove right-wing Phalangists from the towering, battered Holiday Inn, gaining an important military and psychological victory.

And here are my not-your-typical-Holiday Inn photos:

Stop at your Holiday Inn……. how did that jingle go?

What better evidence could there be then EVERYONE needs GUNS

oh yeah

I’ve always been fascinated by Beirut and its civil war.  I guess it’s the surreal quality of a bunch of Christian and Muslim militias, resembling LA street gangs more than anything else, destroying “the Paris of the East” for the hell of it.  Seeing with your own eyes something you’ve read about but couldn’t quite fathom, feeling righteously tired from serious street tramping and assuaging your hunger with the middle eastern version of a good burger—it is a perfect travel moment.

The daisies, the bullet-ridden sculpture, edge of the Blue Mosque

The guys going in and out of the falafel shop stare at me briefly before deciding I’m a harmless eccentric and moving on. Otherwise it is so peaceful here. I try to picture what it must have been like back then. I’ve seen hundreds of thousands of bullet holes today, most notably at the multi-story shell left after  the 1976 “battle of the Holiday Inn” and at the Place des Martyrs where the bronze statue of the martyrs could better be described as the bronze lacework of the gunmen. I sit here thinking of what I’ve seen today. All those bullet holes from all those men shooting, shooting, shooting in the names of God and Allah, but really for power and money, or because they are too damn dumb or terrified to stay out of the game.

along the waterfront

Stop for a vente non-fat latte

Or some bread

Broken busy Beirut where life goes on

On a street not far from here, men and bulldozers are busy rebuilding a section that resembles Rodeo Drive in LA in terms of exclusivity; obviously expectations of peace and prosperity are high.  I think about the toys of our little boys; in the sand boxes of the world they tear down and build up and crash and dig. I know I am stereotyping and I know I am not saying anything new, but there does seem to be something true about boys not really growing up—but rather trading up—for more dangerous toys and powerful playthings as they age. Beirut is a world-class example of what happens then. Sorry. I’m mad. You can’t NOT be mad at men in Beirut.

Kill that art………..

Silly me. Philosophizing on the curb when I still have to walk the Green Line before catching a plane to the normalcy of Uganda!

But still in Beirut:

Our lovely dancer friend, Aisha

IF YOU ARE AT ALL INTERESTED IN BEIRUT YOU WILL ENJOY THE FOLLOWING BBC ARTICLE.

One of my photos pertinent to this article

Beirut struggles to survive peace

By Natalia Antelava
BBC News, Beirut

“Beirut is an ugly city.” This statement would infuriate plenty of proud residents of the Lebanese capital, but veteran architect Assem Salaam stands by his words. He points to the evidence: a jungle of grey concrete that towers over his garden, hiding what used to be a spectacular sea view.

Of course all cities change, but change does not have to be so aggressive and so inhuman
Assem Salaam Architect : It is not the loss of the sea view that Mr Salam mourns. And, he says, it is not the commonplace nostalgia for the old and familiar that drives his bitterness about an extraordinary pace of construction in his city. “Of course all cities change, but change does not have to be so aggressive and so inhuman,” he says. “Take London, for example. It has changed immensely since I first visited in 1942, but I can still take the same bus route as I did then, or walk the same streets. “Beirut, on the other hand, has changed beyond recognition,” he says.

Captured hearts Sprawled on the hills that roll down towards the Mediterranean, Beirut was once known as the “Paris of the Middle East”. Over the years, the city’s sophisticated charm, its winding streets and the mixture of French colonial and Ottoman architecture had captured the imagination – and hearts – of countless visitors. But from the mid-1970s onward, as Lebanon descended into a two-decade-long civil war, much of Beirut was reduced to rubble. The war also changed the demographics of the city, Beirut’s once mixed religious and ethnic neighbourhoods became increasingly divided and hundreds of thousands of people left the country. Today, the legacy of the civil war still mars Lebanon’s divisive and turbulent politics but the city itself, it seems, has moved on. Beirut’s skyline is dotted with cranes and the skeletons of half-finished high rises. On every corner, it seems, there is a construction site. For plenty of people, this building boom which is turning Beirut into a chaotic glitzy metropolis is a sign of better times. For others, it is a disaster.

Surviving the peace?  “They have destroyed my city,” says Joe Kodieh, resident of Beirut and theatre director whose latest play deals with the loss of the city’s architectural heritage.

What’s happening is very sad, but it’s not in our power to stop it
Rasheed Jalekh Beirut municipality “Beirut survived the war, but it’s not going to survive peace. What survived two decades of war, we are destroying now, in the name of modernity,” Mr Kodieh says. Across Beirut, hundreds of high-rise buildings have replaced old buildings. The city’s architectural heritage is being wiped out because there is no legislation to protect it. “What’s happening is very sad, but it’s not in our power to stop it,” says Rasheed Jalekh, representative of the Beirut municipality. “The municipality can only stop construction if we own buildings, but we don’t and we don’t have the money to buy them.” Mr Jalekh says that a handful of buildings could still be saved, if only parliament passed legislation that would protect them. But for decades Lebanon’s leaders have been preoccupied with political wrangling and crises, and issues like architectural heritage have struggled to get attention. Politicians have also failed to come up with a comprehensive urban development plan for Beirut, which has resulted in chaotic and disorganised construction.

Beyond reach The only neighbourhood of the city that is being rebuilt according to a plan is the downtown area. Its renovation is entirely in the hands of Solidere, a company which was founded in 1994 by Lebanon’s then Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, who was assassinated in 2005. His son, the current Prime Minister Saad Hariri, has recently moved into his new palatial residence in the city’s newly-rebuilt centre. But Mr Hariri does not have many neighbours – the buildings, used mostly for offices and shops, are far beyond the reach of most Lebanese. Solidere has often been criticised for destroying historic buildings that could have been saved, and for turning the colourful historic centre, which used to be a meeting point of cultures and religions, into a glitzy but soulless area for the rich. “The neighbourhood has lost all its character, no-one can afford to live there,” says architect Assem Salam.

‘Build parks instead’ Beirut is losing not only its architectural heritage, but also open space. Although the city never had many public parks, thousands of gardens that surrounded old houses had once provided Beirut with plenty of green space. Today most of them have turned into parking lots for the brand new high rises. “There isn’t really a place where I can take the kids for a bike ride or a walk,” says 30-year-old Amir, who, like most Beirut residents, brings his three-year-old son to play on the Corniche, a boardwalk along the Mediterranean. “They should build parks instead of building apartment blocks that most of us cannot afford,” he adds. But with plenty of demand from the wealthy members of the country’s huge diaspora and Arabs from the Gulf, construction companies are reaping profits and they have no incentive to stop building in Beirut. According to Assem Salam, it’s not the lack of building regulation that is destroying Beirut, but what he describes as the government’s total disregard for public good. “The real problem is that the existing regulations are set to benefit real estate companies and the government, but not people,” he says.   Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/middle_east/8665696.stm Published: 2010/05/10 23:59:39 GMT
© BBC MMX

 

   This is another Harare memory from spring 2009I am officially in Zimbabwe attending an art festival… with a personal side trip planned.  A Zimbabwean dancer friend, living in NYC, wants me to visit her mom who operates an orphanage in Harare. I take a cab into the suburbs to meet Francesca who is indeed a remarkable woman just as her daughter claimed. Her story is of widowhood, raising young children, a move to Harare, educating the children–who then move abroad, following them for a time but returning to her home country to be trained by a missionary organization to work with abandoned children. The result is courageous and beautiful; Francesca has created a real home. The Danai Children’s Village loves and nurtures 27 children, babies to teens, who have been abandoned by virtue of poverty or AIDS. The toddlers squabble and play, munch their oranges and crackers, throw toys and hug bears. Abandoned at birth in a shopping mall, Joseph is now a happy two-year old, snuggling against Francesca, trying to share his soggy cookie with her, laughing a belly laugh amazingly deep and secure. Jacob, who is 14, will graduate from high school in three more years. He was eight when dropped off with Francesca and had only known life in a shanty with his dying parents; he had never seen a book or held a pencil. He was a child with little language, less confidence, no family, no future. Now Jacob is a charming studious teen, willing to shyly share his hopes and dreams. The large and rambling main house and adjoining bunkhouses are well-maintained and adequately furnished. There’s a garden where the darkish green leaves of rugare predominate but the pumpkin crop looks promising. A chicken pen has a whole lot of scratching and cackling going on and I cannot help but think how much better this meat will taste than that of the factory-grown, chemically-plumped pseudo-chickens fed to us at home.  Money to Danai goes directly for food, clothing and toys—all that is real and immediate. Administrative overhead is covered by a Christian missionary organization that makes this home possible. A storage shed out back holds bags of rice and beans and tins of cooking oil each adorned with an American flag stamp. I am proud of our national contribution even with the knowledge that the poor of the developing world would be better served if aid money went to support locally-grown crops instead of to American agri-businesses and the high cost of overseas shipping. Still, the stars and stripes are on a prideful mission in this Harare backyard.

There is a new power-sharing government in the land and Harare has a new Mayor. Francesca is hopeful because he actually paid a visit to the orphanage. Held a baby even. Meanwhile Joseph is laughing and Jacob is studying and the greens are being prepared for supper and life goes on.

Boulevard Saint-Michel…a long time ago

I wrote this a month ago on my birthday. Have been trying to fix it ever since. I give up. Here it is. My first attempt to deal with all of those long-ago notes.

Today’s my birthday. I’ve daringly posted my real age on facebook so we don’t have to go into that here. How this relates to travel since this is a travel blog? The new passport that would allow me to begin my journeys to every-country-in-the-world-before-I-die arrived in the mail 25 years, 335 days and about 5 hours ago. I actually did not know that every country was my goal at the time—that I could possibly do that did not occur to me until a few years ago. When I first said it out loud it was a joke. I next said those words out loud was because I liked the sound of them but they were still accompanied by a skeptical chuckle. Then I said it again, “I’m going to every country in the world before I die,” after counting countries and dividing by likely lifespan. And meant it. Today I’m repeating my travel mantra because, like New Years Eves, birthdays are good times to renew resolutions, and to review where you’ve been.

Getting there is half the fun? I’ve always had a travel life—and a family and work and periods of political junkiness and baked a lot of cakes. But that is all in the memoir…this is THE BLOG. This every country phase began in July 1884. My best friend and I went to Europe…my first visit, her second. True, I had lived in the Philippines and traveled to Mexico and Canada but this was the beginning of something big, new and scary. Also addictive, expensive and life altering. Whatever it was…one hot summer day we were off!  Sue and I were youngish, single, pretty, and a little wild, neither of us apparently destined for wifedom, although we certainly loved our children and figured they made our somewhat brief marriages worthwhile.

We had planned, or rather I had planned, since Sue was not a person of lists and schedules—sometimes the planning turns out to be more satisfying than the actual trip but that was not the case here. Pre-Google, pre-email it was complicated but good challenging fun, with large paper maps spread out on the kitchen table, maybe several travel guides, faxes, phone calls, letters even. And budgets. Always the budgets. How many francs, pounds, lire, guilders per dollar—getting outdated currency exchange figures from a three year old travel guide or stopping by your bank for the current rates. Figuring out how much cash to take. Or Travelers checks. It was also a world without debit cards and cash machines. Amazing that we ever left our own shores. I look at my budget notes and figuratively weep—let’s see, the three nights in Paris were going to come to about $90 although the four nights in London would add up to $272. It didn’t quite turn out that way of course because Sue took one look at the claustrophobic garret I had booked in Paris, declared it a fire hazard and we immediately struck out to find a more standard (and pricier) hotel. But I digress. The hours of planning for the coming trip—for me—turned into dreaming about the next…and the next…. In my old notes, even as this itinerary (London, Brighton, up to Folkstone or Dover to catch the Hovercraft to Boulagne, France, down to Rouen for a night, then into Paris and back to Dallas and Albuquerque) is being is being developed there are already references to the following year’s proposed journey: Norway, Ireland, South of France and Italy….

Finally it’s time. We’re off! First I fly to Dallas, borrowing outfits and maybe a suitcase from Sue who must have had a better selection of both. For two days we giggled, smoked endless cigarettes with our endless cups of coffee and ironed (that was then) packed and repacked. Then Piedmont Airlines to New York. We had both been briefly to The City before but not often so we took a cab from Kennedy into the City for the few hours between flights, leaving our way-too-many-bags in a locker at the airport. Do you remember when that was possible! Those days of innocence—when lockers weren’t necessarily bomb containers—when the terrorists  were still mostly someplace else—like Beirut for example where the Marine barracks had been bombed just a few months earlier. (Although while we were happily strolling the streets of a mostly gun-free Europe, an American “survivalist” would murder 22 people in a San Diego McDonald’s.)

Sue and I spent a glorious sunny afternoon in Sheep Meadow where humans had long since replaced the sheep that Robert Moses moved to safer environs in the 30’s, afraid depression-hungry New Yorkers would munch them for lunch. That NY sun and those pretty sunbathers seemed so much more elegant than ordinary people lying about on the Albuquerque or Dallas grass. We enjoyed a perfect Central Park hot dog—dared a wine at the St. Moritz on Central Park South–I say dared because it seemed such an impossibly sophisticated thing to do. I had already traveled more than most Americans I suppose but never in what I considered the rarified circles of the travel elite–Manhattan, London, Paris. How did one act, speak, comport oneself in such urbane enclaves. At dusk, we headed back to the airport. Tired, maybe a little sweaty and rumpled, but we had already experienced one new world…how much better could it get!

Iceland. Icelandair is memorable because…it stopped in Newfoundland; the seating was as cramped as today’s steerage class (which was unusual then); the meal was delicious, eaten with silverware and accompanied by unlimited wine.  The ‘stewardesses’ were perky. And smoking was the norm, oh yeah, clouds of smoke, we could hardly wait until the no smoking sign went off.  Hard to separate good-fond from bad-fond memories isn’t it?  And then Iceland of the endless summer day and woolly sweaters and dinner of white and buttery codfish and white and a creamy yogurt-like dessert called skyr (courtesy of the Vikings—who lived in snow-white landscapes, produced rosy-white babies, ate creamy-white food and who may have been forced to plunder, slash and burn just to add green and red to their sensory palettes.) I want to go back and drive Iceland’s rim on a trip like the one Mark Sundeen described in the June 18, 2006 NY Times Travel section, the “…830-mile Ring Road, where the scenery shifts from glaciers to geothermal pools to re-enactors dressed in Viking garb, all of it under the midnight sun.”   A road that “…feels like someone put the American West in a blender: California’s poetic central coast, the Nevada desert’s barren expanses, Alaska’s glaciers and Yellowstone’s geysers.”  I half regret having a goal like every country which means I do not have time to return to or linger in too many favorite places. However Iceland can be a stop once again, this time on my way to Greenland as soon as it is recognized by the ultimate authority, Lonely Planet, as a separate country.

I know, I know…Iceland is now the land of bankruptcy and the cause of very cranky airline passengers. I still want to spend a long long dark New Year’s Day there with my fellow Scandinavians drinking too much and eating white food.

England. Coming into Heathrow. One of those heart-in-mouth moments. I have no idea why setting foot on European soil (well okay, a British runway) meant so much to me. Didn’t feel that way upon landing at Clark AFB on Luzon or Mexico City…but political heritage does matter and all those history classes crediting my American birth to English parentage have had an effect… ‘Mom, Dad, I’m home’… Here’s what I wrote in my travel notebook:

London looks small and low and green—after New York and our own southwestern terrain. Really long escalators. Short cab ride to Flemings Hotel on Half Moon Street. Check in. Walk up Picadilly, Leicester Square, Picadilly Square, finally Trafalgar Square. Scone on way. Not sunny not cloudy. Trafalgar Square – Pigeons, lions, pale people everywhere. Around corner to Sherlock Holmes pub, meet New Zealandars and Dave. Dave takes us to other Navy Pub, we walk back, eat more scones. To bed. Already love London. It’s the 16th of July, 1984 when I am actually doing this stuff. On the 17th we walk to Parliament, by the Queen Mother’s House, Guard pinches Sue, Henry Moore’s, Changing of the Guard, millions of tourists. Pubs close 3 – 5 pm. Boat ride up Thames to the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. Boat ride not so great, grubby and touristy (in our minds we apparently were non-touristy tourists). Walking back among government buildings, can’t get to 10 Downing but look at it from short distance. Margaret Thatcher’s just stopped at gate and chatted with tourists. Guard doesn’t like Thatcher. On to Sherlock Holmes. Almost don’t go. Do, relieved the guys we’ve met aren’t there. Find an outside table. The boys arrive and invite us to the Royal Tournament. We go. Princess Anne is in the house.

I have the souvenir book to prove I was there.

And memories of a late boozy night with the new friends!

Those are the notes I took on this trip. Not good. No atmosphere. Just the facts ma’am. Let me share a couple of things I remember vividly from that visit using adjectives this time. Real scones are things of wonder. Flaky yet moist with smooth and tart-sweet rosy-red strawberry jam and real clotted cream—from real cows, British cows who’ve been grazing happily in a Turner landscape while listening to the cultured accents of lords and ladies and fox-hunting squires of the realm who lope by on fast and glossy steeds! You can tell London scones are very special. Warm grey weather, my favorite. Except the day we visited Stonehenge. Cold grey weather.  Next we visit Brighton where the seaside is civilized with elderly Brits in sweaters and sensible shoes decorously sunning themselves, and blonde and crazy Scandinavians swimming on the naked wild side. We had salty, creamy kippers in white gravy for breakfast and went to the Royal Pavilion, a grand place to tour because…well because it is grand and one should tour things on trips. You will always feel you did a good and necessary thing by going to see restored palaces whether this one or Versailles or another. They have brilliant colors and proper art and flocked wallpaper. However they really look uncomfortable. Such high ceilings. And those endless sculptures and mirrors. All neat. No books scattered about, newspapers in a pile. Coffee cups forgotten on a corner table. Do you suppose the royals lived that neatly? Well no, actually. They were mostly unbathed and all greasy from the roasted leg they gnawed at dinner and sweaty from the after-dinner orgies. All about was a profusion of guns, crossbows, dogs and bloody pheasants to keep Court artists busily painting and future museum walls well populated. .

France. No notes from Paris. A few unfaded memories must suffice. The ferry was almost a great travel moment. I feel sorry for today’s Chunnel riders missing the history of a Channel crossing: The wind’s in our hair and  “… bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover” in our eyes and ears, the beaches of Normandy nearby.

The outstanding French adventure was—THE DUCK. In my zealous planning efforts I  included one elegant dinner—to be in Rouen and consist of the famous duck dish, Canard a la Rouennaise (Duck in blood sauce). We wrote for reservations at a famous restaurant on the Market Square where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake—planning well we thought for the gourmet dinner of the trip. In olden times, in Europe on $25 a Day there were few details, only that the dish was duck. An old recipe. A very famous, very old recipe.

We dress up. We plan to NOT act like American tourists. We order Canard a la Rouennaise. A nice wine. Of course we stumble through the wine order but what we get tastes nice. Obviously by now we’re easily identified as American tourists from some outback like… well… perhaps Texas and New Mexico. I remember little about the meal in fact—except the duck. Large full plates are put down in front of us. Covered with slices of something outlined under dense black and grainy gravy exuding the aroma of fresh chicken (duck?) manure. Honestly. We stare helplessly at the disaster in front of us  for some time, trying to look neither confused nor disgusted. I scrape away a corner of the nearly-impenetrable dark glop but the pitiful little pink slices look raw and my determination to take at least one bite disappears. By now we notice sideways glances and small smirks from the few other diners who look to be townspeople—but they don’t laugh out loud. The French can be kind after all. In the end, we ate the crème brulee, paid the highest meal ticket of the trip and made what we hoped was a casual yet dignified exit. I think we ate that bag of smashed stale cookies from one of our suitcases that night.

About Canard à la rouennaise or duck in blood sauce, described as

“…an antique, spectacular, barbaric and sophisticated recipe you need to see at least once in your life. … it’s the most spectacular recipe of the classical French repertoire. [For which you need]…a Presse à Canard, a duck crusher  for which you would pay thousands of dollars if only you could find one for sale.” (Duck Tour d’Argent at the FXCuisine.com website). This is a great website with all of the gory details in large color photos.

Also: Rouennaise Duckling BASIC RULES (now from canardiers.asso.fr)

Today many restaurants in Rouen, in Normandy, but also in many countries serve the Rouennaise Duckling sometimes with variants but respecting the following basic rules:

  • the duckling has to be suffocated, (bolding mine)
  • it has to be cooked bleeding ( 17 to 20 minutes ),
  • the breasts have to be raised,
  • the carcass pressed to obtain the blood,
  • that will do thickening for the sauce(fond rouennais).

A better choice would have been to travel with Julia and Paul:

Extract from the book  “My Life in France” by Julia Child. Rouen is famous for its duck dishes, but after consulting the waiter Paul decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole : a large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said : Bon appétit! I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish in my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection. … Along with our meal, we happily downed a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, a wonderful crisp white wine from the Loire Valley. Another revelation! Then came salade verte laced with lightly acidic vinaigrette. And I tasted my first real baguette _ a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum! We followed our meal with leisurly dessert of fromage blanc, and ended with a strong, dark café filtre. The waiter placed before us a cup topped with a metal canister, which contained coffee grounds and boiling water. With some urging by us impatient drinkers, the water eventually filtred down into the cup below. It was fun, and it provided a distinctive dark brew.

That was then, this is now…Eiffel Tower still there

French lace

I loved Paris and have ever after—visiting many times for the dance, the walk along the river to the Eiffel Tower, the baguettes, the unexplainable sense of joie de vivre the city inspires, but mostly just for being in the streets and at the sidewalk cafes. Of course sidewalk cafés were best with a café au lait and a cigarette but over the years I’ve shed my bad habits and now I settle for a healthful glass of red wine.

Can't get a good baguette west of the Mississippi--only in Paris 1984 or 2009

Notre Dame

Somewhere in this part of our adventure Sue gets quite mad at me because I encourage a couple of inappropriate guys to pick us up. Next day I go alone to Versailles with a hangover. Later we shop on the Champs-Élysées, buying matching cotton casual things in different colors, mine was pink, Sue’s yellow and I still have mine. It has paint stains and is torn but I cannot bring myself to simply put it in the garbage. That and a few photos comprise proof.  I was. There. Then. Sue left her pricey French perfume on a bench as we strolled at dusk toward the Tuilleries. Sue, on all my Paris strolls, I stop somewhere along that lovely walk for a Crepe Marron, sit on a bench among the big shady elms and look for your perfume. But I am sorry about those guys. Just think they’re old men now!

My notes only pick up again on August 4th. They say my ex-husband visited and he and my son go for an adventure to Guam. And that my ex-boyfriend was here and went back to Portland. And that I went to Mexico as a cultural liaison. No question, ex-travel adventures have a much longer shelf life than ex-people-in-your-life.

Skip to 2009 and Patricia’s 16th birthday.

Birthday cake on the Champs Elysees

Birthday cake on the Champs Elysees

Time does fly--and it has been generally fun

Time does fly–and mostly it has been fun. With my granddaughter on Boulevard Saint-Michel!

In spring 2009, I traveled to the Middle East, Zimbabwe and Uganda. The next 2 blogs will offer short pieces about two aspects of the Zimbabwe experience. By then I should have my approach to the origins of Every Country in the World Before I Die figured out—at least to the extent I’m not embarrassed to share what I’ve written.

Art Conquers All….. 

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The lawn before the stage is crowded with young families in all the lovely shades of Africa and a row of elegant elderly white ladies evocative of colonial Rhodesia!

All are enjoying the risqué jokes, roping and knife-throwing directed at two men gamely providing comic foil for the stars’ suggestive remarks. I am at the Harare International Festival of the Arts (HIFA) and it is fun…and art-filled…and a respite from the worries of life under Mugabe.

Traditional, contemporary, big, small, national, international art…all here

A rare Zimbabwean wild beast

Transportation has greatly improved under Mugabe. NOT.

Harare, Zimbabwe is not high on most travel wish lists what with Mugabe, typhoid and farm-confiscations. But think again! HIFA is a brilliantly-implemented festival managing to combine a richly programmed cultural celebration with a sense of community in a city that needs all it can get of both. The festival fills Harare Gardens, a place of luxurious shade trees, meandering paths, the spicy-sweet smells of the thatched-roof food stalls, idiosyncratic art installations and baskets, beads and wood carvings of traditional Zimbabwe side by side with hip fashion accessories in the green, yellow, red and black of the flag. Lively stages showcase artists from around the world. Professional dancers, actors and musicians mingle with comedians, pop stars and wannabe’s. Festivities begin early, end late. Audiences are local and international, black and white, young and old, rich and almost-poor. HIFA is a celebration where you take a blanket and stay awhile, snack on hot dogs and sweet potato biscuits, drink South African wine and Zimbabwean beer, let the kids play in the grass and ogle the clowns. It is all reminiscent of a county fair with all manner of arts instead of giant squash and Ferris wheels.

Where it’s all happening!

So…stop with the cell phone and laptop. Let the laid-back ambience of Harare Gardens take over. With mid-morning coffee sample a fine homemade lemon sponge cake. Meander over to traditional dance and drumming, then on to a folk musician/storyteller making gentle fun of the “the old man” (which is how Zimbabweans refer to Mugabe when they can’t use more direct language). Later a South African fusion of stand-up comedy and political theater will offer a much harsher assessment. Enjoy a wine and meat pie from an outdoor tent-café with white tablecloths and candles and then, best of all, an evening of drama in the Standard Theater. The venue is basic but the performances more than compensate. I see Disconnection (family disintegration and immigration in contemporary Zimbabwe); The Crossing (braving the Limpopo River for survival in South Africa) and Allegations (an exploration of the violence that overtook both white farmers and black rural workers during the confiscations). Here is a real intersection of art and politics with Zimbabwean theater stubbornly planted in the middle of this dangerous and noisy junction. And this is one crossroads Mugabe’s thugs just can’t keep closed.

Best venue at the festival

Art festival aficionados in general, and especially those who believe that art is the most effective way to speak truth to power, should put HIFA on their calendar but keep checking the newspapers to be aware of Mugabe’s latest shenanigans.

The sign says “Life goes on even when the lights go out.” That’s life in Mugabeland.