Just can’t beat OLD MEDIA!

MOVIES MOVIES MOVIES…BUT FIRST MY WEEKLY NEW MEDIA UPDATE: Last time I wrote about the old media of books and movies while nevertheless declaring my fascination for and appreciation of the NEW. Then this week my best new media friends betrayed me. Droid, it turns out was downloading email during my entire two-week holiday out of the country. I did not ask him to do that and, in fact, thought he had been temporarily suspended but no…I had not hit OFF in enough places and that data was just eating up $300 of February’s budget. Never mind. Droid has now been banished to a drawer while I chastise my careless self by reverting to my old dumb phone for some months of money-saving atonement.

NOW, ON TO THE MOVIES: First up since I already reported on Argo and Lincoln last Sunday is Silver Linings Playbook (troubled young man and woman meet, fall in love and live happily ever after, maybe) on Wednesday night. What a perfect film. But I wasn’t in love with it (unless just a fleeting fantasy about youth and Bradley Cooper counts?). Everything was just right: people said fuck a lot which is de rigueur for all hip flicks; mental illness was front and center and the exchange about actual commonly prescribed meds—half the movie audience was probably on—Abilify, Xanex, Effexor, etc. made it contemporary and sophisticated; there was a lot of fighting and yelling so we would know it was like every real family, and the urban landscape and local color were great—good old Philly, home of Bradley Cooper and cheesesteaks and such like. Just the youngish love thing was a bit tiresome but certainly not for people who are youngish and in love or want to be. So my jaded self rates “Silver Linings Playbook” somewhere just above good—and the ‘just above’ is because Robert De Niro is quite simply perfect.

Moving on to Beasts of the Southern Wild. (plucky young girl survives awful things, man-made and environmental, and lives happily ever after, I’m pretty sure) Watched it at home Thursday night (after rejoining Netflix so I would never get this far behind in movies again) with two glasses of wine and an egg sandwich. Somehow it’s just not the same without popcorn and the big big screen and other people breathing, giggling or whispering here and there. Beasts is a tale of survival, otherness, independence and a crazy kind of bravery all just outside of our favorite city—New Orleans. I say favorite because Americans have adopted NOLA for its joie de vivre; rowdiness; corruption; unique African, African American, French, Deep South, Redneck culture and its TRAGIC weather history. Beasts of the Southern Wild offers up a place fondly referred to by its ragtag collection of residents as the “bathtub,” bayous, oil refinery-cluttered skylines, a symbolic porcupine boat, ramshackle habitations and a BIG storm. The oddball little collection of blacks and whites (in NOLA they all get along) survive for the most part and fight back by blowing up a levy so their dying bit of swamp can live again.

The question is…without Quvenzhané Wallis would this movie have been nominated for an Academy Award? Probably not. Hush Puppy and her ne’er-do-well daddy, a powerful angry confused drunken black man who does love his kid and the bathtub, ARE the film. The mystique of New Orleans, our national Hurricane Katrina psychosis, and one little magnificent compelling mesmerizing black girl have infused an ordinary tale with meaning and power. Beasts is ahead of Silver Linings but not in the top three yet.

Finally yesterday—scarily, violently, brilliantly (I say with some reluctance) there’s Django Unchained. (a cowboy and his sidekick kill a bunch of bad guys to save the beautiful girl and the lovers ride away into the sunset to live happily ever after, yeah, right!)
In Northome, Minnesota in the ‘50s the Royal Theater showed two movies a week, each them twice an evening for three days (as I remember it). My cousin Audrey was the cashier and when I stayed in town I could go to work with her as often as I wanted. And I loved movies, loved them, loved them. Along with books they were pretty much my only interests in life. Especially westerns and all those galloping horses with their glistening coats of many colors and mountains and wide open spaces. If memory serves me I sat through the entire six showings of many of my beloved cowboy movies.  So really—to me—Django Unchained is just Roy Rogers with violence times 1000!

I’ve only seen Reservoir Dogs before this present extravaganza of blood guts destruction death. Wow. The blood is so bright and spouting and spurting and, well, colorful and see how the bodies dive and dance. The bullets fly, creating artful patterns in all manner of materials. Okay, now I see why magazines with hundreds of bullets are so important—can’t kill as fast as Tarantino needs you to without lots and lots of rapid fire.

At heart though this is just an updated western with the same beautiful daring cowboys of old. This time the star is black, that’s different, but he’s no more or less valiant and handsome and strong than Gene and Roy. And his love, a pure (but vulnerable) beauty is a modern match for the most sought after and equally vulnerable blonde in old Dodge City. The landscape is still grand, the horses still fast and sleek. And there’s a little perk that was almost never there with those cowboys of yore. The many grungy illiterate mean bad guys turn out to be funny, especially in the Klan scene, but there are bits of nasty humor all over the place like the banter between the German bounty hunter good guy and Django in their ever-changing sidekick roles, and the simpering sister and that odd kissy-face relationship with her brother at Candyland.

Django Unchained is spectacular in its own Tarantinoesque way. It is not thoughtful or meaningful or unique or enlightening but it is a fine fine adventure story. It might be tied in my number two spot with Lincoln. Even though I hate that I think this gun-mad event is so good. Okay, four to go.

IT IS 2016 AND TIME AND PLACE THE BLOG IS BEING TURNED INTO A SERIES OF BOOKS. THIS IS THE FIRST POST FOR THE 2013-14 EDITION. A note seems in order. This post really belongs in my book blog, Avoiding the Real World, doesn’t it? But no, that’s not true. It is very much about being out there in the world through our most consistently available and the most thoughtfully enlightening form of travel—reading, and one of our most pleasurable and easy forms of travel—movies. So please join me for all my travels whether in books and media; train, car and plane; Time and Place for 2013 and 2014. (San Diego, Thanksgiving 2016)

LAUNCHING 2013 DEEP IN ‘OLD’ MEDIA: What’s not to love about my new Surface tablet, laptops, smart phone, smart camera, etc.? About facebook and google and all things to come? Nothing. My communications would be considerably slower, more cumbersome without them. They are so immediate, so today. But my heart lags behind with my old familiar friends, my ‘old’ media—books with paper and pages, movies with people and popcorn.

This weekend belonged to them. My means of travel without a ticket and of forgetting anything out of kilter in my life. And plain old education and entertainment all wrapped up a hard/soft cover or a warm dark theater.

The Books: Chrystia Freeland’s study of The Plutocrats: The Rise of the New Global Super-Rich and the Fall of Everyone Else does cover the world. Although I am only about halfway through, this book has been an eye-opener. The word ‘plutocrat’ immediately brings to mind a gouty old white haired white man and/or his handsome polo/golf playing son who is in the process of inheriting the family fortune made from oil or trains or canals—in other words real things. They have vast amounts of money and reluctantly part with any of it but on occasion the workers/masses must be pacified so a penny-raise here, a library there are doled out. Wipe that image out of your mind.

The new plutocrats are a truly international cast of character, still mostly male but as apt to be from India or Russia or China as from NYC or London. And for the most part they made their money—the old fashioned way—working for it. The fact is that largely unforeseen and impossible to imagine technological advancements and wild fluctuations in world economies gave these new workers, with their Ivy League educations and good opinions of themselves, just the right moment in time to launch their fortune-seeking. Voila! The new Plutocrats. A very good book but you must pay attention…Freeland tells us almost too much about these One Percenters. They are not like you or me but they are not like Rockefeller or Vanderbilt either. Bill Gates is one, Steve Jobs was one. Starbucks and Google as well as the banks and hedge funds created them. They run the world.

 Finished, in the middle of or just beginning tales of dastardly deeds from Paris (Murder in the Marais by Cara Black), Iceland (The Draining Lake by Arnaldur Indridsason) and Denmark/Lithuania (The Boy in the Suitcase by Lene Kaaberbol & Agnete Friis). It’s all about seeing the world after all. Whether through the eyes of those new very rich kids on earth’s blocks or lively girl and cranky boy detectives it can still be an exciting trip. Cara Black’s heroine Aimee Leduc is simply too wild, crazy, cute, sexy to have the touch of believability I demand from my mysteries. She’s over the top—Angelina Jolie in “Salt.” I really like my friends in the murder business to be a bit gloomier and being a little older doesn’t hurt. Like Indridason’s cops, all flawed enough to be my neighbors, or the screw-up do-gooder character of Nina in “The Boy in the Suitcase” with a past that we are not privy to early on. Just started the latter book and these two Danish authors are new to me so not sure how I feel about it yet. As long as no superheroes, male or female, appear it may be alright. But Henning Mankell they aren’t.

Movies: Time to try once again to accomplish that ever-elusive mission—seeing all the movies nominated for Oscars before THE SHOW which is February 24^th this year. Starting this weekend with Argo and Lincoln and as usual cursing myself for not going to the movies more often because I so love them when I do.

Continuing with the weekend travels…books to film. To Iran this time with Argo which is now one of my 10 or 20 film favorites. Very unexpected. I thought I was going to a movie I would like but not love—but who can know when that magic moment will happen and you fall … in love … with him her them it. Argo is history lesson, suspense, comedy. True story. When Iran took U.S. Embassy staff as hostages, six people escaped and wound up at the Canadian Embassy; a crazy movie-making plot was hatched up by a CIA good guy, Ben Affleck; it worked and the six managed to make it to a Swiss Air flight out of the country in the nick of time. Even though I knew how it all turns out it was still edge of the seat for me. Not an easily achievable mix, tension and Hollywood wise guy jokes, but Affleck handily put it all together. There is certainly a political slant but no really pure characters (well except Ben’s CIA guy!).

Finally I stayed closer to home with Lincoln, traveling back in time to watch a badly corrupted, chaotic and frequently downright stupid U.S. House of Representatives. And yes everyone that says ‘things never change, do they…it’s just like today’, is partially right. But the worst of the reps from Lincoln’s time still don’t seem quite as disingenuous and cluelessly dumb as most of today’s U.S. representatives. It is a great movie in any case. I could see Tony Kushner’s theatrical sensibility everywhere (my imagination perhaps) in the dark and dreamy background, the vivid lush sometimes stark scenes, the staginess of it all.

A culturally rich few days with my old media pals…now back to posting, googling, blogging, texting…

A BELATED HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Me and my new best Haitian friend

Here in colonial Santo Domingo it is almost 4pm on a steamy Thursday afternoon. In (fictitious) Maarsdam, (maybe) Sweden it is cold, will be raining again in a minute and the murderer has just decided he must kill again. (“Hour of the Wolf”/Hakan Nesser)

In Haiti it is 1791 and the revolt of the slaves is taking shape. It is bloody from the beginning as has been the history of Haiti since Columbus arrived on these shores. Sugar cane fields are burning, knives are slashing, guns are blazing, rape is the ultimate revenge and let’s see where this all ends up. (“All Souls’ Rising”/Madison Smartt Bell)

Meanwhile… back to the north, Stockholm to be exact, it’s nasty December weather—what a time to exchange a warm stay-at-home evening for a face to face with colleagues you don’t like over a bloody body in a cold flat.  And to figure out what any of this has to do with a cold case attack on the German Embassy some year ago. (“Another Time, Another Life”/Leif F.S. Persson)

What I’m reading when I am not drinking beer.

MEANWHILE it is still the first week of January 2013 in Santo Domingo. Travel is many things. One of them is boredom. Enervating boredom. I have my book friends (referenced above) but at the moment neither Swedish detectives nor Haitian freedom fighters are of interest. I’m so done with the Calle El Conde of cheap stores, bad food and tacky souvenirs. What to do. One more day here. One at the beach near the airport. One to get home home home home.

Paul Theroux grouses about places and situations all of the time … so can I. And, honestly, the Santo Domingo is boring … in its lack of a strong cultural heritage; in the sense that it could be a slightly tacky Miami suburb; in that there’s just no here here. Although there are more malfunctioning car alarms per square foot than anywhere else in the world. And there may even be more pizza parlors. And and and and…

We did go to the Botanical Garden this morning. It’s reasonably beautiful. The famed orchids are in their off-season but a few brightened our walk. We stopped at what turned out to be a down-at-the-heels shopping center and walked from there to a little street side restaurant that specialized in white sauce (my fault, didn’t know what to order that wouldn’t be white!—whatever prompted me to come without a dictionary).

Enjoy my flowers.

Beer and white sauce, lunch of the gods

AND MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT! FROM THE SUNNY LAZY SLIGHTLY INEBRIATED CARIBBEAN.

Today, January 2, 2013, I am in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. And no matter what I do on these travels I can never get away from ME. I am observing my brother and sister-in-law closely and it appears they brought themselves along on this trip too.

I, for example, spent my first days in our latest little low-budget hotel on Parque Colon with my second-floor balcony doors wide open through the worst of the New Year’s noise because my brother selected this hotel in which, it turns out, the choice is between having a balcony room on a busy street in this spectacularly noisy culture and having a quiet back room without real windows. My ‘slight’ tendency toward martyrdom demanded I suffer—so for the many-hours celebration I was privy to every scream, shout, laugh, horn, siren, musical note, dog bark, fire cracker…and I suffered meaningfully! And here I thought annoying personal traits stayed at home if one traveled far enough. But no, wherever I go, there I am.

 It is not just me however.

Marsha, my fairly in-most-ways normal sister-in-law, has now taken note of, worried about, and/or commented on every single dog within sight. Fat dogs, skinny dogs…ugly, beautiful, big, small, mangy, slick, brown, black, white, nosing in the garbage, sleeping in the corner dogs. She looks optimistically about for a responsible adult—hoping against hope it is not just another stray. She has been known to speak ill of cultures, countries, societies, world regions, continents, hemispheres where dogs are neglected. She will NEVER EVER visit China even when they rule the whole world.

And then there’s Robert, the brother. He stalks down the street with a serious demeanor, hands in pockets, looking neither to the right or left. This works well on pleasant country paths, not so well on hectic city streets where he could easily lose his beloved wife and sister to a Dominican back alley. Blocks ahead he remembers he was with someone and peers around, relieved or not, to see us moseying along as though we were doing this for fun! And the other thing about Robert, like me he has a certain tendency toward Scandinavian moroseness, but the Jekyll-Hyde turnaround after only two Presidentes is quite remarkable. He’s practically fun…

Yet one more confession from me, major foodie failure of the world. Sadly this one also includes my traveling companions. While we say we want to experience the culture partially through the local cuisine—we actually want doughnuts, peanut butter and pizza. I hasten to say we do eat other things, nothing too adventurous but still food of the country. Pumpkin and corn soup, big platters of fresh avocado, lots of Presidente beer. But—and how I still hate to admit this—at the end of the day we long for…doughnuts, peanut butter and pizza. I am only exaggerating a little unfortunately.

I am including a pieces from the Museum of Modern Art that I cannot credit because I forgot to take the names. Please forgive me. I hope to go back to the Culture Park tomorrow or the next day and will get the names. 

The main Mercado, Museum of Modern Art and a walk by the Presidential Palace were on today’s agenda. And a most enjoyable lunch at a completely empty upscale restaurant near the museum where we had ravioli of a new sort; pear, blue cheese and arugula salad and carrot ginger soup. We wondered why there were no people until we remembered we were in a Latin country ordering lunch at 12:30. Some Americans simply have no class/manners/concept of time/idea of where they are.

The Museum was hosting a huge architectural exhibit so the only art-art was on the top floor and there was little of it. Interesting work from the permanent collection. A very sweet, articulate and knowledgeable guide accompanied me the whole time, speaking only Spanish. She smiled a lot so I know she was nice.  She spoke a number of Spanish words I recognized but unfortunately there were 10 or 12 words I didn’t understand between each of them. However she was speaking with such pleasing intonation that I knew that she knew just what she was talking about.

Robert just stopped by my room to tell me he had a hot dog on their evening walk. I think we can truly say we are not ‘ugly Americans’ but predictable might apply.

Here are many random shots from the Christmas New Year’s Caribbean adventure.

I do not know where to begin…except to say I have been to Haiti. It is true that the world is full of countries and place with great poverty amid great physical and human beauty. These places are all over Asia, Africa and Latin America. (And not totally absent from the “developed” world). It is apparent however (at least to me) that Haiti is special.

Really? Haiti? How special? How to explain?

THE VISIT: My time in the country was so brief. One day over on Capital Bus Lines. One day to explore the devastation remaining in downtown, to relax with naps and a nice dinner in the tropical leafiness of the La Plaza Hotel. One day to drive over the mountains to Jacmel, a peaceful picturesque colonial city built in the 1600’s, to buy a mask, have dinner at the historic Hotel Florita, and return to Port au Prince. Turns out the return trip was the biggest adventure of all but more about that in a minute. Then day four to make the long journey back to Santo Domingo. Border crossings here match and surpass all others I have made in Africa and elsewhere—except Nigeria. The border appears to be—on both sides—a mass of mud; dust; too many vehicles of every kind, make, purpose; and a whole lot of general incompetence.

THE BIG STORY: This is about coming back into Port au Prince from Jacmel. Now you must understand every city in the more heavily populated ‘developing’ areas of the world is almost choked to death by traffic. Every imaginable kind of motorized vehicle, every human movement on bicycle, foot, or donkey cart are all jammed together on totally inadequate roads. Port au Prince is no different but it may have even more spectacular traffic jams than Lagos or Jakarta or Dakar. And that is some competition. Oh yeah and it is a holiday weekend!

SO we get into the outskirts of the city about 6pm. For the next two hours our Mitsubishi SUV creeps forward. A few yards. A few feet. Rarely a whole city block. Huge heavily loaded semis, buses-regular/buses-piled ever so high with bundles and people, cars, jeeps, and motorcycles of every color, make, condition, power. Several lanes-some intended, some created especially for the situation of the moment.

Another 12 feet. There are five of us, my brother and sister-in-law, our “fixer”, the driver and me. It is not looking good and Robert is starting to exhibit symptoms of claustrophobic pissed-offness. Jean, our guide/jack of all trades/friend, says he will find motorbikes to take us into the center and our hotel, 15 or 20 miles away. A joke.

Then another half-hour, another city block. Robert says he’ll walk if he has to.

Four feet ahead this time. Did we actually even move? Okay we will do it—take bikes that is. Life is short anyway. Wonder what the Haitian hospitals are like… Jean commandeers the services of ‘friends’ passing by innocently enough, not knowing they are about to be carrying these aging Americans through what Jean says is the worst traffic jam he knows about EVER.

My brother is NOT a light person, but a brave young man on a 125 cc Chinese dirt bike  loads him on the luggage rack with Marsha crushed in between and off they go. It looks crazy—too funny to be scary but maybe a little scary too. Hope I see them again—undamaged.

Then my turn. I am littler and MY bike is bigger. The driver, me and Jean. Off. 15 miles.

It involves diving through water holes (created by god knows what since everything else is dusty dry), rearing up onto the sidewalks right into the people-crush, squeezing between idling monster trucks and pickups with a lone goat tied in back on its way to a throat-cutting for the New Year’s feast, edging aggressively between around in front of our fellow bikers—many in party finery for weddings or other family events of major silk, taffeta, organdy (often white) stiletto heel, dress-up proportions.

My knee bumps the bumper of the truck we’re crowding around. OUCH.

I am steeped in exhaust fumes, bathed in sweat, enveloped in smells of cooking, gasoline, candy, perfume, occasional whiffs of sewage, liquor—young guy on the next bike over offers me a swig…and I’m a little tempted. I’m in Africa-space—where personal space is an unknown phrase. I almost love it and know I will absolutely upon later reflection.

It’s the warm dark humanity-packed Haitian night and I’m a little nervous about broken body parts but overall feel so lucky to be here in the special land of mad traffic jams and warm people and high green (actually—partially denuded and brownish) mountains and voodoo and Prestige beer.

We all arrive safely and celebrate with Jean over chilled bottles of Prestige. Jean calls Alix the driver who is still in the non-moving traffic jam and who will be there until 4am! Gods of Whomever…Bless Haitians who never give up.

HISTORY: It was too short a time for a place so crammed with the most intense of historical events so having the most basic understanding of what happened when seemed important. Here is the extent of my knowledge—a place for you to begin when you plan your visit!

Haiti’s history is unique—brave horrific strong violent beautiful abused. The following really short version is brought to you courtesy of a tour led by a most knowledgeable and articulate guide at Musée National in Port au Prince; Wikipedia and the astoundingly brilliant historical novel “All Souls’ Rising” by Madison Smartt Bell.

Haiti was the first independent country in Latin America and the Caribbean and the first black-led republic in the Americas. Haitians are very proud of this—as well they should be. It all began like the rest of the Americas however.

The Taino Indians lived on the big lush green island of Ayiti. One fateful day in 1492 island life took a turn for the worse with the arrival of you-know-who. Of course the Spanish immediately claimed the land for their own and proceeded to kill off—by means of abuse and disease—the native people. Then who would work the gold mines and cultivate the sugar cane as that crop grew in importance? Slaves from Africa of course. Meanwhile the western tip of the island was serious pirate territory, eventually settled by French buccaneers—leading to the first hard and fast division of Haiti between the French and the Spanish.

The western French territory was called Saint-Domingue and grew very rich with a system of slavery said to be the most brutal in the world. In the late 1700’s the mixed population of free people of color and slaves were inspired by the French Revolution and a revolt began. Refugees fled by the thousands to the U.S. and battles continued until 1794 when Toussaint Louverture, former slave and a leader in the revolt, established a period of peace and prosperity. In spite of his military and political skills, Toussaint was ultimately sold out by France and the U.S. (we did not think it a good idea for slaves in the cotton growing South to have examples of black freedom and independence right here before their very eyes), captured and sent to death in captivity in France.

Although France tried a few times, eventually she gave up on the idea of re-conquering the territory of Saint-Domingue and former slaves were able to proclaim independence and rename their part of the island Haiti. Ruled by Dessalines, who exiled or killed all remaining whites, Haiti became powerful enough to even support Simon Bolivar in his battle to free more of Latin America from Spanish rule.

As usual, all good things come to an end and the rest of Haiti’s history is one of dictatorial rulers, coups, demands by the French for reparations for their losses when their slaves freed themselves! and American occupation. Then the Duvaliers, Papa and Baby Doc, and Aristide (I attended a speech he gave in Oakland CA back when the world supported his efforts to bring some relief to the Haitian people—he was a benign and unassuming presence, not particularly inspiring though).

Then the earthquake of 2010 when at least 220,000 people died. A similar magnitude 7 earthquake in San Francisco in 1989 caused 63 deaths!  Much of the difference due to poor construction and people already living in the poorest country in the western hemisphere—about to become poorer.

So there you have it. A sad history with a proud beginning.

The real anchor from the Santa Maria is in the Musée National along with an excellently laid out historical timeline and quite a lot of interesting art from the Haitian naïve period (the guide said).

I will return to Haiti I think. Even with so many passport stamps to go.

The Neset women who should be up in Minnesota baking cookies

December 24, 2012:  Miami Airport. Families headed home for the holidays…or away from home for the holidays—as in my case. Everyone in this airport is leaving for destinations Latino…Sao Paulo flight just announced, San Juan a few minutes ago. Me to Santo Domingo in a few more hours.

I am thinking about home-home. Me and dad and little brother out in the woods cutting down a spruce, a beautiful green needled, sap-redolent spruce. Knock off the snow, bring it in. Mom and me—can’t remember if Robert helped—will  decorate this evening. Small red and blue and green and pink and purple oh-so-fragile ornaments, some the silver and gold wearing off, and the old slightly tarnished tin candleholders on many branches holding REAL chubby white candles. Not so many presents but enough I guess. I don’t ever remember being sad about what I did or didn’t get for Christmas.  Mom’s tired from trying to figure out how to make Christmas Eve—when our family celebrated—perfect in her little household. We will have pyramids of sliced ham, topped with pineapple slices, sweet potatoes and pork sausages,  all sprinkled with brown sugar. And mom will make lefse. Wonderful  wonderful Swedish lefse. No potatoes. Just flour and cream and salt. Rolled out like a flour tortilla, cooked on a large flat cast-iron stove surface just enough for a few brown spots to say it is done. Cooled and spread with butter that has been creamed with more cream (yes I said that) and sugar.

Now they’re calling a flight for Nassau.

I guess my first choice would be a flight to the 1940s-50s just outside of Northome, Minnesota.  However…you really cannot go home again.

But away from this noisy 2012 airport for another moment. The lefse is cooling for later spreading but we’ve eaten supper and some presents have been placed under the tree and the candles are lit and mom reads the ‘Christmas story’ from the bible. The Book of Luke, is that right? IT WAS MAGIC EVERY SINGLE YEAR I LIVED THERE. Nothing has come close since.

The flight to Caracas is boarding.

Christmases since. Boys growing up. Trees. Special meals like the all-fish dinner I once made from a Scandinavian cookbook. Included making stock with a real fish head which kept bobbing to the top of the pot and starring at me. And Janson’s Temptation, a scalloped potato –like dish with anchovies instead of ham. Never made that meal again. Now, in Albuquerque, we make Swedish meatballs to celebrate.

Gate change if you’re headed for Panama City.

My kids and grandchildren are all in San Diego and part of me wants to be there. Grandchildren so grown up, so nice, smart, full of whatever energy it will take to be part of a new world. A family time with laughter and lumpia, fried rice, adobo, pancit and more traditional turkey and/or ham, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, cherry pie and many presents and Christmas Eve mass, a  blending of Filipino and American traditions.

 For several years I spent the eve and day with mom in the Northome Healthcare Center—the nursing home—and in some ways they were the best. We listened to Christmas music, read stories, ate our favorite things like stuffing and sweet potatoes and ignored the rest. Some little presents, nothing much. Surrounded by a snowy landscape. Robert and Marsha come in the afternoon with sweet treats. Max, the best dog in the world, sleeps in the corner.

Christmas sentimentality is acceptable. But enough now.

Last call for Caracas.  Flight to Managua boarding at Gate 49.

December 25, 2012: The night was not one of peace. We discovered from our ideally (NOT) situated hotel on Parque Colon that Dominicans are serious Christmas Eve partiers. Music (‘Silent Night’–NOT) loudly blared from a taxi radio most of night accompanied by shouts of good will and shrieks of joy. A noisy culture this is. VERY NOISY.

We spent our morning moving to a hotel a little more upscale and off the square. Drank Presidente beer with corn soup and avocado salad for lunch. Very little evidence of Christmas around. Just lots of people out strolling visiting eating shopping playing with their kids. It was odd, not exactly unpleasant, just anti-climatic. Seems like Christmas Day on a tropical island should be …more! Walked the unprepossessing Calle del Conde in the evening. My brother picked our dining establishment. Pizza Hut. Expensive and tasted like bad Pizza Hut pizzas everywhere. Not sure he gets to pick again.

If I travel out of country again on Christmas I think it will be a cold snowy holiday kind of place OR an absolutely different culture…maybe Tibet or Sri Lanka.

Amber Arts

December 26, 2012: So far … walked the Malecon Walkway (also known as George Washington Avenue), long strip of land, sidewalk, roadway fronting the blue Caribbean. Could have been a lovely walk. However the Dominican culture appears to be one that isn’t too troubled by masses of trash along the waterfront. When I began traveling years ago I had ready excuses for poorer countries with massive trash problems…’don’t have proper disposal means,’ ‘ aren’t prepared for the world of plastic throwaways.’ etc. I no longer am so forgiving. NO ONE in any urban society in the world has not been  exposed to the idea that trash isn’t healthy or pretty, and hasn’t seen streets that are clean, beaches that are litter free or parks not buried in plastic bottles or soft drink cans. There are some places in emerging world economies that are dealing with it. Rwanda for example. The Dominican Republic is NOT. The city streets are fairly litter free but at least part of the waterfront is a garbage dump. Shame on you Dominicans.

Nice ordinary lunch of crepes, pasta.

Nap.

I am bored.

Latin American/Caribbean places do not hold the same fascination for me as the rest of world. If my plan holds I can complete all Central and Latin America travels in 2014. But I do not know what to do about the rest of the Caribbean. Actually Cuba, Jamaica, Bahamas will be more interesting if I must go because the every-country-in-the-world plan is still on the table!  Maybe I will have given it before then and won’t have to worry about all those other little sunny boring islands scattered about this beautiful blue sea!

Tomorrow Haiti. That should be an impactful experience. Good? Bad?

Sweden 2010

Sunday morning. 4am. I hear a chill wind off the Gulf of Finland. But I’m warm and content here in my 6^th floor room, surrounded by Christmas gifts for family, muffins and strawberry juice and MY NEW PROGRAMMING IDEAS. No no, I am still officially done with that chapter. I’ve just moved it back a few months!

I’ve shared the reason I am here. To find the Scandinavian dance company that will, along with American (Reggie Wilson) and African (Boyzie Cekwana/Panaibra Gabriel Canda) companies, end Global DanceFest/JOURNEYS. Previous target date, fall 2013. NEW target date, WINTER/SPRING 2014.

And here is why. The last show of the last night of ICE HOT was Gunilla Heilborn’s This is Not a Love Story. It IS how I feel about Gunilla’s work however…a love story…I love it. So full of gentle sarcasm, everyday humor, ordinary questions, tiny history lessons, elegant easy dances. Just two performers, all alone but filling a big stage with their low-key friendly funny presences. So I think This is not a Love Story must come to North Fourth. The company was part of Latitudes North a few years ago and Johan Thelander bought the very cowboy boots he is wearing on stage in icy Helsinki in sunny New Mexico.

The night before, Winter Guests/ Alan Lucien Øyen’s new work Flawed was performed. Not such an easy work. Not at all. The lanky, very white Norwegian and the sleek muscular very black dancer from Guadeloupe/Paris just put it all out there. The prejudices and practices of xenophobic, homophobic, misogynistic sexual physical acting out. Did I say that right? At first I did not like this piece. Too much in my face. Then it surrounded me, sunk into my psyche so to speak. But, I thought, wow, I cannot put that on stage in Albuquerque. Then I thought…I must. Alan may be one of the smartest writers and thinkers around; Léo Lerus the most compelling dancer…they’re like mad angels… mean and beautiful.

Tero in Albuquerque. John Davis and me

So I cannot have one of these works without the other I think. But I’ve only covered SWEDEN and NORWAY so far. Remember Tero Saarinen opened ICE HOT’s first night. Tero has already performed his technically attention-grabbing solo Hunt in Albuquerque; he could bring it back with a new solo just being finished now…and represent FINLAND.

Once you start down this slightly obsessive path you must go all the way with it? Yes, I think so. DENMARK. Granhøj Dans perhaps. Just looked at a bit of the vimeo of 2men2mahler. Looks funny and silly and smartly danced! Granhøj was in New Mexico before also. It would be nice to finish with all of these friends and their new work.

For ICELAND, an exhibit curated from all of the photos Bob, Teresa and I took this summer. And how about a film of some sort from GREENLAND. I realize it is officially part of Denmark but surely won’t be for much longer?

Obviously an excellent plan. Perfect way to celebrate my mumble mumble (big one) birthday and STOP programming. There is time and money to consider but that’s for when I get home and feel like worrying.

Would be nice to partner with Albuquerque’s contemporary theater festival Revolutions in January 2014 or later in the spring on the unmentionable birthday. And be funded by IKEA! Before my sons take me on out Central American bus trip. A celebration of my Norwegian/Scandinavian heritage and love of idiosyncratic dance. THE END.

Just Remember… There is always a merry-go-round going round somewhere

It is 5am. I’ve been reading since 4. Went to bed six hours ago happy after dinner by myself in the Scandic Simonkentta restaurant. Beef brisket, pureed potatoes seasoned with root parsley and braised rutabagas, turnips and parsnips on the side. A glass of wine. Very nice. Wanted to be alone, not with my former dance compatriots and friends at the performance. Why is that?

This process of deliberately ending a career, leaving a field much loved—leaving it—as opposed to easing out but keeping references friendships connections feels harsh to me this morning. So many people here at ICE HOT I admire and respect and with whom I have formed friendships over the years.  Why this distancing?

Apparently I need to end things and never look back…never do them again. Wife. Bureaucrat.  Political Activist/Volunteer. Social Worker. Now—Dance Programmer. But I’ve loved each of these pursuits at a point in time so isn’t there a way the  friendships and interests can survive in some form?  Mingling and enriching contemporary life?  A rhetorical question. To which the answer is…apparently not.

Don’t look back. Avoid the awkwardness, even pain, of separation from people, places and things. You can try to keep everything that ever was connected to your life connected to your life. Or not.

Although I always return to Minnesota and check in with the old house as it dissolves into the black wet frozen warm soil pine needles blue flags pet skeletons.

Perhaps this discussion can continue with family, with Robert and Marsha, with beans and rice and Dominican beer at shabby but friendly little beach hotels over the holidays. We all explore each life passage like we are the first people ever to experience it. Silly us. But the subject is good for rambling conversations before going to bed with that new murder mystery. What’s more disquieting as you drop off to sleep? Your life passing slowly and quickly before your very eyes or the dead body in the swamp?

This is now. 5:45am, Saturday, December 14, 2012. Helsinki, Finland. One more day of ICE HOT. One more year of a dance life.

Can’t take photos in performances so it’s just snow snow snow

As predicted, all snow and dance. I combined the two for a few seconds as 1 ½ of my feet pirouetted on the cold wet marble of a theater entrance, swooping to one knee and springing (more like lurching truth be told) back up in the embarrassment of it all. No harm done.

 The most annoying downside of winter snows is not the cold damp dark in general, it is the impaired mobility factor—walking on slick surfaces is actually dangerous. Funny, don’t remember that being a problem growing up in Minnesota, land of ice and snow supreme! Is age the real issue here perhaps?

 Thursday. To dance to dance to dance to dance to dance.

And, to speak both ill and gratefully of the experiences: First. Three performances by apparently over-indulged girls who have been led to believe that it is worth our while to watch them 1) tell a small story—cutely; 2) insult the audience with serial panty removal, toy guns and …well…screeching; and, last but not least, 3) edging and twitching across the stage to boringly repetitive sound. Every festival/showcase has many misses for every hit, indeed after the ‘girls’ (disparagingly labeled thusly because they seemed so young in their unintended [I think] arrogance) there was one more unremarkable presentation.

BUT THEN. Kenneth Kvarnstrom’s piece “YOUMAKEME” for the Helsinki Dance Company. Brilliant. More than made up for the previous misspent hours. Five dancers of some excellence uniquely choreographed and costumed. A work of dark humor, smart lighting and layer upon layer of the unexpected. Perfect. Love this…everyone did.

Dances like Kvarnstrom’s make me sad to be ending my career as a programmer. Because, if I were going on past 2013, I would want to make another Latitudes North festival with work by Tero Saarinen and Kenneth Kvarnstrom—Finland would be well-represented. Now, in two days, I will find the representatives of Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Iceland.

Stop it Marjorie. That’s magical thinking. You are not doing this anymore.

Some regret at moments. Relief too though. Not to have to wade through the possibilities to get to the actual.

On with Friday. A meeting with JOURNEYS spring artist, Philippe Blanchard; walk to the market for silver jewelry for the woman, young and old, in my family, and highly anticipated evening performances.

I must work on a new subject…until then. More snow.

HE’S everywhere

Wednesday, December 12^th, 2012. Slept the sleep of the righteous dance traveler. From 8pm to 4am. That Lapin Kulta did help. At 6:30am I will go down for a proper breakfast…as northern Europeans do it. I’ll take a picture to carry with me when I’m stopping at the Holiday Inn Express in Nowhere, Kansas for pre-cooked eggs and frozen waffles with margarine and fake maple syrup.

For you Marsha, playing “guard the market” from the fluffier creatures walking by

This is my last dance booking trip. Hopefully just the right dancer/company is here to wrap up the last JOURNEYS/Global DanceFest in Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. I am a little sad…but only a little…because it is time. I need to devote every travel dollar and minute to getting to those last 108-countries-in-the-world-before-I-die. But I will return to Finland and Norway for sure. A trip to visit my Norwegian cousins. A trip to Lapland where a great grandfather on mom’s side was from. A trip to Finland as the starting point for a summer’s journey on the Trans-Siberian Express.

Scott and Steve, this is where all the small stages were set up with people basking in the summer sun

Now 3am Thursday. Yesterday was good. Bundled up after breakfast and headed for the Christmas market. First half hour of walking on ice and slush terrifying of course—just like that first drive of the season on slippery roads—and then one adjusts. But that experience of a broken bone from falling tends to stick in my mind and movement. Finally I adjust and creep along rather briskly!

Leaving hotel at 9:30am. Dark and cold. But soon it feels normal

The market is not so very different from any holiday gift fair except that it is in snow and there’s more silver snowflake and reindeer pendants and newly forged candle holders and miniscule northern lake fish fried to perfection and blood sausage and cranberry-centered candies than would be the case in New Mexico.

Mrs. Claus I do believe

Funny. The cold becomes just normal in a little while. And you stroll along like it’s….Minnesota perhaps.

Back in the day….

Back to the hotel for a nap and then off to the evening’s events. Two art center/theaters far apart but nice work accompanied by ample grog (mulled wine?) and champagne. Tero Saarinen’s new work led off the evening. I liked it very much. A sextet—the dancers so fluid in swoops and generous wide arms (outarching, my friend called it), always reforming as solos, duos, threesomes, all together, in new relationships. The score seemed unusual to me—almost like found sounds peculiarly arranged with lovely musical bits and interludes. A darkish piece but with beautifully-clear light focusing moments and actions. Called “Scheme of Things.” Susanna Leinonen presented “And the Line Begins to Blur,” Beautiful strong dancing, complicated but with a slightly murky feel. And finally Jyrki Karttunen danced a portrait of an aging drag diva. The audience mostly seemed to love it…with good reason for the powerful imagery he created. I didn’t get some of the humor but that is okay—says nothing about the quality of the performance.

Let there be music

Walked home on the ice-slush surface with Paul and Walter from White Bird since I did not want to go to one more talky-talky place even for euro vegetarian food. Ate a blueberry muffin, read murder. Life on the road.