You can starve a body, but you can't starve a mind

As the year winds down I go through my book shelves and make two piles; books that I’ve bought, read and won’t read again that I will give away, and those to sell to a used bookstore. My intention is to make room for more books.

At one point in my life I'd walk through a bookstore and marvel at all the knowledge sitting there, feeling deflated as if I had wasted my life, I vowed to read two books per month. I kept this tradition alive until four years ago in the silence of the Desert, I subscribed to cable television and became a History channel junkie. Having been a listener of NPR for over two decades I now listen to NPR while I cook and clean my kitchen and schedule my tasks according to the BBC World Service and Terri Gross' Fresh Air.

Although I don't believe I'm a media enthusiast, my life has a mix of books, television, films, radio, and some selective news.

Until now- a month short of 2010.

Come the new year I plan to go back to my original goal.

Why? Because I'm convinced not enough people read and when a student admitted this to me, I felt a scream arising from the depth of my lungs. Disappointed, I ask, “Why not”. “Not enough time” he says. I sigh, with a stern expression and a tone that bids beware, “I will tell you one thing, you can't write unless you read. You must listen, take notes and you'll have to work very hard. You are in this class for a good reason. If you don't pick up a book you will dance with death. Books will make you come alive, as guides they will show you the way to your inner world and you will be reborn. Only then will you be able to write”.

He staggers back to his seat and I have a surging flash of panic- is the future of our country in the hands of illiterates?

As I hear myself mentally ranting I begin to hate myself for criticizing- for being so middle class, so comfortable and pampered that I am so shell-shocked. After fighting this war, I become resuscitated by understanding that I can do more by setting an example, books are buoyant with a love of life, like cascading diamonds that gleam waiting to introduce a reader to a hidden treasure.

I love the hunt for fabulous fiction and enjoy going to a bookstore without an agenda in a daze like Alice in Wonderland, I leave myself open and fuzzy to the thrill of discovery, almost shaking from excitement. As an independent shopper if a sales clerk wheels by to offer anything, I'm annoyed from the intrusion. This year my reading titles included:

1.Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami.
2.My Antonia by Willa Cather
3.Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
4.Malinche by Laura Esquivel
5.Sister of my Heart by Chitra Divakaruni
6.Queen of my Dreams by Chitra Divakaruni
7.The Young Wan by Brendan O' Carroll
8.The Coldest winter: A stringer liberated in Europe by Paula Fox
9.El tren pasa primero by Elena Poniatwokski
10.Art by Laney Salibury and Aly Sujo
11.The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
12.The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
13.Seize the Day by Saul Bellow
14.The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

I read more fiction than non-fiction, more written by women than men and from writers spanning the globe. This year only one was in Spanish.

Reading is a privilege and a solitary pursuit, a journey unknown. Books hold an uncertainty principle that applies to all areas of thought, life, longing, and faith. It all depends on how comfortable you are with uncertainty, how fond you are of mystery, how willing you are to take the quantum leap of faith that a book requires.

The Life and Times of Las Vegas

Writing about settings from where you are currently living is that you can narrate the experiences firsthand. It can make writing more authentic since the writer is in both a place and time warp, transposing experiences that make the audience understand because human experience is universal. I impart this theory to my students, and although they may want to delve into the surreal, I advocate for starters to write what they know. Teaching is something I enjoy greatly, but apart from that, I learn so much from the process of teaching, of grappling with so many writing issues every week.The biggest perk is the infectious quality that I see in my students that have the fever of the emerging artist, and the desire to succeed against the sobering odds of the publishing landscape.

Not everyone has glowing memories of growing up in the Desert. Although many may appreciate Las Vegas now, a few wanted out back when. People were embarrassed by their working class parents. Some had complicated childhoods. Many had been poor. Having the Strip as an immediate detail was not insignificant- it made for aggrandizement, where the values of Sin City made many uncomfortable. The fascination with money and what it could buy was particularly apparent to those who didn't have much. The loan sharks, the high rollers, the clubs with the naked girls, with all their plumes and sequined costumes was a reminder for those who couldn't get enough of homes, jewelry, furs, and cars.

Las Vegas then as now symbolized American consumerism and excess, a coarse ugliness of mainstream American culture. There was no nature just bulldozing. It usurped Reno's place as the nation's capital for marriage. But it also became a place where up and coming entertainers – comedians, singers, musicians, – were scouted.

Later, when the high local color was fading, flattening, as the number of hotel rooms ballooned and the competition for tourist dollars became more fierce, individual hotels swallowed up many of the service and entertainment functions that had made the city lively.

Walking pass City Center, I overhear one woman say about another to her companion, “Getta loada that bling”. She doesn't recognize diamonds from Cubic Zirconia's. Hotels are in trouble, unemployment is over 13% and the reckless overbuilding, and over-financing of the national economic crisis hit hard made by massive speculation. No city has a larger concentration of home foreclosures.

In most American cities, “new” means “improved” but in Las Vegas, “old” means last year's hotel and old people, preservation is a concept that seems like nothing but a liability.

The city has a history of espousing poor judgment, and there hasn't been sufficient attention to the fundamentals. Yet it remains a populuxe playground where tourists flock and neon enjoy a spectacular life. As the day fades into sunset, the Strip gleams in pink, lavender and azure blue. At a distance, the neon lights shining between the dark silhouettes of the palms soften into a romantic sway. Like many of its attributes, it is an artificial sunset, but still a gorgeous one.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Of all the things I learned on my European pilgrimage, the lesson that makes the most amount of sense to me is that concerning the redeeming power of love. I didn’t know it at the time but I realize the importance of it now, finding love in Europe among the Germans. Before I set out on my adventure I read the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke that talks of love and longing beautifully and metaphorically illustrated as a rose representing the awakening of the senses – it’s color, it’s scent and it’s fragility.


After posting my last blog, regarding the East- West conflict among brothers, I got an overwhelming response from my friends in Berlin, asking if I plan on returning which put me in a trance recalling the last few days prior to my departure.


When it was time to leave and let the tide of a million lives ebb and flow, Scotsman and fellow actor Paul who refused to call me by my birth name and instead called me Martina, gave me a sci-fi book inscribed it in were loving words to remember.


American opera singer, David originally from Pasadena, gave a sad moan when I told him the news but gave me a blank book to record my thoughts, which I quickly filled with pages of memories.


Elderly neighbor and native Berliner, Frau Bose gave me a cup bearing the city’s mascot- a Bear, as a keepsake of the city I once called home.


Linguist Karen from Washington D. C., cooked me dinner and tried to touch my face when I stopped her, she fell into my arms weeping.


Former German actress turned psychologist Renata came over, took photos, bite her bottom lip and said over and over, “I will miss you”.


Casting director, Benson, from West Hollywood, loyally stoic, helped me pack.


Bostonian Scott, a psychologist, stopped by and proudly announced that he was the architect of my open feelings, and although there was still a road ahead, he then held me close for five minutes while we both sobbed softly. I ran to the window to see him drive until he was a speck in the horizon.


Frenchmen and linguist Paul, gave me a tape of French melodies and made me promise to take better care of my health.


At the airport terminal, East Indian and visual artist Zari smiled when she handed me my gift- a lovely purple and white scarf that she silk screened, her face fell when I said my last goodbye.


Werner hide his distress and I could not talk, there were no words in me, “ I don’t know how to... or how can I …” is all I could utter and, I left a large wet patch of tears on his chest.


Over the last two years, I imagined bounding through the airport doors ecstatic and excited to escape the country, but my legs were heavy and reluctant. The stewardess shook my hand as I’m was about to board the plane, “Good-bye, will you be coming back to Germany?” I wobbled my head in a way to say: yes, no, maybe.


I took my seat, older, wiser, and more cosmopolitan than when I arrived. I felt my soul swell at the sight of leaving the land and the words of Rilke came to mind: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without noticing it, along some distant day into the answer”.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me

In a few days it will have been twenty years since the Berlin Wall's collapse. Who would have ever thought that it would go without a raucous, or a single shot being fired, paving the way to reunification, a quiet end to the Cold War.


In 1991, I stood at Checkpoint Charlie, one of the main arteries for crossing between the two halves of Berlin, the place where American and Soviet tanks had a stand off almost barrel to barrel.


Having seen the East six years prior, it was fascinating to watch the drastic change and activity- double decker buses loaded with tourists, bicyclists, Audi's and Trabbis whizzed by while merchants, many of them foreigners sold souvenirs of the German flag and remnants of the wall, splattered with graffiti, a symbol of the division that once was - the East and the West.


For me, I knew I was living through history with the sudden implosion of the Communist regime but despite the peace with the Exodus came social problems in lifestyle, wealth, political beliefs and other matters that caused a division between brothers. It seemed everywhere I turned the topic of conversation were tales of morose, pervaded by adult nostalgia, or freighted with spiritual disenchantment's.


The Westerners who extended their hand in a humanitarian gesture and valued freedom expected that reunification would come with a price- and they bickered, rightly so, they were already heavily taxed and even higher taxes were placed on them to compensate for additional subsidies. And it would be a while, perhaps even a generation before the Easterners could adapt to a new way of living.


Based on my personal experiences, I witnessed Easterners with a different work ethic. Striving for accolades and incentives were unknown, what they valued was equality. With competition they would retreat into a fantasy world where they yearned for the past- the life they once knew. Despite the fact that suicide rates were high, in the former German Democratic Republic (GDR), they knew what to expect, and there was a comfort zone.


The profound rift between the brothers made me think of Cain and Abel, born to the same parents yet split in their desires. After Cain kills Abel out of envy he is forever cursed with alienation. The distinctive note of his act is that alienation is largely a matter of cultural circumstance.


Author Günter Grass called the division of Germany a "punishment for Auschwitz" but I'd also add that no country ever had to live with so much dishonor. No country disappeared in such an orderly fashion as East Germany, but no divided country ever had such a hard time finding its identity. Lets' hope these feuding brothers find their way back to each other and form a family where wealth is there for everybody. But they will each have to work to earn it.

Monday, Monday

The story begins with a classic homespun adventure- I go to be with the person who gave me life on my birthday. Back home, we are in “Crown of the Valley” the language of the Chippewas, an Indian tribe that never set foot in the area, the land on which the city was built occupied originally by the Gabrielino Indians and then by the Spanish and the Mexicans who built adobes. As in most of Los Angeles County, the greatest amount of fine architecture is domestic, but the city of Pasadena is ahead of most of her neighbors in public architecture. Still it's where I was born in the Lower Arroyo Seco section favored by bicyclists, joggers and people who like to stroll because they have something to experience-lovely scenery and well-kept gardens. And there is the ostentatious simplicity of the Arts and Crafts movement. Craftsman style homes, bungalows that are brown and woodsy, many remain in pristine condition that were once and still are attractive to people of moderate means and often of intellectual and artistic pretension.

Inside a Mexican restaurant there are two strolling mariachis, one strumming his guitar the other shaking his maracas. The minstrels serenade listeners with buoyant Mexican folk songs. It is indeed another perfect autumn morning. The sun shining softly in a high blue sky dotted here and there with ragged wisps of cloud. The air clean and fresh, the birds are singing, and the hours spooled before us. We were poised at another stretch of time in which anything can happen. The musicians join us and sing “Las Mañanitas” the traditional Mexican birthday and Mother's Day song, often used to wake the guest of honor early in the morning as the lyrics are about waking up and celebrating the day you were born. My mother bursts into tears. I, unable to keep dry-eyed at another's tears and having shed tears of many varieties, follow.

I think about the lineage that brought us together, and about my Grandmother. How as a child, there seemed to be so much time, as she pointed out, that I wished my life away. In my heart, I knew there was more to a day than how many things I played with, but also, in my heart I didn't know what that something was.

Now that I am older, there never seems to be enough of it, provoked by a growing awareness of my own mortality. I remember her often, more so in October, two weeks before my birthday would have been hers, and the more things speed up, the more I try to track it. I suspect it comes from believing if only I control time, I will keep it. Ironically, the opposite is true.

Past, present, future. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Paradoxically, the more I think about time, the less I can make sense of it. It eludes me. The same thing can be said about dreams, words, and love. All I know for certain is that the time my Grandmother was with me, I was living both inside and outside of time and beyond it. And this time that I have with my mother will be the same, she has always been and ever will be with me. As a daughter and as a woman, I am predisposed to eternity.

Home to America's Camelot

In 1773, the British Parliament, imposed a tea tax, on the young colony of America, partly as a way to exert control and in a contest of rebellion, in Boston, the indignant colonists disguised themselves as Native Americans and threw the tea into the harbor. The crisis escalated and initiated the American Revolution.

I was in the fourth grade and we were having social studies in suburban Los Angeles when I first became aware of Boston. Walking home from school, I chanted the mantra, “One if by land and two if by sea”. The timing coincided with my brother and I having started a hobby together; a coin collection, so my interest in the historical, financial and geographical realms of Americana was coming full spectrum.

A friend's Bostonian born mother still subscribed to the Boston Globe and at their house I'd pore over the “Lifestyle” section, which included gardening, as rapt as an archaeologist sitting in a cave. The details of what I read have been blurred but I do remember snippets of the images and the sensation I felt while I read; a combined anticipation and nostalgia so keen it bordered on longing. Although I had never been there, I was homesick for the land of the founding fathers.

Decades later, living in beguiling New York as a tonic to break free from the grime, and to end 1994, I forged a trip along with a friend to Boston to understand and appreciate the impulse that draws visitors there.

Disembarking the train, at South Station, we hailed a cab, once inside peering out the window I had a special moment, a thought of recognition, and of San Diego, and drew parallels from one small city to another, where a litany of urban social problems still exist- but would be manageable, and I as a curious cat I would find out what the fuss was all about.

Passing the first glimpse of a landmark, the Boston Public Library, I remember the grand Beaux Arts style of libraries in Europe, but the Boston Library with its massive exterior and pink granite indicated there was more to explore and I was smitten in an instant. In the haze of a late afternoon, I saw lofty skyscrapers and the John Hancock tower splendid in its arrogance and power.

Because my friend believed in excess; as a limousine crawled lazily to take us-- it's pampered passengers to a luxe destination, it rolled past a threadbare homeless person sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk seeking the warmth that steams from the city's underbelly. He caught my miss nothing stare, “It's a subway grate condominium” he called out. It was a ludicrous cartoon and a sobering documentary, combined.

The next morning while at Faneuil Hall, abustle with tourists, I couldn't help but think-- it's no wonder the Kennedy's' were drawn to politics! History is everywhere. A security guard stood in the corner. I recalled having been at the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center, two months before, as a birthday present I splurged and went to a performance, Turandot by Puccini. Alone, I took in the magnificence of the chandeliers, the marble, the rich interiors. While at intermission, I went up to the gum-cracking guard “Excuse me, sir, this is my first time inside the Met, would you happen to know who designed it?” He sneered, his body stiff from city armor, “Who da hell wants to know? Why ax me? “ He turned to another guard and stated, “How bout them Yankees, Mac?” His stereotypical rudeness rerouted me back to my seat reminding me it's slippery to ask a New Yorker a question.

Having left the Hotel that morning without my guidebook, I start to pace the Hall looking for literature, a pamphlet, anything to get my hands on. The security guard breaks a smile and says in a pleasing voice, “May I help you with something?”. When I tell him what I'm searching for, he asks me where I'm from. “This is the Cradle of Liberty, Miss” and goes into the history of the building concluding with his recommendations on what to see in the city including directions and where to go for chowdah. All of which are precise.

At Trinity Church later that afternoon, there's a concert, with a high-level choir and Renaissance music complete with an education of string instruments, primarily from 16th century Italy. That entire week is devoted to the sounds of the Holidays at no cost, as part of the rich musical landscape of Boston.

Staying in Copley Square everything is arm's reach. A visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum includes three floors of galleries filled with paintings, sculpture, tapestries, furniture, and decorative arts from cultures spanning thirty centuries. But it's the garden courtyard that blooms with life in this cold season that takes my breath away, I can only gaze in wonder and recall my love of flowers from the days of my childhood. Now, I experience much the same thing.

After the museum we're off to Freedom Trail and a stop at Newbury Street to buy myself a new hat. I choose a black velvet toque commemorating the last day of the year. Then I hear of the birth of my first nephew, that I have long awaited. I swing my hat up into the air, impromptu and buoyant from the maddening thrill that is beyond parallel.

O' Divine One- Where art Thou?

There were a handful of reasons why I left Berlin in 1993 and returned to the States, each framed by earlier events that are explained in my memoir, Echo Between Us, but today I recall the whirlwind of my German memories in which I was immersed.

The best part of being in Europe was everyone I met. Bright young women and men, all artists, who measured their lives with the passion they expressed, buzzing and beating their wings around town- to me Berlin was a hive.

I've never met people in the usual traditional ways that people meet- I've made a habit of talking to strangers, and one of those strangers who became my friend, Benjamin Rawitz, I pay tribute to- an extraordinary man, who was born to play the piano, who was a regular at local concert stages but his influence went beyond that, a musician's musician with graceful nimble fingers and a kind gentle soul.

The first time I met Benjamin Rawitz, I was standing in a long line at KaDeWe, the largest department store in Europe. Expensive, luxurious, a shopping paradise and a legend, I also was a proud credit card holder. I inhaled the scent of leather, as I waited to buy myself a pair of mahogany kidskin gloves, a man watched me with quick curious eyes. “entschuldigen, ist dieses die Linie”? I asked in my wild broken German with a Spanish accent. Benny rattled on and I held up my hand. “Wait, do you speak English”, I asked, to which he smiled mastering charm. Detecting a french accent, I learned he was an Israeli living in Brussels.

How I remember that day, the encapsulation of everything I love most about this world: we walked out together passing the perfume counter discussing music, books, and the arts. It was drizzling slightly and down the street we went, I was laughing. It was fall, a season of my content.

Benny and I became quick friends and we had a friendship that was pure and simple; we recognized our tribal markings and discussed spirituality and the after life while sitting in sidewalk cafes together. We added all the things we aspired to do. When he left the city we developed a stronger tie slowly over time on a lost art- letter writing.

As time marched on we learned of each others artistic triumphs and disasters but none was so unfortunate that it stopped either of us from dreaming and living our each respective passions.

As any writer is aware, writing requires one to spend great lengths of time in monastic solitude. I enjoy this period when my mind spins more plots than my fingers could ever type, a ritual of silence. During one of these periods Benny's last card came to me that read- “A little bit of luck never hurt anybody.... I'm waiting to hear that something positive happens to you”!

Then I got the news, it was late August of 2006, Benny was dead. The tender man who would not swat a fly, murdered, his battered body in the basement of his apartment building; his nose had been broken and the frontal bone of his face smashed.

For three days in my own private war, I would talk to God, wail and twitch, begging for peace for Benny's soul. As a current passed through my body, feeling the voltage of violence that I abhor, every one of my muscles tensed. I battled with my mind even more, not wanting to see the ugliness of a brutal, barbaric murder, and yet seeing it every time I closed my eyes. Both my body and my mind writhed in unison, reaching a final end. I prayed that in his life he would remember a soft human touch; a simple handshake, and the flesh of another person without the psychological physical torture in the confines of his final hours from two perverse misfits who didn't have an ounce of respect for life.

Benny's killers were brought to trial and incarcerated. Today one of them, a minor escaped after having killed his baby daughter and her grandmother. This tragedy indicates that the laws in Belgium are too permissive and law enforcement officials have to do everything in their power to find him immediately; since his disturbed dark side is a threat to everyone he comes across.

Thumbing through Benny's photos of India, I miss you Benny. These words come to mind, from the revered Hindu text and philosophical classic, the Bhagavad Gita, “He who sees everyone in himself, and himself in everyone, thus seeing the same God living in all, he, the sage, no more kills the Self by self.”




Listen to Benjamin Rawitz-Castel playing Schumann
http://www.fototime.com/ftweb/bin/ft.dll/detailfs?userid={0B199B1B-2F0E-4CAA-A55A-0F96A12EBFCF}&ndx=1&slideshow=0&A

Swampland Beckons where Voodoo and Magic charm a Spell

Whenever people ask me where I live, I say “Las Vegas,” and pause a beat, and add “Not near the strip”. As if defending myself that I am not a gambler, nor a drinker or a smoker. It elicits opposing reactions; a blank stare, a sneer or downright hostility. Pity maybe, but never, ever envy.

Las Vegas once the wild west was intended for cowboys, and if you have ever been to a city social event, the chaos and lack of organization still musters a dog and pony show. Then came the Mob and the casinos and nightclub scene gave rise to a little city with dirt roads. Those who lived here at the time reminisce about those good old days- how the Mobsters generously provided locals with free food and drinks and there was one schoolhouse where everyone rubbed elbows. I call it Provincial. Decades later, with the arrival of Howard Hughes came the corporations and federal money outlaying master-planned communities otherwise known as suburban bland.

Personally, I don't go to the shows, all the has-been that come to town listed in the newspaper make me turn the pages faster than a flash of animation. But the worse thing about being in the desert is not the heat, I can live with temperatures rising but I can't live in a intellectual and cultural void where the days have such a sameness to them, a hypnotic placidity, like a pool where nothing ever falls, not a leaf, not a particle of dust. I float on this pool. The quiet rhythms of existence would have driven me to desperation a few years ago but my restlessness hides under the surface and the only way to combat the missing and necessary stimulation for my survival is to break away to places where culture, beauty and nature thrives.

Having been asked to go to New Orleans over a decade ago, I declined but two years ago when Steven and I planned a business trip to Biloxi, my mental fantasies conjured images about steamboats going down the Mississippi carrying Mark Twain and Scarlet and Rhett on their honeymoon. After Katrina the French Quarter was still in tact and despite all the rhetoric about danger, which has never stopped me from going anywhere I vocalized my idea to my husband and a week later-presto!

New Orleans, is nothing but festive. Just as I had been told, it is like Paris in the 19th century, because the French Quarter or, the “Vieux Carre," is in both the geographical and the chronological sense a different place within the larger entity of New Orleans, which is not really part of America. The architecture isn't French either, it's Spanish, on the model of Cadiz, like a mini-Havana.

But like everything about New Orleans, is a layering of clashing histories like a Napoleon (still served fresh at the "Croissant d'Or" cafe on Ursulines Street). And I find two new cliches rush to complicate its jelling reputation: vampires and writers. Anne Rice bought mansions in New Orleans from the riches the Vampire Lestat brought her, and her presence drew the Vampire wing of the Goth-tide to her Halloween Balls and to a revived Mardi Gras season. Mardi Gras itself, a proven revel that outranks Venice and draws level with Rio de Janeiro, colored deep red with vampire blood.

Every time I walk out my door I am blocked by mobs of tourists on vampire-tours led by awful unlicensed tour guides who sometimes come to blows with each other when their rival crowds intersect.

Writers drawn to the mystique of other writers who had lived on the ill-lit streets of the Vieux Carre, flock to New Orleans; the annual William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams festivals swell phenomenally year after year. And poetry venues like the Gold Mine Saloon are premier stages for young dreamers. Now I am in my element.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is being filmed on the streets during our visit.

The two steady charms of New Orleans are music and food. From the jazz to the latest indie combination bands of R&B and nouvelle retro explode with energy; Jazz Fest packs more great music than any other city in the world. We stroll into an intimate club, Snug Harbor where we listen to a blues band then head over to the Spotted Cat, a rustic club, the place is packed with memorabilia and upbeat people. So we make our way in and finagle some ringside seats, a rattan settee near the front front window while I people watch. Musicians jam while my husband, also a musician is intent on watching, eyes are fixed. At the end of a number the bass player, a robust guy with gray slicked back hair, dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck, moves between the parting crowd with supreme confidence walks up to Steven shakes his hand and says, “I love you man”.

The bartender slung a towel over his shoulder, and calls out.
"Hey Joey, where ya been?"
"Oh hey good ta see ya Max. Me and Sheri jess got back from Arizona. We wuz at dis place northa Phoenix. Some place called Zedona. It's got dem rocks an shit. And got lottsa dem new age types runnin around all in dem vortexes."
"No kiddin'. So ya hadda good time?"
"Yeah, was allright. Played some golf, drove around some and bought some stuff. So listen, gimme a Johnny Walker Black onna rocks, ana Chardonnays fur my frenz, will ya"? He pulled out a fold of bills and dealt Max a twenty.
"Sure ting, boss."

We thank Max and later when we leave walking down the street a woman standing along the curbside gently pulls me into a club placing a washboard over my head handing me a pair of thimbles. A Zydeco band behind me plays Cajun music but to my ears its a mixture of two steps, reggae and rock n roll while I jam with them. Laissez les bon temps rouler. Let the good times roll!

Our next and final stop, is the rustic and candle-lite Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, an atmospheric piano bar, it's crumbling plaster makes it appealing and kitsch, and it's the oldest bar in the U.S.

The powers that be in New Orleans are full time and are in business- a city known for jazz and voodoo, and the fading glory of Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and of bohemian pleasure done Southern style.

The next morning after a visit to Cafe du Monde to savor the world famous beignets, a fried doughnut sprinkled with powered sugar we pack a few things for a day-trip in our rented car that we did not need in the French Quarter. We take sight of the huge engineering failure known as Katrina that let in the waters of Lake Pontchartrain and drowned a myth, bringing to the surface instead the rank poverty and misery of a huge city that tourists never knew, a city ten times the size of the mythical burg carefully crafted out of travel guides. The sobering glimpse of the formidable challenges the city faces with debris, destruction, boarded up houses, potholes, malfunctioning street signals, is a visit to a third world country, right smack in the United States.

Another twenty miles and a drive through the suburbs where all is quiet with private schools and SUV's and zoning patterns clearly laid out by the signs of stillness. Spanish moss stands on either side of the Destrehan plantation done in a simple West Indies style built in 1787 by a free man of color. This discovery coincides with the book I'm reading, The Known World by Edward P. Jones that takes an unflinching look at slavery with all its moral complexities. A costumed guide leads us through the tour where we discover tea was kept under lock and key.

By evening, we find young chefs make hip new restaurants by re- and de-constructing Creole cooking, and ever-roving gourmands in search of new tastes descend rapaciously on New Orleans. A gastronomical lover of seafood, I sample etouffee, a spicy Cajun stew of vegetables and seafood, it's served room temperature. The tastes of most foods would read like a scroll, the ethnic diversity makes me glad I came hungry. It could make a food lover adopt the city as a new home.

As we leave the city we pass old cemeteries, and I reflect that I'd like to be buried here. I love the fancy dress and my eyes like a four year-old light-up to the sparkle. Sensory expression is everywhere. The city is alluring, funky and artsy. Not a typical southern city, it honors its European heritage. Then I'm reminded of a song that plays in my head used in funeral marches. The joie de vivre is so contagious where a spirit lives on.

California Dreamin' on a Summer's day

Even before we arrived at Ocean Avenue, Steven and I heard the pulsing sound of waves crashing coming from Carmel Bay.


At the entrance to the narrow pedestrian street – Mission Street, the street where Europeans, celebrities and the dollar unchallenged frequent when in the mood for quaint, cozy and rustic beauty. We stood watching two dogs, who lead their owners as they walked heads held high sniffing in the breeze. Then Steven and I began our slow rudderless walk down San Carlos Street, a street where I can't resist the flowers – where past and present collide at every turn.


Past haunting pines, past mom-and pop bakeries we walked inhaling the fragrant scent of strong espresso coffee and poppy seed strudel. Past breathtaking Spanish colonial buildings and fairytale cottages and colorful yellow stucco shops that cater to tourists. Past sidewalk cafes where visitors from around the globe speak in foreign languages while they sip their drinks. Past Art galleries and jewelry stores and shops selling high end handbags. Past tourists searching for beauty and Americans trying to improvise a life. Past all this Steven and I walked.


Steven, as it turned out, doesn't enjoy the aimless lingering and looking as much as I do but does like the leafy and private streets that are considered the most stylish best places to live in Carmel.


The interiors of the hotel is not posh, but a startling mix of antiques and marble. Tall flame of the woods and trees form interlocking canopies over the table of our balcony. I am in my element- in nature, left in it's original state, graceful, a show untold.


At the beach that day, we soaked up a gentle sun, and curled our toes in the white sand. The sound of the waves crashing and the suction of sand in to the ocean, a melodic rhythm soothing to my nerves. My ears pricked up when I heard an unusual bark. Having been in Monterey a few days prior, where on a bike-ride along the boardwalk we saw sea lions frolicking in the sun, I say, “Sounds like the sea lion song.” Steven puts his book down, “It's the guy next to us. He's flapping his arms, he's got man boobs”. I harness one hand over his mouth and another on mine to stifle our laughter.


After ten minutes the man walks in our direction. “Now you've done it” I say to Steven. On the spot, I blurt out, “What do elephants wear on the beach?” Before Steven can respond, I say, “Their trunks”! Our giddiness is evident even when it turned out our neighbor wanted the time.


That evening we dined at Forge in the Forest, in the outdoor patio of lush gardens and redwood tables in the comfort of the open-air and fresh California cuisine.


The next morning Steven and I decided to hang out on Ocean Avenue, it seemed relatively peaceful but was swarming with car aficionados of all ages and from several continents. Concours on the Avenue, included seriously dressed men in dark blue suits as judges wearing Gucci loafers jostled with blond beauties in mini-dresses and large brimmed hats. Important looking men stood on the side lines drinking coffee and smoking cigars. Bored looking photographers wearing sleeveless vests open to the waist wandered around listlessly taking shots of strutting looky -loos. The whole scene without edits could have been inserted into a parody of an Italian film.


Having formerly owned a Red 1967 Jaguar 340 Mark II, it was a beautiful, well-built luxury car. I would drive it with the windows rolled down inhaling the leather upholstery admiring the wood dash as I listened to Vivaldi's Four Seasons. I absolutely love, no revere just about anything that was made yesteryear.


My untrained but keen eye marvels at the workmanship and attention to detail of these classics. But whether I'm assessing a classic car, an old house architectural style, a piece of estate jewelry, antiques, an old appliance, or a vintage article of clothing- the design, style and construction is a visual delight because it espouses high-minded idealism and pure aesthetic. But given today's public needs, objects reflect fickleness and pluralistic tastes. And it's become apparent that our environment is determined by economics and technology. The more we gravitate into mass produced, the more I appreciate the Art that once was.


After a few official speeches there was a musical interlude featuring a baritone who sang The Star Spangled Banner. We snapped photos of the cars we each liked. Steven was mildly interested in a 1950's Ford Good Humor Ice Cream truck and the sports-cars. I, on the other hand wrinkled up my nose at a number written in bold across the side of a car. “Yuck, ugly ” I protested. He rolled his eyes. Opting for unique, I stopped my stride when I spotted a gorgeous chocolate brown 1975 Mercedes Benz 450 SL Convertible Roadster. It's plush looking camel seats and great body style was clean, simple and elegant.


“I stopped into a church, I passed along the way” runs through my head as we visit the Mission Basilica. It surprised me to find that California's first library is Father Serra's personal Bible.


Yet, as we walk back through the narrow streets of uneven pavement, alive with the scent of roses and children running, dogs barking, the screech of the seagulls and courtyards of music pouring out of open windows and voices calling down from balconies, and easels set up on every corner. Now this is the real Carmel, I thought with the unearned insight of the casual tourist.

A paradoxical land of brilliant greens and dusty browns

We’ve been married twenty three months, and Steven and I are in Florida where I sleep soundly and sense a kinship with my surroundings. We make a day trip to St. Augustine, the oldest port in the U.S. and the oldest occupied established European city, a step back into time. It feels natural to me, being on a peninsula and a colonial city where aspects of culture live on in captivating stately buildings founded by Spaniards. Late at night, we arrive back at my brother’s and sister-in law’s home where I dream of my grandmother.

We have come to the annual fundraiser for Temple Beth Shalom, the synagogue of Steven’s brother Sam where both brothers will be performing in a classical concert held in a fine art museum.

Steven’s humor goes beyond telling jokes. On stage, he does quite a bit of mugging, an actor’s way of playing up the fun and comedy of a show. He takes the liberty of improvising and embellishing Yiddish songs. As a consummate reactor, his large expressive blue eyes roll as he flips from one character to another. Sometimes, with a nervous mannerism, he reminds me of actor Gene Wilder, delivering a mad spark that explodes into manic hilarity. But it's his Yiddish that hurls me onto the floor, although I don't understand a word, it sounds like he’s either coughing or spitting in your face, and the audience cackles from his animation.

When he performs Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, he is praised for his versatility, and with his wide range—from tenor to baritone—his voice projects a strong resonance and a clear, ringing tone. It is clear to me why he is admired for his stage presence, musicality, and the impressive numbers that he masters, and I am proud to watch him on stage. His voice deep, triumphant from his standing ovation, drives people to tears, when the formal concert comes to an end, the audience crowds around the stage, demanding more. He pleases them with an encore from Porgy and Bess.
“…Your daddy’s rich
and your mamma’s good lookin,
so hush little baby don’t you cry…”

Steven’s liquid voice captures the hearts of everyone present. He is the highlight of the concert—his voice has no equal. However, as a practical man he chose long ago to not make Broadway his vocation because of the extensive travel required. He doesn’t look back with regret, but has found joy in traveling with me because he understands geographical variety stimulates and nourishes my soul.

Before we go home, I yearn for a sunkissed shoreline. We will be celebrating our second wedding anniversary in a few days, and, wanting old and cosmopolitan, we fly to Puerto Rico. There is a slower pace of life here, where nature lovers like Steven and I can soak up centuries of cultural legacies.

Besides the magnificent Spanish Colonial architecture and picturesque plazas,it’s blessed with a tropical rainforest, El Yunque. The sounds of El Yunque comes from an occasional wild parrot. Here it is quiet, serene, cool, with a variety of plants and trees that have managed to grow along a pristine hiking trail. A mist of fog surrounds its highest point with a pleasurable waterfall cascading at the bottom. Its beauty is overwhelming.

The next day we go to El Morro, a fortress with a the dramatic Castle of San Cristobal perched at its summit. I am looking out at the Caribbean, taking photos, and reading historical facts in my guide, all of which triggers a snippet of my memory.

Back in the city, one of my favorite pastimes is photographing the tropical fruit-colored facades, wrought iron balconies, European archways, and cobblestone streets.

We sit in a neighborhood restaurant after ordering tapas. Through the window, I can see the lights hitting the Mexican palm trees and the pale orange facade of Old San Juan. This is the ideal restaurant for a tourist, surrounded by clusters of high-rise buildings and the people going about their lives. I am prompted to remember my Hispanic heritage, my ancestors, their history, their accomplishments, and how imperative it is I continue the propagation of who they were to understand who I am.

I recall last night's dream of my paternal grandmother. My father was her change-of-life baby. Once when I was drawing her portrait I asked her, “Cuantos anos tienes, Grandmamma”? How old are you, Grandmamma? She replied, “Eso es un secreto de mujer, que no se pregunta,” that’s a woman’s secret and a question not to be asked. “Pero como eres nina te dire que soy major que tu.” But since you’re a child, I’ll tell you—I’m older than you. When I showed her my artwork, I captivate her age in my likeness of her by drawing laugh wrinkles. She found it humorous.

In her day, she had been a fiery redhead who, no doubt, had been the center of attention with her green eyes. She had a high forehead, high cheekbones thick eyebrows and a generous nose. A very slender woman, there was nothing frail about her—she had an air of aristocracy, and her finest attribute was her perfect posture. Whether sitting, walking, or dozing, she stood straight at all times—offset by a thin, elongated neck. Her long slender hands that once had been lovely were crooked from acute arthritis, but she never complained.

I recall my parents purchasing new bedroom furniture for me—French Provincial. The set included two twin beds because my grandmother and I would be sharing my room. Seeing the room for the first time, she stood at the door and looked around. “Tu tienes un spirito ordenado. Mientras el sitio de tu hermano es una masa de libros abiertos, ropas reveladas y una cama sin hacer, la tuya es una capilla a orden.” You have an orderly spirit. Where your brother’s room is a mass of unclosed books, unfolded clothes and an unmade bed, yours is a shrine to order, she remarks. My straight-backed dolls are neatly corralled and my dressing table with miniatures suggested an even space where one could assume they are awaiting orders. Feeling offended that I hadn’t anything to offer other than organization, “Tengo algunas cosas que sean las mías,solamente mias.” I have some things that are mine, only mine, I pointed out defensively, referring to the secrets in my lockable diary that I had stashed in a tin box under my bed.

A few days later, my father came home with a large gift basket given to him by a client. In it were cheeses, olives, salami, and a large jar of pickles. I love the sour pickle juice. It seems that every time my hand is in the jar, my grandmother was watching me. The late afternoon snack spoiled my appetite for dinner.

My father had given me a lesson in addressing her with the formal pronoun ‘usted’ versus the familiar ‘tu.’ “Grandmamma, porqué usted tienes nariz tan largo?” Grandmamma, why do you have such a long nose? “Yo también comi muchas salmueras cuando era una muchacha.” I ate too many pickles when I was a girl, she says with a straight face. Gullible, I stopped eating pickles, altogether.

Smetteneh is sour cream in Yiddish, but Prague is far from sour.

After attending the Frankfurt book fair, I settle in to begin a new chapter of my life in Berlin. Taking my photos to be developed, I meet a new friend, Karen, I already know two Karen's and often meet people with the same name in threes.

Unlike the other Karen's who are German, this Karen is American, originally from Washington, D.C. who has come to Berlin with her husband, a French Canadian cinematographer.

That same afternoon we go for coffee and she spontaneously invites me to her home that weekend.

On Saturday I arrive with apple strudel and my favorite vanilla ice cream, by Movenpik.

There is an easy flow between us, by the end of the night her question puzzles me, “You know a lot of Jews don’t you?”
Remembering Mrs. Rubin, my friend Beverly's mother from adolescence. “They have been instrumental in my life.”
“I thought so, there is something about you that is very soulful, I see it in your eyes, a hurt or depth of some kind. Next week is Yom Kippur, my husband will be out of town, he’s gone for stretches of time. I’d like to go to a synagogue in the East, will you join me for services?”
“I've only been to a Passover Seder. What do I need to do?”
“You don’t have to do a thing. It begins with Kol Nidre, the night before Yom Kippur, it ushers in the holiest day of the year, traditionally a fast day. There will be music. We begin with dinner. Be here by 4:30, we’ll eat and go to services they start at 6.

Karen serves boiled chicken and makes a blessing over the wine. We enter a cavernous red brick synagogue on Rykestrasse in a courtyard and I’m amazed that the Temple is still in tact with what seems to be much of the original interior. I look around-only a handful of humble worshipers. How could they stay and why after having survived hunger, treachery and disease. Were they left behind, forgotten? Since Jews are known as people with long memories surely these people are not vindictive.

“How was this synagogue not destroyed?”
“It survived Kristallnacht through an act of fate and fortune-it’s surrounded by housing.”

The ark and bimah are tremendous, ornate affairs of marble and columns and balustrades. A deep balcony, swathed in stone and supported by low Romanesque pedestals, runs along the flanks of the building. There’s also a choir loft and an organ. I lean into her, “This Temple resembles a church.”

Karen looks at me and says “Jews had to identify with the dominant culture, it’s the only way to survive.”
“So what’s the significance of this day?”
“All vows, obligations and oaths are deemed forgiven, absolved and void.”
“Between who?”
“Individuals and God.”

If it's Jewish to make a deal with God, I’ve been doing that kind of bargaining my whole life. That night I go home and journal the experience feeling as if I have lifted and mended a piece of my heart.

Two months later vacationing with Werner in Prague it’s the eve of the New Year. We walk through the cobblestone streets of the historic Old Town Square and head for the famous Charles Bridge. The charming streets are lined with quaint old buildings straight out of a Grimm's fairy tale. Most would believe that Paris is the most beautiful city in Europe but I can't agree after having seen Prague. Both cities share great architecture, character, layers of history and a river that divides the city. At night Prague is illuminated in golden hues that give the Art Nouveau buildings a splendor that make me feel I'm walking on a stage set. I also don't see a speck of trash or graffiti. Even the pavements are decorated with colored mosaics. After a long morning of walking and almost hobbling from the bumpy cobblestone streets, we go to lunch and encounter crowds of Italian tourists. The waiter comes over to greet us and after a few minutes of placing our order, he comes back to tell us that the trout we ordered is no longer available.

“Fine, do you have any soup” I ask.
“Certainly, Madam” he says in very clear English.
“I’ll take a cabbage soup, but please make sure it has plenty of vegetables,”I add.
Ten minutes later, he appears again. I begin to think what now?
“My regrets, we are out of cabbage soup.”
“In that case, I’ll take chicken noodle.”
“We haven’t chicken today,” he says.

Knowing the Czechs may be have the same fatty rich diet as the Germans do which lacks vegetables I order what believe may be stocked in their pantries.

“What about potato soup?”
“We are out of potatoes.”

In my mind, this is beginning to sound like the I Love Lucy episode where she, Ricky and the Mertzes on their road trip to California have a hard time finding accommodations. They locate an Inn only to find one selection on the menu.

“What do you have” I ask.
“We have cheese, ham and bread” he says.

Werner sensing my frustration says, “A cheese sandwich for the lady and a ham sandwich for me.”

After lunch, we find a shop with records, books, and postcards. The man behind the counter is dressed in a sport jacket with suede patch elbows like a Professor taking notes behind the counter. Werner speaks to him in English and the man shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t understand. He tries German; still no luck. I speak to the shopkeeper in my broken German and we have a conversation, albeit a brief one but we understand each other perfectly!

“What did he say” asks Werner.
“He said we could look around if we wish, the books and maps are in the back of the store.” The shopkeeper disappears into the stacks.When he is gone, I look through a couple of CD’s in a box on the counter. I choose two; one by Smetana the other Dvorak. The shopkeeper returns and unfolds a map before me of Prague, he begins to circle areas, “You find interesting” he says in broken English.

I hand the shopkeeper my credit card for the CD’s.
“And please add the cost of the map”.
“It’s yours.”

Werner and I leave and locate a cozy bench to study our map. We hear music being spilled out from a nearby open window, a piano is being tuned. Prague is a city in which classical music is the core of all life, like the air one breathes, it’s to be inhaled, and it is– either in chamber music by way of the city’s churches or street musicians or simply by what we’re listening to now, untangling the emotions, someone tuning and then playing a piano.

We head pass Josefov Street, the Jewish Quarter, a neighborhood of the past, to visit the sixteenth century Pinkas Synagogue but our timing is off, a man with a lined face and shriveled body meets us at the gate “Geschlossen.”

“The names of the Bohemians killed in the camps are painted on the walls” I tell Werner. Inquisitive, he replies “We should try to see it, we’ll come again.”

That night we go to see a cabaret, it promises food and wine and a glass of champagne to ring in the new year. We are served an open face sandwich as an entrée. I look down at my plate- biggest difference between Paris and Prague– in Paris you dine, in Prague you don't. No doubt, I will live on stale sandwiches during my stay.

Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered)

There’s something about visiting a city again that brings on a moment of anxiety. I hadn’t been to Rome in a decade, would it be easy to travel to and would the city be as I remembered it?

My memories of it were like looking at an old Scrapbook. The enormous city had never revealed itself to me as a real place. Grand and ornate, I never got a sense of people’s lives, where they shopped, how they lived, the rhythm of a city remained to me, a beat untold. Maybe it’s because the city was developed by the Roman Empire, it had to be rich, had to be spectacular, but the sprawling city with its impressive architecture with huge majestic squares leaves me feeling cold- another number, an outsider. I prefer Venice, it’s manageable, and refined, its influences of art, architecture and literature I relate to.

The traffic in Rome is like that of a juggler- constant movement. Inside a cab, the driver makes loops, it’s making me car sick and dizzy. I yell out to the driver, “Are you going in circles, to make money off me?"

Going to museums and churches with many people never appealed to me but when in Rome, it’s the only way to admire the neoclassical architecture and opulent ancient villas. Entering the Vatican, I am in a reverie, how can religious art uphold love while there is so much hypocrisy, a guise for having transgressed, or was it only man that transgressed by committing acts of violence in the name of the church - it raises more questions in my mind than I can answer.

David, our guide calls me, he’s flipping his pamphlet and crooking his finger motioning for me to follow him to another room. After we step inside, he says, “Take my advice and get out your camera. These are paintings you won’t want to forget”.
I wrinkle up my nose. “I don’t think we can take photographs here.”
“Right. You’ll have to visit the bookshop for a book or image to remember the trip”.
“Actually last time I was here, I bought the creation of Adam on cloth, where God gives Adam the spark of life as cherubs look on. The original is in the first room, we missed it earlier”. Now I’m being the guide, “Shall we go see it”?
He smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder, as if his inner cupid is released - a blaze of adoration coming over him.
“Okay”.
David takes off his glasses and wipes them clean. “You have taught me more than any tour guest I’ve ever known.”
I perk up. “Really! I’m flattered and at the same time shy to acknowledge this facet of myself. I change the subject, “where to now?"
“We have ten minutes before we go back to the bus and head out for lunch”.
It was hard to tear myself away from the perfection of the Sistine Chapel- but the lure of places yet to be visited drove me forward. I didn’t want to miss anything since I had no idea when I’d be back.

In the gift shop, when it came to buying Art, I knew I couldn’t carry much on the plane. I tried to commit to memory every painting. Later that day at the Borghese Gallery and Museum, I make my purchase- a white marble of a woman seated, partially nude, the favorite and scandalous sister of Napoleon, titled Venus Victrix by Antonio Canova.

Days later, when I arrive in Florence, I decide to focus this trip on photographing locals and architecture, medieval and gothic. I walk the cobblestone streets pass the Renaissance piazzas with rustling pigeons to see Michelangelo’s David and il Duomo. My eyes scan the area looking for a way to take photos of the masterpiece without people in the background. It wasn’t possible. To my amazement, a man approaches me, “Would you like me to clear some area for you?” he asks in a jokingly manner.
“Sure, why not,” I say. “I’m ready”.
Actually, his comment brought me back down to earth. My sense of wanting everything so, is often hard to live with, even for me. Sometimes laughter is the best medicine for my exactness. More often, what develops is if someone tries to help me achieve my perfectionism, to no avail.
Within the crowd, there are children and suddenly a couple kisses so I snap immediately.
“There was such a joy and fearlessness in your face when you took that,” he remarks.
I add, “I hope it turns out to be something like a Robert Doisneau, open, a couple in love, while children play”. As I walk the city streets, I think of why color prints could never approach the beauty of black and white.

After lunch of Tuscan crostini, a chicken liver paste on unseasoned bread I peer into shop windows and see some amazing antique jewelry, each time I look at it as if to question, shall I go in? I come across a high-end boutique that catches my eye where I try on a slim fitting black gabardine wool trumpet skirt. When I come out of the dressing room, all the merchant can say is, “Don’t you look lovely”.

The next day after visiting the Uffizi Gallery while carrying my Botticelli print of the Birth of Venus in hand I come across a vintage store where I purchase a white silk poet’s blouse to compliment the skirt. I accessorize the ensemble with black high heel boots, a turquoise belt and black cashmere shawl-- this is about to become one of all-time favorite outfits.

After a few days with no tangible destination and no goal to my wandering, I want to go home. At the Santa Maria Novella railway station, I step outside as rain begins to fall.

In the distance a mist is gathering. Slowly the white vapor moves like a ghostly presence and I watch the vaporetto penetrate the misty curtain and disappear. Soaking wet, why this moment should make me as happy as it did is a mystery to me. Was I to accept this as an unexpected windfall, with complete pleasure and without questioning its origins?

As if to answer, the church bells in the Square begin to sound their chimes, telling me: Yes, yes, yes.

Fortresses and Castles that time forgot

The minute I step off the train, I hear a saxophone coming from a street musician. Lisbon breezes reminds me of San Francisco, but it is prettier, all the narrow streets where worn flights of steps carry one from one level to another beside the clear blue ocean.

Checking-in at the 18th century hostel with old lamps hanging on each side of the portico, I walk in onto slick marble floors the large reception area looks sterile, the smell of pine cleaner pricks my nose. A crowd gathers at the reception desk discussing the sites. A German woman looks at my embroidered blouse and assumes I am Portuguese asking me where one can get traditional craftwork. “It’s store bought, and I have no idea where you can buy anything embroidered in Lisbon, but I can share a fact or two about the city, if you’d like.

“Naturally”.

“The city is built on seven hills overlooking the River Tagus so it has many faces. It has leafy avenues, and narrow streets.

The Portuguese claim to have as many fish off their coast as there are days on the calendar. And there is Fado music- which lies at the heart of the Portuguese soul”.

It is as if my last statement wins over the entire group, the young woman extends her hand, and says, “I’m Renate”. After handshakes someone says, “Let’s go eat” and I am invited, the sextuplet of this merry group.

We have a seafood lunch in a turquoise painted inexpensive restaurant situated at the top steep streets in the Barrio Alto, people stand both at the bar and at the door waiting for a table. The interior contains rustic artifacts and lots of original art and photographs. The menu offers several preparations of codfish, including one that becomes a favorite, bacalhau, a fried codfish with port wine and cognac.

After lunch we discover the city’s rich architecture; Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Modern and Post Modern. By evening, we head back to the Bairro Alto.

The Barrio Alto is a place where children play, and many shop the boutiques by day, but at night, it becomes a trendy place to people watch and meet friends. As we sit down in what appears to be a club, actually is a Fado house, a 17th vaulted cellar of a house that survived the earthquake, I take a load off my feet. I order soup for dinner and ask the waiter, “What time does the floor show come on”. “Midnight” he responds. “Our curfew is 12:30 says Renate. “So we’ll listen a bit then go”. I begin a conversation with the Swedish man sitting next to me.

A female vocalist comes on with two accompanists, one plays Portuguese guitar the other classical guitar. She sings a song about nostalgia;

“Tem este meu coração” … my heart has this …

Dressed all in black with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her voice is melodic but earthy. By 12:10, emotionally tangled into the music, when everyone gets up to leave the Swede and I stay behind.

Ten minutes later, we make our exit grab a cab arriving at the hostel at 12:35 to closed doors.

My fists hammer at the huge double wooden doors but no answer. The Swede tries a couple of rounds. After 30 minutes it’s useless, they have enforced the curfew and are trying to teach us a lesson. I’m fuming beyond mania, in spite I’m going to break a window and cause the biggest raucous ever! I take off my shoe throw it at the second floor window and it is stuck in a tree! Shaking the massive Oak tree nothing moves, “I’ve lost my shoe”! I yell in a panic.

The Swede frustrated “Fine mess you got us into”!

“What are you Laurel talking to Hardy?”

His face is blank.

“Forget it, a cultural remark,” I add. “This is no time to point fingers,” Help” I yell out wanting someone to come unlock the door.

I take off my other shoe use the heel to bang on the door, and the buckle busts.

An hour goes by. “Hey, lets’ both scream Fire”. I suggest.

We try it- not a peep from the other side.

Hearing footsteps from around the corner, I hobble on my broken shoe to the end of the block recognizing a man I saw earlier inside the hostel. “Hey, you over there, stop!”

He walks in my direction.

“We got locked out; can you get us back in”?

He removes his cigarette from between his lips. “I work in the kitchen. I don’t have a key, but if you need a place to sleep, I know a lady with a house on the next street- but she’ll charge you” he says.

My eyelids are so heavy that I will agree to almost anything. “Let’s go” I call and the Swede comes running.

While ascending the flight of stairs, through the skylight I see stains on the steps that feed my imagination—could this be spilled blood of a body that tumbled to its death. A painted lady answers the door, with a red light glowing behind her, “I’m out of here” and speed away.

The Swede follows me, “We could have slept there”.

“Easy for you to say, you’re a man, besides I’m the one who has to think for the both of us”!

His ego now shot, he leaves.

I recall earlier having visually mapped out the area. The Avenida de Libertad is flanked by major hotels. Inside I tell the clerk my story. “You can’t stay here”, he informs me in a bored voice.

Planted in the lobby, my eyes fly from one side of the room to another, as if I’m watching a tennis match, sweat running down my back. A housekeeper pushes a vacuum at my feet; the manager comes over asking me to leave.

A drizzle begins and I haven’t a coat or sweater, and I’m barefoot. I stumble along in a frenzy. A pay phone is close by, I call the American Embassy, and an answering machine goes on with no way to communicate an emergency! I slam the phone down pick it up and slam it again, as hard as I can, vibrating the glass partition. Through the glass, I see my reflection and laugh at my appearance in disbelief.

A police officer walks by, maybe he has a suggestion.

“I get off at 4; want to go for a drink”?

My face flushes from his indignation, “what’s your name”?

“Viera”.

Rummaging through my tote, I locate a pen and scribble it on the back of a receipt. “Give me your badge number”!

He casually flicks his ID with name and number hidden from sight beneath his right lapel.

“You’ll hear from me again” I warn. Storming off, my ferocity melts into a weep, smelling like a wet cat from dripping hair mousse, running mascara, clutching onto one broken shoe like a pathetic lost creature.

I dare not leave this main boulevard because there are too many dwindling streets that become alleyways. No one can ever claim that getting around Lisbon is easy but it is now 4 a.m., hearing a disco beat- I follow the sound.

The bald bouncer in a cream-colored suit says, “Miss, there’s a dress code here”.

Thinking that nothing is more troublesome than a woman with the temper of a wild cat, “My husband is in there. If you let me in, I’ll find him and we’ll leave. If not, I’m making a scene”.

He unties the cord for my passage.

Seated in a booth in a room of thick smoke, two nights with little sleep, a ten-hour train ride from Madrid to Lisbon and a full day of walking up and down hills, nothing can be more enticing than sleep! I close my eyes and feel I am being watched. Three men surround me, with offers, “Cigarette”, “Drink”, and “Dance”?

I don’t know who to hit first.

The bouncer comes by and asks me to leave.

An idea strikes me- I’ll find a policeman and ask him for directions to the police station.

Ironically, I see the same policeman as before, he rattles an apology, but I am in no mood for decorum, “Take me to the station,” I order.

At the small reception area of the police station, my companions are the city drunk who sleeps on the only seat in the room, a wooden bench and a lady of the night clad in a bright purple mini skirt with red platform high heels, chewing bubble gum she talks to the Captain behind the desk while his wickedly cackles in intervals.

I make myself cozy on the floor.

Twenty minutes later, the Swede sheepishly comes in also to use the station as his haven. He gives me a half smile.

“Come on, sit behind me” back to back we get some shut-eye.

A couple of hours later, the police officer offers to take both of us to breakfast.

“No thank you, but can point me in the direction of a shoe store”?

Dogs speaking French while Strangers meet on a Train

Long ago, as a student, I found an intimate connection between myself and the sensibilities of Europe. I also discovered that Paris is astrologically ruled by the sign of Libra governed by the planet Venus paying homage to love and beauty. I fell in love with the city, losing myself in the art captivated by the attractive and astonishing city.

Strolling along the Seine turning into the heart of the Left Bank, into the picturesque narrow lined streets filled with bookstores, galleries and cafes, I am drawn into shop after shop in the early morning where shopkeepers wash down the sidewalkswhile cats sleep in windows. From patisseries, I smelled bread being baked. The perfumeries and flower shops called me in, but because of my budget, I stand in the shadows.

The best part of being in Paris is getting lost; as I walk, I saw huge wooden gates hiding courtyards and further back mansions and find secret hidden places. Parisian beauty tucked in recessed surroundings, like a mysterious woman, the best part of her is hidden from sight.

A boutique window catches my eye with tarot cards decorating the portal. Inside I splurge by buying myself the Marseille Tarot deck and a pair of pumps reminiscent of the 1940’s. They are round toed stack heels in suede taupe with very thin leather brown piping. It sets me back financially for a few days but I rationalize my purchase by concluding that for the next three days I will only consume apples, bread, and water purchased from the grocery store.

On my last morning in the youth hostel over continental breakfast, I sat at a communal table next to Joao, while he runs a graceful finger through his dark curly hair. He is rugged handsome, a square jaw, green eyes and what appears to be a slim body.

When I find out he too is travelling alone- he’s thinking what I’m thinking- we say in unison, “would you like to see the city together?”

We spend a lively day sight seeing, taking photos and visit the Rodin Museum. He offers to buy me lunch; we eat savory crepes from street vendors, our dessert are figs that are in season from the fruit stands.

I excuse myself, “I’ve got to make a call, to my friend’s cousin. Are you available tonight”? Joao nods.

Mildred’s cousin Sophie lives in Paris, with her parents, she’s fluent in English studying at the Sorbonne. She answers the phone telling me she just got back from holiday. We agree to meet at Gare d’Austerlitz the famous train station, I tell her I have a male acquaintance with me, she replies, “I too will bring my boyfriend”.

“But he’s not my boyfriend”, I insist.

“Don’t pay atencion,” she said in her trilling accent.I sense there are hundreds of commuters at the station, so I ask, “How will I know you”, she goes into a self-description that includes “I am tall and elegante. My hair is dark, my eyes are large,” (she rolls her R’s).

I think to myself - oh my God, I am meeting a goddess! I had better change into my best blouse.

Joao and I arrive, slightly early and pace the famous train station. "Are you sure you’ll know her,” he asks after a 15 minute wait.

“Yes” I say with certainty. I can’t believe I’ve been stood up by one of my closest friend’s cousin. The clock strikes seven. I ask Joao since his French is fluent to go to the ticket counter to see if we can have, Sophie paged.

Standing in line behind a nerdy chubby girl with 4” platform tennis shoes, a throwback from 10 years prior, she looks around constantly, has a strong bent nose and thick-rimmed glasses. I’m daydreaming thinking what lay ahead when I hear her speak to the man she is with and the voice is vaguely familiar.

I tap her shoulder, “Sophie, is that you”?

“Ahh, Linda” she expresses with gaiety.

After introductions, we head to Montparnasse and go to a café. Sophie chain-smokes while the boys drink café noir and I ask for a mineral water. Since we’re all students, we chat about what we will do with our lives. Joao says, “I plan on going into Finance, I like handling large sums of money. And you, Linda, what are your plans”? “I’m going to write”. The crowd goes, “Ahh”, they are impressed and Sophie begins her habit of starting a conversation switching subjects then switching to it a half-hour later, as if it were natural. I love this mental game, because I do it too, but I’m the only one that can keep up with these interrupted lines of thought.

When I double kiss Sophie and bid her “bon nuit”, I feel I am saying good night to a family member.

The next day is my last in Paris; I visit the Louvre and spend the entire day there. In the evening, I head to the train station and sit on a bench reaching into my suitcase changing from open sandals into my pumps, then decide they really don’t work with my outfit so I go to the ladies room and change into a skirt.

Inside the compartment, I make myself comfortable for the thirteen-hour train ride from Paris to Madrid, since my pocketbook mandates that I not spend additional money for a couchette-, I’ll sleep sitting up.

Two loud American men wearing tennis shoes come in sit next to me talking to one another.

A woman walks by murmuring, “Mon cheri” to the poodle she holds in her arms.

“Geez that dog is smart” one man says to the other.

“How do you know that”? Says his partner.

“Well, he understood French didn’t he”?

I bury my head in my book, Les Miserables, but can’t help but notice when in walks an elegant older man. I put my book down when I hear the voice come over a loud speaker announcing a delay. The two Americans grab their bags and leave, sparing me from their mindless yakking all night.

The older man sits across from me. I begin to journal and stare out the window, twenty minutes into the journey the conductor opens the door asking for passports.

“I see you’re an American,” says the man.

“Yes, and you most likely are French” I say with formality.

“Yes. What may I ask takes you to Madrid”.

“I’m a student, travelling to understand my roots”.

“You are not French?”

“No, what makes you say that”?

“Because Mademoiselle, you have the style of a French woman,” he says as he views my crossed legs proudly displaying my new shoes.

“No, I’m Hispanic. Also a student. But now that I have told you about me, may I ask your vocation”?

He reaches over to shake my hand “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Claude David Dubois. I am a journaliste (he emphasizes the e), for LaMonde.

Enthusiastic that I am chatting with a writer we talk about non-fiction and politics- and the recent Republican national convention.

He asks my views after I express them he smiles like a professor proud of a student, “good point”.

Our conversation turns to genealogy, culture and language. I decide to take a chance and tell Monsieur Dubois a joke.

“There are three cats- their names are un, deux, and trois. They are standing over ice, are hungry and decide they have to get to the fish below for consumption. They find a saw and saw a block around themselves”. Then in my best French possible I deliver my punch line, “and that is how un, deux, trois quatre cinq”.

He manages a polite smile, but I’m rolling in my seat.

In the morning, I awake to hear the train wheels getting louder as we slow down. Monsieur Dubois in a polite gesture hands me his business card and wishes me a bon voyage. When I stand, as a gentleman he reaches over to where my luggage has been stowed. I carefully file the card in an outside zipper of my suitcase knowing I will never do anything with it but thank him.

Unknown to me at the time this begins a new phase in my life- chance encounters with strangers- genuine conversations that by all accounts in which a mental bond forms like that in friendship, temporarily.

I soar like a kite onto the street, happy and adventurous, going wherever the wind takes me.