DARKENED ONE EVENING IN HONOR OF CHARLIE HEDBO, VICTIMS OF THE MASSACRE AT THE JEWISH MARKET AND AN ARAB POLICEMAN.
THIS EVENING IN PARIS. BRIGHT LIGHTS OF LIBERTY.
I AM CHARLIE JEWISH FRENCH POLICE IRREVERENT SCARED BRAVE MOVED
I’ve joined the march on Aljazeera and CNN. In Paris the chant is LIBERTÉ LIBERTÉ LIBERTÉ; there is some difference in sentiment between that and our ever ready chant of USA USA USA.
I am thinking so many things.
I would like to be there holding my pen in the air.
Wandering the magnificent historic streets of Paris, stopping often for café au lait and du vin, the music of the language all around me. I love this place. The standard bearer of secular values. Of being free to mock pomposity and authority of any kind.
Roaming around Damascus a few years ago. Friendly, pretty, relaxed city. Now no more. War is there. Can that happen to the streets of Paris?
The US is absolutely linked with Israel in the minds of the Islamic world, as we should be except when Israel is wrong! Netanyahu and Abbas only a few linked arms apart today. What would be a real statement is if they had the guts to link their arms! That could make a huge difference in the world’s rhetoric of violence.
I once visited the Field of Blackbirds where the Battle of Kosovo was fought between the Christians and the Muslims in 1389, a battle still being fought in former Yugoslavia, especially Bosnia Herzegovina, in the 1990s. Is this still that war?
Endless conversation about Muslims being better integrated into French life. Yes. Both sides must work on that. If you immigrate to another country you should adapt to that country’s values. Period. And the country to which you’ve come needs to ensure you can access all of the friendship, benefits and customs of your new home that you desire. Period. My dad’s family came to the US during a time when, for immigrants, it was all about how quickly you could become Americanized. Consequently we were not urged to learn the language of the ‘old country.’ I am sorry about that because I love my Norwegian heritage but nevertheless there was no doubt that, for better or worse, we and all of the German, Irish and other European immigrants of the time became Americans. Shouldn’t the newcomers want to become real citizens of the country to which they have emigrated? And shouldn’t their adopted country welcome them wholeheartedly once they have been admitted? But then so many have not arrived willingly on any of the world’s shores; rather they’re fleeing death and destruction or in the too-often forgotten past, they arrived on slave ships…and that’s where it gets complicated.
CNN headline: “World Unites in Paris.”
Someone says Paris today is a mood more of unity; US after 911 the mood was more warlike.
Are moderate Muslims beginning to understand they must make themselves heard against the jihadists? Bernard Henri-Levy, French philosopher, says something is changing today. For the first time French Muslims are showing up in numbers as Frenchmen and women. He said today is also the return of self-esteem for France.
He says France is a great country and that what happened today has happened NOwhere else in the world—this coming together of world leaders and such a strong representation of different religions and cultures. There is a sense all over the world that we have been too indulgent of jihadists. Stop we say. Stop considering them just a product of alienation but instead as the purveyors of a new fascism. Today we gather to express ourselves against this new fascism. Weakness is over. (I paraphrase Henri-Levy of course) Is he right? He makes sense doesn’t he?
43 Chiefs of State here. Where exactly is my President today? Golf date?
Early evening in Paris. Good luck to us all. Can I just say JE SUIS FRANÇAIS.
“Je suis Charlie.” I am angry today. Because a bunch of irreverent journalists were murdered, because the attacks on the Jewish people never never end, because France as a bastion of secularism is under attack, because we’re all under attack—aided by yet one more book written by a bunch of men in the distant past telling women what to do and what to wear.
The images of Islam coming out of Paris today and images from the time my grandson and I spent in Dubai, Oman and Kuwait this summer are scrolling through my mind in a jumble. Right now I am focusing on my visceral response to the public image of religiously-clothed Muslim women. I am so struck by the young woman fugitive in her pictures as a young woman with her boyfriend and then as eyes peering out from a blacked-out head.
I want to shout sometimes, ‘why can’t anything ever be simple?’ ‘Straightforward?’ ‘For sure?’ No ambiguities. No confusion.
It’s that fugitive. The terrorist. Hayat Boumeddiene. She looks so normal in two of the photos, a young brown-haired French woman. Then there is the photo of her in full black garb, face covered, hands and barely-revealed eyes focused on the cross-bow she’s aiming.
That latter photo so arouses my anger, NOT because she’s aiming a cross-bow, NOTeven to the extent that the weapon might represent her future as a wanted criminal—the Bonnie to her now-dead Clyde.
My anger is directed at the concealed woman and whatever societal claptrap is concealing her. Don’t do blah blah blah about how it’s none of my business or tradition or respecting cultural customs…NO WOMAN REALLY DEEP DOWN WANTS TO BE SHROUDED, CONCEALED, BURIED ALIVE—anymore than any man does. But hey…who wrote the book.
I’ve written about this on previous travel posts but the French fugitive has reminded me of what deep anger I feel when I see shrouded women. Can’t help it. Want to respect custom but a little voice always says, ‘which customs?’ Fish on Friday, no pork ever, cake with afternoon coffee? Or slavery, public beheading, drowning witches, subjugating women?
I wore the black overgarment called the abaya this fall for a tour of Kuwait’s grand mosque, not the face covering but all of the rest of it. It was only briefly hot and uncomfortable because, after all guided tours tend to be short. The rest of the day I moved about as freely as my grandson in lightweight pants and long-sleeved shirt. It was fine, our friendly smart young Muslim guide did the same as she robed and unrobed, before and after the tour.
Then, for the last adventure of our Big Trip we went to a highly recommended and rather fancy Kuwait City restaurant on the beach. And, as previously written, the Saudi couples started coming in mid-afternoon. The ‘tall, dark and handsome’ men and the completely draped and blacked-out women. Only the eyes are available when the face-covering niqab is worn.
Do not tell me these rich young Saudi women who buy their pretty clothes in the elegant streets and high end shops of the world WANT TO GO OUT TO EAT IN A BIG BLACK TENT-LIKE THING. Because I will never believe you.
Okay, I am just angry today. Because a bunch of irreverent journalists were murdered, because the attacks on the Jewish people never never end, because France as a bastion of secularism is under attack, because we’re all under attack—aided by yet one more book written by a bunch of men in the distant past telling us what to do and what to wear.
I was going to close with the first stanza of Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” …just because. But it occurs to me that ‘hear me roar’ could be what the Hayat the fugitive is muttering to herself in a hideout somewhere in cold foggy France or maybe Turkey or by now she’s in Syria ‘roaring,’ powerful again in her own jihadist way…and she’s doing it all in the full regalia of traditional Muslim womanhood apparently. Which does make for a secretive existence it’s true…if that’s what you need…and she did and she does.
I am fascinated by the many contradictions of this one very bad girl. What we’re willing to do for our 15 minutes of power…
Honestly I am by nature respectful of many things—only good things in my mind. But not of any of the sacred cows of religion or politics or popular culture. And the Charlie Hebdo killings were all about maintaining the untouchables–which is what all dictatorial systems have always desired.
Oh what the heck…
I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an’ pretend
‘Cause I’ve heard it all before
And I’ve been down there on the floor
No one’s ever gonna keep me down again
THIS JUST SAYS “CHARLIE HEBDO” MUST BE VEILED. I SUGGEST FAITH LEADERS FROM THE HINDU, BUDDHIST, MORMON FAITHS BE ADDED TO THIS CARTOON AND IT WOULD REPRESENT THE TRUTH AS SEEN THROUGH THE PRISM OF RELIGION.
Oscar Wilde said: Oscar Wilde was quoted this morning on TV, “If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they’ll kill you.” If they don’t laugh does that mean we should stop telling the truth or just expect to be killed? Apparently.
The Paris killings at Charlie Hebdo have created such conflict in my head. The killers are hideous and frightening and disgusting. More dead journalists, journalists who exposed fanaticism and hypocrisy through satire. More fear and hatred of all things Islam. More grist for the fascist mill. But yes, I am Charlie, standing with the right to express your opinion however much it angers people. Yes.
John Stewart said: Here’s John Stewart. “Our hearts are with staff of Charlie Hebdo and their families,” he began. “I know very few people go into comedy as an act of courage, mainly because it shouldn’t have to be that. It shouldn’t be an act of courage; it should be taken as established law. But those guys at Hebdo had it and they were killed for their cartoons.”
“A stark reminder that for the most part the legislators and journalists and institutions that we jab and ridicule are not in any way the enemy,” Stewart continued. “For however frustrating or outraged the back and forth can become it’s still back and forth, a conversation amongst those on let’s call it ‘Team Civilization.’ And this type of violence only clarifies that reality.” Yes.
I say: Here’s my problem. With myself. My friend was the ED of the NM ACLU when there was a public gathering of Nazis somewhere in the U.S. and the ACLU was supporting their right to gather and to march. I was horrified and called my friend in protest. I don’t remember exactly what she said but of course the gist of it was what everyone is saying now…The First Amendment is to protect the right of people to express opinions some of us may find horrific, ideas we do not all want to hear. Yes. No. Yes.
Honestly I do not believe in the rights of Nazis to march. Or to exist except in their cellars. Same for White Supremacists. I could go on but suffice it to say I do NOT believe everyone has the right to freely express their beliefs—at least in the public domain.
Who can and who can’t say what? Just talking about satire…it’s easier then thinking about the big picture of freedom and democracy and all of our favorite ‘good’ constructs.
This is what I believe—I think. Everyone can be satirized for what they have control over in their lives: actions, beliefs, appearance, habits…again, for what they have some control over. People should not be satirized for their race, sexual preferences, gender, disabilities, etc. Does that make sense? Yes? No?
Okay, now I’m clear about what is open to satirization…for me.
The right to march, that’s a tough one. Right to Lifers, Right to Choosers. When I’m the Supreme Ruler both groups will get to speak and march, but no blocking other people’s access. And when I am the Supreme Ruler you can make fun of me.
I AM CHARLIE.
Salman Rushdie said: Author Salman Rushdie knows a thing or two about Islamic intolerance. In 1989, he had a fatwa placed on him by Iranian cleric Ayatollah Khomeini. It seemed that the Ayatollah was bothered by Rushdie’s book, The Satanic Verses, which contained a character based loosely on him—among other things. The fatwa that was placed on Rushdie pointed out to the world the intolerance of some Muslims to any form of satire of their faith.
In Britain, one man tried to sue Rushdie for blasphemous libel, while a group of Muslims tried to have the book banned. After a trial in which the group was required to present specific, legal reasons why this should happen, the High Office threw the case out and declared that blasphemy prosecutions would no longer be allowed.
Rushdie released a statement on Wednesday about the Paris massacre of 10 writers and cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical newspaper:
“Religion, a mediaeval form of unreason, when combined with modern weaponry becomes a real threat to our freedoms. This religious totalitarianism has caused a deadly mutation in the heart of Islam and we see the tragic consequences in Paris today. I stand with Charlie Hebdo, as we all must, to defend the art of satire, which has always been a force for liberty and against tyranny, dishonesty and stupidity. ‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion.’ Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect.” From Addicting Info. Org
From a Muslim friend who lives much of the time in France: This is not a quote, just a loose paraphrasing. He is angered by the “I Am Charlie” movement/hashtag/spirit, NOT because he is NOT horrified by the act at Charlie Hebdo but because he asks, rightly I think, why do we always only unite AGAINST, never FOR. Because people coming together only AGAINST are apt to do things that will be as hurtful as the original act. Why never come together in love. He’s right, why don’t we come together more FOR? We do sometimes—“Give Peace a Chance.” Hopefully to someday be more frequent than that inane dangerous chanting of USA USA USA….
I don’t want to think about, right now, the percentage of blame our American bombs and drones and guns have contributed to a world that hosts acts like the idiotic murder of humorists for (somebody’s) god’s (small g) sake. But one thing is for sure we did NOT contribute the same percentage as the proponents of an Islam that kills or whips or jails for criticism or skepticism or something ‘as dangerous’ as free expression. Like much of the Islamic world. Damn. It’s very hard to wrap one’s head around every perspective on this.
BUT, UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES, I AM CHARLIE.
Preparing to publish the book of Time and Place 2013 and 2014. A small explanation is in order to account for the inclusion of the next few posts—all written in 2015. Confusing I know but here’s the reason. Through January and February, 2015 I was still writing mostly about past travels (although not entirely) so it seems logical to go ahead and include them here…then to launch the next volume of these travel books with the actual 2015 travels. Anyway…Read On…the rest of the post is more fun.
1985. MY DAD’S CHILDHOOD FRIEND….WHERE THEY USED TO PLAY.
PRESENT TIME
Norway is on my mind much of the time these days. First of all because I seem to be endlessly obsessively determined to be more Norwegian than American. Since I have only spent 15 to 20 days in Norway and my DNA is only 93% Norwegian (okay, so some of those strands are Swedish—but not most) and my birth certificate and passport leave no doubt as to my nationality, it is obvious, I cannot be a Norwegian.
Why do I pursue this idea so relentlessly? Well, there is my early childhood in what was virtually a Norwegian enclave in the northwoods of Minnesota where we always referred to ourselves as Norwegians (or, my dad would say, Norskies).
There is also the fact that I have always liked not being just American because that’s what everyone around me says they are, or because I’m usually mad at us for not being as good as we pretend to be. Not that the U.S. is not pretty good compared to the rest of the world; it’s just that we are not near the top in most things and haven’t been for a long time so can we stop with the American Exceptionalism nonsense. What about qualitatively wonderful Norway, high on everyone’s list of all good things? I read, and hear from relatives, that all is not perfect there either. There is so much to be admired though, in all of Scandinavia, and certainly in Norway, that I still feel happy to tout my Norwegianness whenever I can.
So for the last year I have been writing about Scandinavia, particularly Norway, in my UCLA writing classes. This writing is intended to form the basis for the first third or so of a book called “Up North.” My long-awaited travel memoir! The writing so far is based almost entirely on my first and second trips there and on my cursory research in a few reputable books about the Vikings and a small on-line look at present-day Norway. Since travel writing is intended to focus on place and time and memoir on the personal I have been working on a blend of the two.
Just to note: I am presently reading Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “My Struggle,” determined to read Sigrid Undset’s “Kristin Lavransdatter” and anxiously awaiting the appearance of any new Norwegian (or Swedish Finnish Icelandic Danish) crime thrillers. How to incorporate all of this into the Norwegian-focused section of “Up North” is unknown at this time.
NEAR FUTURE
On August 10, 2015, I will fly to Norway. It’s the first phase of a much bigger trip that will ultimately take me to Beijing (by land) but starting in Norway when I am bright-eyed and vigorous and curious and positive, can only be a good thing for bringing “Up North: On the Track of the DNA (which is what I may call the first part of the book) to a conclusion.
I am already imagining my week in the country: visiting cousins—some already known in real life and some only through Facebook; train rides up to Trondheim or to other locations to try to find the original home places of the unknown ancestors on my mom’s and half of my dad’s sides of the family; perhaps a long day or two walking the streets of Oslo by myself. Time at beautifully odd Frogner Park where, on my first visit, I took a long nap on the grass after a lefse-wrapped hot dog for lunch. And the many other historical sites that really do speak to my soul—however silly that sounds.
FROGNER PARK…SEE, BEAUTIFULLY ODD.
Then, to put a tasty wrap on the Scandinavian journey ‘home,’ it is off to meet my foodie friend in Stockholm. We will travel together to Riga, St. Petersburg and Moscow and, at least St. Petersburg, can be considered part of tracking the DNA since it was settled by Swedish Vikings. I hope to eat well on this part of my trip because the before and after parts may be a little iffy.
In Norway, food is too expensive to treat casually, so I’ll eat little. On the Siberian Railway I suspect it will be mostly noodles brought to life by the boiling water always kept in the samovar at the end of your car. In Mongolia I intend to stick to the milk vodka because sheep’s’ head can be tricky unless you are lucky enough to get the left ear lobe. Beijing. Who knows? There’s an old saying, “The Chinese eat everything with four legs except tables—and everything that flies except airplanes” (The talkalotoftalk Blog)
I will do guided tours there so maybe I can request saltines and yogurt if that’s what my stomach desires after a month of travel. But then I really really love Peking Duck so maybe no to the crackers.
Now it is Noon. Time to have my scalloped potatoes and sweet pickles (the lingonberries turned out to be too old) with a nice glass of white wine and sparkling water while I try and try and try to finish ModPo (did I mention poetry is HARD?) Then a nap, shower, lights dimmed, snacks at hand…Drum Roll…”DOWNTON ABBEY” RETURNS. LIFE IS GOOD. THE WORLD IS AT PEACE.
THIS WAS FALL 2013; NOW AT THE END OF 2014 I AM FINALLY FIGURING OUT WHERE I WANT DANCE IN MY LIFE—WITH FRIENDS.
“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” Thank you Susan Sontag. My sentiments exactly.
Time and Place (mneset.me) is my favorite blog. The oldest and, even to me, most interesting. The sad thing is I cannot travel all of the time so how to write interestingly about travel. That is the question of this last day of 2014.
Of course I have a plan. While Time and Place has been the blog name for a long time, my friend Panaibra Gabriel Canda’s beautiful dance piece, Time and Spaces, created from memories of his Mozambican father’s life as a Marrabenta musician, infused the name with movement and music and the passing of time.
Time(s) and Place(s). Journeying to and through them. History and Geography. I don’t know quite how to get those concepts all in the mix of this blog but if at first, you don’t succeed…
2014 was my first year without dance in a very long time. At first it was fine, good in fact. However, when I was in Johannesburg this fall, I realized that maybe I wanted dance in my life in some way. Then, after I went to Durban to see my friend Boyzie, I realized that I now want to follow my best friends’ dance lives after all. I say all of this to affirm that mixed up in the “…everywhere” that’s on my list, dance still might be one of the destinations! In the audience with my friends’ work on stage—work of which I know something of the creation. Yes. That’s it. Not part of a dance presenting clique (a good clique but nevertheless a clique) but as a friend who takes great pleasure in the sharing of your cherished pursuits whether making dance or writing poems or baking bread.
This means, apparently, that you, Boyzie and you, Reggie and you, Panaibra are part of my Destination Everywhere travel plans even though none of you have the faintest idea I’m writing this. And there are a few others whose lives and work I feel connected to…Stephen and Margy and some Scandinavian dance friends. If I am serious about this it means another trip or two a year. Why not, since most of you live and work in interesting places. And I can write posts and things that will mean nothing to the dance world. Just to me.
Honestly, this is how I felt most of my time as a dance presenter: “No matter where you are, you’re always a bit on your own, always an outsider.” (from Banana Yoshimoto, Goodby Tsugumi—found this on Good Reads—don’t know the book but love the quote) Now I realize I probably wasn’t a very professional presenter because I only cared about the work and the artists that said something of interest to me about life and the world. Oh well. That was then, this is now…almost 2015.
Interesting. I had no idea I was going to write that. So along with planning for Norway and Russia and drinking milk vodka in Mongolia as I ride the racing camel—I must plan a dance agenda. Really? I’m still surprised.
To go along with putting dance back on the travel map, I’ve all along known that ageing was part of what I was journeying through, a topic surely belonging in a travel blog. Part of 2015 should be how to do that gracefully (both the ageing and the writing about it), framed somehow as a ‘trip to yet one more unfamiliar place…’ perhaps. Research, selecting the destination, more research, selecting the route, more research, selecting the carrier, more research, selecting the habitations and sustenance along the way, more research, then calculating the expense, saving the money, feeling the fear and hesitation and excitement, embarking… Seems a lot of those steps apply but not quite all. Still, we know it’s the journey that counts, not the destination. Right?
The goal for Time and Place 2015 is to try a weekly long-form post, meaning 1000 words minimum. So I had better be doing some damn good writing if any of you are going to read for a thousand words. Anyway, it’s worth a try. If you by chance do read one of these long things, let me know what you think please.
HAPPY 2015.
2015 … IT IS THEN…
SCOTT & STEVE AND BEST FRIENDS…WHAT YEAR?
Oh the weather outside is ….sunny, not too cold, ordinary….it’s Albuquerque. It is Sunday evening, December 21, 2014 and an official (not really) blog holiday.
I am taking a blogging, poetry, agonizing-about-book-writing, planning-how-to-be-perfect-in-2015 holiday until December 28th.
A week to write when I’m not distracted, watch mysteries on Netflix, cook Christmas eve supper for the family, begin my Oscar movie watching, open my presents (why do they come in these little tiny packages…are they around-the-world-plane-tickets or socks?) AND tonight watch PBS British stuff for hours. Why do I love it so much?
Even though Christmas is NOT my favorite holiday—far from it—nevertheless it’s been fun picking out just the right thing for my quite wonderful family and being generally a little lazy. But now I need further rest to prepare for MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY, NEW YEAR’S EVE when I finalize that list of resolutions and begin my new perfect lifestyle.
Here are a few more photos from olden times to celebrate The Holidays.
SCOTT AND HIS ‘YOUNG’ MOM…
SCOTT AND DAD, PRESENT OPENING TIME.
LOOKS LIKE A LOT OF LEFTOVER PIECES.
AAAHHH….
FINALLY, THE BROTHER HAS ARRIVED. I think these are Christmas books…It’s in the Philippines.
BACK TO A FAMILY CHRISTMAS, EARLY 70s?
SNOWING. STOCKHOLM. DECEMBER 2010.
The Big 2015 Trip (B15T) involves two or three days in Stockholm. Beth is setting up a ‘food/local cuisine/gastronomic tour for one day. I am researching murder for the other one—hence an evening of the Swedish version of Wallander.
I’ve been to Ystad, home of the most famous of fictional Swedish detectives. Everyone knows about the Dragon Girl and Steig Larsson. But Henning Mankell’s books came first and are Still The Best.
There’s a British and a Swedish series of Wallander stories on TV. While I like both, the Swedish version is well…more authentic. It is shot in Ystad and the actors are Swedish after all.
The End.
SWEDEN. ABOUT TO LAND IN STOCKHOLM. DECEMBER 2010.
The age of travel. Age and Travel. Travel while aging. Travel through time and place. Aging in place through time. Time and again. Traveling again. Aging still.
Well anyway this blog is about travel and age. It seemed to make sense to put the two topics together because if there are to be two posts a week I can’t fill them all with travel—at least not while employed at a modest salary. However aging is here and everyday and inescapable so I can easily fill unlimited posts on that subject. Today my left wrist hurts and tomorrow…. No shortage of body part conditions about which to whine. Or I could wax eloquent about the ever-fascinating joys of aging…. And on this beautiful sunny day during my last 25 years (!) on earth, I can daily smell the roses—no, no, I meant the brown dead dusty leaves…and they don’t even smell. Flowery eloquence may not work well for me.
You see even after my travel adventures have come to an end, I envision writing on this very blog about the good and the bad of the aging process until the day I drop dead. It is not a given that people will still read actual words by that momentous (for me) day but even so I will be writing them.
Please someone, remember, when I do actually cease to exist, to add a postscript here about why I’ve stopped writing.
I’ve been contemplating my Mongolian visit, time in a ger/yurt/tent and riding the cranky camel and thinking that if that’s something I need to do, it had better be done soon…there may be some age limit for posing for pictures astride a camel who obviously doesn’t like you. That’s what made me start writing about age this morning.
THE TRANS-TINGLEY BEACH BOSQUE EXPRESS.
The planning for B15T(Big2015Trip) is moving right along. Bit like being on a train in fact when it is doing the switching tracks stuff. Jerks forward, halts abruptly, creeps ahead with shrieks and rattles, grinds to another stop…finally it moves slowly and then a little faster and then a little faster…onward…to the next pause. I love trains but much of the journey is as described. Of course the only trains I’ve ridden in the last years are Amtrak and Romanian railroads; maybe there are more streamlined examples but I’m not counting on the trans-Siberian lines being among them.
The latest installment is this. Like trains, Beth and I are moving our planning ahead in fits and starts but mostly on a forward trajectory. Beth is actually more interested in Scandinavia where she has not been and I am more interested in Russia and Mongolia (except for Norway of course) where I have not been. She thinks the train and the Mongolian gerts/yurts will be a little more uncomfortable than she’s willing to put up with; I think they’ll be the epitome of adventure for me, the little old lady in tennis shoes.
Beth is an authentic foodie both in exploring cultural foodways and in being a gourmet cook; she would happily delve into that aspect of the big wide world forever. I, on the other hand, eat very little when I travel (usually losing a bit of weight in fact) and am only sporadically interested in food. I am excited about the prospect of being on a trip with someone with enough of a culinary background to make it all interesting to me and get me to understand various local cuisines a little more. We apparently both share a love of searching through foreign grocery stores though so will surely spend some quality time doing that.
Beth wants to actually meet people and talk to them. I want to observe people, listen to them and then write blog posts about them. I still think we will have great fun together if we get the itinerary worked out.
So now B15T is structured something like this: I go to Norway, a week or so later meet Beth in Stockholm, we hang out there, including some serious culinary investigations, for two or three days, then ferry to Riga, Latvia and a day or so later train into St. Petersburg. Then we both do all of the city touring offered by Real Russia for two days each in St. P and Moscow. Mostly the same so far except Riga.
NOW it gets interesting for me. I’m alone on the journey through Russia and the adventure on the steppes of Mongolia. I like traveling alone much of the time, at least I think that is true. This five days on a train through Russia and four nights in a yurt will surely test the truth of that. Assuming I can work out the arrangements as a single traveler.
Ending with a couple of days in Beijing is still the plan right now.
Beth is talking to someone who has actually done the trans-Siberian railway journey today. Back with more details after that.
My trans-Siberian rail route for August 2015 ends in Beijing so China is on my mind.
What I have been thinking about today is my one previous visit to China. Back in the day. When it was still a bad and scary Communist place. Now it’s a rich and successful Capitalist/Communist place and I hear there are two cars for every previous bicycle.
That earlier trip was to Hong Kong with son Scott and daughter-in-law Sandra. Visiting mainland or ‘bad China’ was easy even then. I think we took a train over to Guangzhou, known at the time as Canton and spent the night.
I remember very little of Canton except the streets full of bicycles, more than Amsterdam even. Really, looking back, the only memorable event was Scott and Sandra’s little tiff because Sandra had taken a small towel with the name of the hotel on it as a souvenir. Scott was appalled, honest almost to a fault as he is. More immediate though, good liberals us, we were nevertheless a little fearful of those real live ‘communists’ who might jail us for sneaking a hand towel across the border. As I remember, Scott actually took it back to the hotel but I may be wrong.
Hong Kong is a proper part of China these days but back then it was basically British territory. Our visit was great fun. One of Sandra’s best friends from back home in the Philippines lived there and we were taken to a perfectly wonderful red/gilt noisy chaotic restaurant (where the famously spoiled only children of China ran wild) for authentic Peking Duck. One of the truly memorable meals of my travels anywhere. That deep brown fatty crispiness and maybe a sweet sauce and…well, let’s have Wikipedia describe it:
Peking duck is a famous duck dish from Beijing that has been prepared since the imperial era. The meat is prized for its thin, crisp skin, with authentic versions of the dish serving mostly the skin and little meat, sliced in front of the diners by the cook. Ducks bred specially for the dish are slaughtered after 65 days and seasoned before being roasted in a closed or hung oven. The meat is eaten with scallion, cucumber and sweet bean sauce with pancakes rolled around the fillings. Sometimes pickled radish is also inside, and other sauces like hoisin sauce can be used. (Wikipedia)
Hong Kong was a glittery hectic place with an astounding view from Victoria Peak. We all loved it except back then it was hard to get dark American coffee—unless staying at one of the big international hotels which we were not—and I had a serious coffee addiction.
The ‘new territories,’ the developing land outside of Hong Kong proper combined open countryside, quaint villages and, looming in the distance like ethereal white castles of gigantic proportions, were the ghostly-appearing skyscraper cities, big white cities of millions of people sprung overnight it seemed from the villages of peasant China.
SEE THE WHITE CITY IN THE CREVICE IN BACKGROUND HILLS. My camera wasn’t up to the travel task back then.
In 2015, I’ll return, but to a new city for me and a new time in the history of the country that invented practically everything. And I’ll finish reading Simon Winchester’s The Man Who Loved China before then so these inventions can just roll off the tip of my tongue in Beijing conversations. While I’m eating Peking Duck in the place of its origins for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And this time there will probably be a Starbucks on the corner.
HONG KONG from VICTORIA PEAK. Shouldn’t include this since there are so many purely beautiful photos of this view in the word…but hey, this is mine!
SANDRA AND ME IN THE NEW TERRITORIES.
CLOSER LOOK AT THE ‘HEAVENLY CITY.’
Yeah, well, back in the bad old smoking days.