Farewell to Decade Double Zero

"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens" JRR Tolkien

With the December madness behind me, in the second hour of the new year, after Steven and I return from a party in the upper middle class city of La Canada amid singers and artists, my head is reeling in impressions from 2009. So what did the year bring me? Or better yet what did I gain as a result from it? Being a heady type most of my fun revolves around learning. Being creative most of my stimulating moments involve the arts. Since my life mission has nurtured a soul of depth most of my memories include a spiritual insight. But I am also an austere worrier, you could even say I've perfected worry into a skill, something I inherited from my mother. To counterbalance this trait I've made myself think of my most pleasurable highlights of 2009.

In January, I learned the value of exercise claiming the Gym as my second home. Although I've always been a walker and lover of yoga, neither of them are rigorous enough for me and I rediscovered something in me that was dormant; running. Running on the treadmill heart pumped calms my nerves into a purr. Zumba dancing, drains me of toxins and frustrations and makes me laugh like a child. I also met Anil and Madhu- a loving Indian couple that welcome me into their home, all the while, I have a feeling Madhu will become an ally. They are in fact Delhi-bred Brahmins of the highest class, that even their dog is a vegetarian.

In February, in my quest to be a virtuoso storyteller, I headed for the San Francisco Writer's Conference, weaving an account of my own life story- material from what I have experienced. And while I learned that the commercial world of book publishing is shifting sands, not taking chances on the new and eclectic and sticking to the tried and true, I managed to meet people like me – a literary caste who seek to express and be creatively driven.

In May, like many other writers preoccupied with the peculiarities of the world, I began a blog. I have written about my travels, not only to places far away but also to those closer to home, if not, indeed, about my own home. In contrast to too many other travel writers, I have also focused upon what I knew very well, less because I researched it, as a journalist might, but because I experienced it, often for a considerable length of time.

In August, returning to California and driving from the north of Carmel to the south of San Diego, I developed an unusual love of my own hometown. Unusual, because I have seen the world, but now I find Los Angeles interesting and fascinating. My absences and departures have been good for me.

In September, I discovered that I could discuss books and stories in my sleep, but only with students who were interested, luckily I encountered the sincerity of those who applied themselves and were willing to learn.

In November, I reminded myself that people, even those who knew me the longest, are fallible, just as I am, and that I cannot always hold them to the high standard I hold for myself.

In December, I kept plugging away at my goals and felt strangely peaceful, finding beauty in small things. Although I don't verbally share many of my goals and accomplishments, I keep building on them, constantly giving myself challenges –they reside in me quietly with an inner joy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3sXVxqDbFk

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.