Category Archives: non-fiction

Weather Most Foul: What We Saw/What We Didn’t

[The six to ten foot waves of the Adriatic Sea taken through the sea-splashed window of our stateroom aboard the Windstar’s “WindSurf”. Photo is mine]

Here I am sitting in a room of the Welcome Hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the 6th Arrondissement of Paris about to write a blog post on Milan, Italy. Not too many days ago I sat in a suite in a hotel in Como, Italy and thought about writing a post about Paris.

What does all this mean, my dear readers might ask. It means that a great deal has transpired since my last post, which was written in Como. Okay, fair enough. Bloggers have to plan ahead, don’t they? If this is as clear as the view from our window (shown above), then you can see things that I can’t.

We made two visits to Milan. The first lasted three nights. We wanted to explore the city but more importantly, Mariam was determined to see Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” which has been undergoing restoration for many years. (Leonardo had made a bad decision on how to apply certain pigments which he wanted to adhere to the plaster wall. It failed. The masterpiece began degrading within a few years.) It continued to decline in quality for several centuries (and even survived the bombing of WW II.) Now it has been restored as much as modern techniques will allow. I knew about the painting in a superficial way. But our tour guide pointed out aspects the Master used…and they took my breath away.

[The Last Supper. Photo is mine]

The painting depicts the moment when Christ said: “One of you will betray me.” Everyone of the twelve apostles has a different facial reaction. The figures are arranged in groups of three. The Vanishing Point is right behind Christ’s head. I won’t name them all (you can Google it) but I will say two things:

~~The man (first from Christ’s left arm) has his finger pointing upward. That is “Doubting Thomas”.

~~Judas (third from Christ’s right arm) is doing two things. He’s reaching for a piece of bread and he is clutching a small bag containing the thirty silver coins.

I’m not a very religious guy, but these details absolutely fascinate me. Perhaps I should have been an artist…but I can’t draw a stick figure without a guide.

After we viewed the painting, I decided that I could indeed make the walk back to the hotel. Besides, our route would take us past the famous Duomo.

Now, I had visited the majority of the English cathedrals over the years, but nothing prepared me for the detail, of the this Italian masterpiece of architecture. I was put off by the hordes of tourists (it was worse than Times Square after every Broadway play ends). Probably worse than a Taylor Swift intermission at Madison Square Garden.

[The Duomo (cathedral) in Milan. There are cathedrals…and then there’s this. This is not merely eye-catching, it borders on miraculous. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but I tend to avoid hyperbole. But I will note that my astonishment was so great that my head would burst open like a watermelon and all my brains would spit out my eyes. {This was borrowed from Maya Angelou.} Photo is mine]

We continued onto our hotel.

The following day, May 22, we took a tram ride just to feel like locals. We stopped feeling like locals when the #19 stopped so far away from our hotel that we needed yet another Uber. (Note to self: Buy a transit map).

On May 23, we boarded a train for an hours ride to Como. We found a small hotel with a great view:

[The view from our hotel in Como. Photo is mine]

The first thing we did was ride the funicular to the top of a local mountain. The view was very hazy so the photos are not worth showing here.

The next day we took a boat ride to Bellagio.

[An ascending stairway to additional shopping in Bellagio. Photo is mine]

Back to Como we found our hotel and its restaurant closed (no one told us). A thunderstorm broke. We made it across the square and dined at the Vintage Jazz Food & Wine. We both had Sea Bass.

The next morning we took yet another train back to Milan. We needed to do this because it was where the Paris train would depart at the ungodly hour of 6:25 am.

I was awake at 4:00 am.

All this brings us here to Paris where I’m sitting in the aforementioned hotel writing this.

Last night we attended the 9:00 pm show at the Moulin Rouge. It was quite a spectacular performance that included amazing costumes, a contortionist, two men who did the impossible act of one man holding the other on his head. I could feel his C1 and C2 cervical bones being crushed. I enjoyed a rousing rendition of the Can-Can, but I barely noticed the bare breasts of the dozen or so dancers. I was too busy rubbing my sore neck. Mariam had to tell me about the beautiful semi-naked dancers in the Uber on the way home.

Something Is Missing

I need to go back to mid-May and tell you one more part of our cruise on the “Wind Surf”. 

The highlight of the Adriatic segment of the cruise was to visit the beautiful city of Dubrovnik, Croatia. And this is where the lead-in photo at the top of the blog comes in. The sea was so rough and the rain so heavy that the Port Authority would not let us dock.

So, we missed this:

Dubrovnik old town city walls aerial view in a sunny day

[Dubrovnik old town city walls aerial view in a sunny day. Photo source: Getty Images]

A few days later, when were were scheduled to visit Capri, Sicily, we had chosen to visit The Blue Grotto. The cruise line cancelled that excursion (for reasons that are not totally clear to us). 

We missed this:

[Capri Island’s Blue Grotto. Photo source: Getty Images]

The last night on board the “Wind Surf”, some crew members put on a Talent Show. This is the only photo I took and shows our breakfast/dinner server joined with another server and performed a traditional Balinese dance.

[Suti, our server from Bali is on the right. Photo is mine]

What more can I say about the first major leg of our two month journey except that I’m in a hotel in Paris, hoping for the ice machine to be fixed, shopping at Shakespeare & Co. books and looking into booking an evening dinner cruise on the Seine. After all that sea adventure, why should I get on another boat?

To celebrate my birthday, of course.

Como: Love, Clooney, Tragedy And Death

[Piazza Mazzini, Como. From our hotel window. Photo is mine]

Beautiful, even on rainy days.

~ ~ Anon.

Part One: Como & Beyond

If you found this post by finding “Como” and are expecting to hear a YouTube video of Perry Como singing “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas”, I’m very sorry. You’re at the wrong blog site. (But while I’m at it, I should mention that Perry Como was one of my mother’s favorite crooners.) That is a different story for a different time.

Is it really any wonder that I probably got a B- or perhaps a C+ in my high school English class? I, who read “Of Human Bondage” when I was in eighth grade. I likely thought it was a book about S/M, Boy, was I wrong.

For many years, I read and reread the English Romantic Poets. Percy Shelly, John Keats and Lord Byron. I came to love the opening line of Byron’s “The Prisoner of Chillon”:

My hair is grey, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white in a single night,

As men’s have grown from sudden fears:

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose…

For some inexplicable reason, I always thought that the island castle prison of Chillon was located on the shore of Lake Como. How wrong I was. It’s on Lake Geneva, Switzerland. With that misinformation in mind, I had suggested to Mariam that we should go to Lake Como and visit the poetically famous castle. It wasn’t until the reservations were paid and the plans were solidified that I discovered my mistake. But that’s okay. Como is only an hours train ride from Milan and Milan is where we have to catch our train to Paris. So, the two nights in Como were well spent and well worth the excursion. It’s a beautiful town and the lake is picturesque. 

A tiny bit of history first: The ancient town was conquered by the usual conquerers of the day–the Romans. It became a colony of Julius Caesar in 196 B.C.E.

Como has excellent examples of Romanesque and Gothic style churches. The hotels and residential buildings are mostly like the photograph that opens the blog. (See Above).

The cuisine is pasta, of course, and a wide variety of seafood. The menu boards in front of the numerous restaurants offer such delicacies as Salmon, Trout, Pike, Bleak (?), Laverello (?), Perch, Chub, and who will forget a plate of Misultitt (?).

The same interests in cheeses apply to many of the Market items: I know a good Cheddar from a Dorset Blue (I shop at Zabar’s sometimes), but Semuda, Zincarlin and Triangle del Laro leave me wondering. I guess that also explains why I got a D- in my Turophile course.

Part Two: Clooney, Madonna, Branson & Stallone

This part is going to be very short. We took a boat excursion to Bellagio (not the one in Vegas). It’s a charming town full of celebs like the ones listed above. I’m sure there are more. The wealth of the villas is a bit beyond our budget.

But Bellagio is stunning:

Bellagio

[One of the first places you see when you get off the ferry at Bellagio. Photo is mine]

BellagioStairSteps

[Stairway to more shopping in Bellagio. Someone told me that each stone was hand set. Photo is mine]

BellagoMap

[A map in the public dockside area. Photo is mine. The map artist is unknown to me.]

The return trip to Como was nearly two hours because we stopped at more small villages. Ensconced back at Albergo del Duca, our hotel we had a little trouble finding a place to have our final Como dinner. We had chosen a place earlier in the day…but it was now threatening a thunderstorm. And storm it did. The lightning flashes lit up Mariam’s Prosecco.

Part Three: Tragedy On The Lake

But life on Lake Como was not always fun and food. Love abounded and death struck many times. The story of Benito Mussolini’s daughter-in-law is a story of such love and death. Gina Ruberti (d. 1946) married the dictator’s son, Bruno (d. 1941) in a lavish fascist ceremony (is there any other kind?). Bruno was a pilot. He was tragically in a plane crash in 1941. Gina moved to a house in Como.

After the fascist government of Italy began to crumble shortly before the end of WW II, Benito’s days were numbered.

The details of what happened to Gina and her father and his mistress at the war’s end is something I will add as a link for you to read on your own. I encourage you to do so. It’s fascinating.

The Death of Benito Mussolini

[Note: Mariam helps with the techie stuff for which I thank her. I take full responsibility for any omissions, errors, etc.]

 

Rome: Antiquity, Beauty & Faith

Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.

~ ~ G. K. Chesterton

[One of the iconoclastic images in the world. The Colosseum of Rome. What is not so famous is the construction equipment in the foreground. Photo is mine.]

Part One: The City As A Museum

I cannot find a street, a tiny alley, a lane or a shady sidewalk in Rome that will not lead you to yet another street, alley, lane or sidewalk. Modern buildings abut broken columns, capitals and archways that are thousands of years old. What do I need? A history book? A Michelin Guide? A hotel map of the city? A brochure that is titled “Things To Do And See In Rome? An iPad with Google maps?

All five items would help. But it wouldn’t help enough. This is a city that needs to be walked and you would need the time to digest what you are walking near. Your well shod feet will touch the very pavement of rock that sandaled centurions, slaves, craftsmen and beggars walked upon two millennia ago. If history excites you and the proximity to affairs that changed the course of human events, then this city is a feast for you. But it’s an elixir that must be taken in small doses, otherwise your mind will likely explode with the thickness of the past. True, there are other places on this small planet that can have the same effect; Stonehenge, The Great Wall of China, The Pyramids. But for millions of people, Rome connects with us because there are so many commonalties of culture that we, today, share with the ancient Romans. Religion, language and the foundations of democracy to name a few. Films such as “Ben-Hur”, “Spartacus” and “The Gladiator” have become part of our culture.

The incomparable Shakespeare found inspiration in Roman history.

“E tu, Brute?” (‘Julius Caesar’ Act 3 Scene 1.)

I stood near the Colosseum and watched modern-day laborers and masons make necessary repairs in places that seemed twenty stories up. It made me dizzy.

To see a Corinthian column laying its side in the grass, thirty feet below street level makes me marvel at how anyone could possibility put the pieces back together again. The way it was in 200 BC.

So, if history is of little interest to you, Rome would be just another major center of modern day fashion, most likely like it was back in the day.

Part Two: The City Today and Our Time Here

I supposed it’s possible to experience Rome without a thought about religion. But, frankly, I don’t see how you could to that. Rome and Christianity are bound together like fraternal twins. And, what would Rome be without the Vatican City, the smallest city-state in the world. It’s only 400+ acres. I think my grandmother’s farm was just a little bit smaller. There are probably Walmart parking lots somewhere that come close to the size of Vatican City.

It is within these walls that the Popes have shepherded a billion Roman Catholics. Decisions made here affect lives of uncounted souls. The present Pontiff, Francis I is a congenial man from South America. He used to love to dance the Tango with his girlfriend before he was called to the priesthood, then becoming a Cardinal and then, upon the death of John Paul II, was elected to be the next in line to a long chain of men (and not a few woman, but that’s another blog) dating back to St. Peter himself.

I am not a practicing Catholic but I confess it was a thrill of sorts to watch him pass three meters in front of me (in the Popemobile) before he read his messages from the steps in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. He has a gentle and kind face. It is said that he cooks his own meals.

The art inside the Vatican is nothing short of astounding. To get to the Sistine Chapel you have to walk through many galleries of large tapestries, paintings and sculptures that are worth more that the GNP of many countries. I’m not one to judge the Churches vast wealth. You might as well complain about the weather or the setting of the sun.

It is what is it. Change? I’ve read years ago that any progress or modernization of Church policy moves at a glacial pace. I don’t doubt that for a minute.

Away from the Vatican, Rome is chaotic, noisy and seemingly out-of-control. I risked my life crossing a side street. Traffic rules are mostly general guidelines. But the people are friendly and tolerant of non-Italian speakers.

Pasta shops are three to a block. Cannoli is everywhere. Beer mugs the size of a Buick are gripped by men in nearly every street side cafe. The coffee is strong and the pizza toppings are as abundant as a typical produce section of a Whole Foods Market in Manhattan.

Unless you run an official marathon to work and back each day, you will gain a lot of weight in Rome.

But life is to be enjoyed, is it not?

Part Three: My Photo Gallery

My iPhone photo storage cloud must be responsible for all the rain we’ve had on this trip. To make a long post manageable, I’ll simply put a few of my favorite photos below. I hope you enjoy them.

[A typical alley. Intriguing and moderately clean. Taken a few blocks from the Colosseum. Photo is mine.]

[Pope Francis rides by me. At first I thought he pointed at me and said: “You’re the man”, then I realized his eyes were closed. Photo is mine.]

[Near the alter of St. Peter’s Basilica. Photo is mine.]

[In a gallery leading to the Sistine Chapel. Title: “Fortuna restrained by Cupid” by Scoula di Guido Reni. Photo is mine,]

[The Pieta. What more can one say? Arguably one of the most sculptures in the world. Photo is mine. The sculpture is by Michelangelo.]

[This is not in the Vatican but no photo collection of Rome can exclude The Trevi Fountain. This was used in Fellini’s “La Dolce Vita”. Some trivia: In the film “Three Coins in the Fountain” (1954), the legend of the coins was born. If you throw one coin, you will return to Rome, if you throw two coins, you will fall in love with an attractive Italian. If you throw three coins, you will marry the one you met. (There’s no mention of a fourth coin but something tells me it likely involves a divorce lawyer.) Photo is mine.]

Kind of like a modern dating site only using water.

~ ~ ~

I certainly hope you enjoyed this romp through the history and culture of Rome. There are many famous quotes about Rome. My favorite is from a Three Stooges movie.

One stooge: Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Second stooge: Neither was Syracuse.

Et tu, Brute?

 

 

 

Messina, (Sicily) Italy: Of WWII & The Godfather

[I haven’t spoken Latin since I was an altar boy…About fifty years ago. This statue greets our boat as we entered the Harbor of Messina. Photo is mine.]

After an entire day at sea, we tied up at the dock in the city of Messina. It is our only port-of-call in Sicily. We paid 15 Euros each for a little trolley ride (45 minutes in length) to see the highlights. In the interests of brevity, I will add the rest of the photos (taken from a bumpy Disneyland-like train). Sorry, I forgot to take a photo of the vehicle. Suffice it to say that I felt a bit silly sitting on the bright yellow and red tour mobile. I lost what little dignity I have left when I boarded. This is in no way for a grown man to sightsee. And none of what I’m saying is in any way being disrespectful to this charming and historic city.

So, let’s go back in time to take a closer look at what happened in this place. If history bores you, you need to sit up and take notes. This isn’t just another stop among seven days of stops. What occurred here changed the course of history…several times.

How long have people inhabited Messina? You may well ask. Fasten your seatbelt.

The Chalcidians founded a settlement here around 756 BC. Exactly who these people were is something I am at a loss to explain. I’ll google it when I get home. Dorian settlers came next in the 5th century BC from Messina, hence the modern name. You know who (the Romans, of course) arrived in 264 BC. Occupations that followed include the Byzantines, Arabs and the Normans. During the Middle Ages it became a major port city and (Mr. Gatto, you’re gonna love this), it became the most important point of departure for European knights on their way to the Crusades.

Moving on to the darker side of history…The Bubonic Plague came to Europe from here. The story goes: Twelve ships from the Black Sea docked in Messina in October, 1347. When the locals came to the dock to greet the ships, they found most of the sailors were dead. Those still alive were gravely ill (no pun intended) and clutching to what little life they had left. The authorities ordered the ships out of the harbor, but the damage was done. The Black Death killed more than 20,000,000 victims in Europe and England.

Let’s jump ahead to the brighter times centuries later. World War II. Operation Husky began before dawn on July 10, 1943. The Allies, 150,000 troops, 3,000 ships and 4,000 aircraft landed on the southern shore of Sicily and began to push north. Generals Patton and Montgomery were the guys in charge. Messina was heavily bombed. The invasion of Italy had begun and the end of Hitler and the Nazi occupation, and the end of the War in Europe was approaching.

So there it is, my dear readers. I gave you a thimbleful of essential history that we all should know.

Knowledge is Power.

These things we learn from history will help history from repeating itself.

And we all know how true that is…

(Looking over the blog, I noticed that I mentioned The Godfather. Not much to say on this. We didn’t take In The Footsteps of the Godfather excursion. All I can is that many scenes were filmed in and around Messina.)

[The Bell Tower. Photo is mine.]

[A Messina side street. Photo is mine.]

[The Shrine of Cristo Re. Photo is mine.]

[Not a really photo of a side street. But it illustrates the second story balconies, most of which are laden with cascades of flowers. Photo is mine.]

[NOTE: I did the best I could to take photos to illustrate just a tiny portion of the beauty of Messina. To be fair, an abundance of modern apartment buildings interrupt the ancient ruins, churches and other significant points of archetechural note. I should also mention (to avoid certain legal issues) that in the content above, I have liberally quoted, sometimes word for word, from the Port Information Bulletin provided by Windstar Cruises. Finding a cafe with a strong WiFi signal and a great espresso is like trying to find a Studebaker at a Lamborghini Convention. And, a special ‘thank you’ to Mr. Nick Gatto, my teacher in high school who did much to instill in me a love of all things historical. Thank you, sir!

Rovinj & Split: Olive Oil, Cobblestones, Thrones and Holy Bones

[The closest to Dubrovnik, Croatia that I will get on this journey.]

I’m sitting at a desk in Suite 137 on board the Wind Surf (Wind Star Cruise Lines). The level of the mineral water in a glass next to my mouse pad gently tilts, back and forth, like I am playing with a level against a wall. We’re rocking and rolling. Every few minutes the light in our room darkens. I hoped it was not a light about to go out. Instead, it’s a wave breaking with passion and violence against the portal windows. The sea is rough, very rough. I’ve eyed the little tube of Dramamine (Original Formula) more than once. But I do believe that I’ve “found my sea legs” at last. My stomach and inner ear are another another story. When I get up at night (like every man my age) to pee, I clutch at objects that aren’t there. I bang into walls and feel for handles of doors and sills of any kind. I head for a chair to regain my balance.

But I’m not sea-sick. Really. But many of my readers have already been where I am now and don’t need to be reminded of the vagaries of ocean travel. Enough of my issues. Let’s go back a few days and I’ll will tell you a few stories. I think you’ll love the sarcophagus section a lot. I did.

ROVINJ

[A side ‘alley’ off the cobblestone street. A woman writes. In her diary? A letter to her son? Husband? Daughter? She seems content and she has a beautiful quiet little space to do whatever she needs to do. Photo is mine.]

Since setting sail (actually motor power) from Venice we made for Rovinj, Croatia. I confess that I had scant foreknowledge of the little city. But as the day progressed, the beauty, the history and the architecture came to me at first in morsels, then in a wholeness that was pure joy to experience. It seems that the entire Dalmation Coast is limestone. The ancient buildings are built of limestone, the cliffs are limestone and the narrow streets and alleys are limestone. Because my lower back continues to plague me, walking uphill will likely be my life’s burden. But here it gave me a chance to sit on a step, a bench or a low wall. Sitting and twisting my back I looked closely at the pavement. Limestone has an interesting property that granite and marble lack. It gets polished with the ages. I sit and stare and the smooth almost ice like smoothness and reflect. How many sandaled Centurians from Rome walked, two millennia ago just twenty inches from where my left foot rested? How many fishermen helped to polish these stones? How many barefoot servant girls left their damp footprints on these stones? How many slaves in chains? How many regal and royal feet trod in front of me? How many booted soldiers during the Bosnian Civil War? How many Nike sneakers of neoprene worn by the tens of thousands of tourists?

Yes, how many?

[The cobbles on a street in Rovinj. On the climb to the Cathedral of St. Ephemera. Photo is mine.]

As we ascended the hill to the Cathedral, I stopped to rest. On a partly rusted iron rail fence were several pad locks with messages and names engraved or written with a Sharpie locked to the rail. I took a photo of one. It read: MITCH & SARAH. Only later did I discover that I had my iPhone set on video. So you won’t see the lock.

But I wish Mitch and Sarah the best in life. I hope they’re still in love and still together. Their lock is still intact. Are they? One of life’s little mysteries.

[The hill and the Cathedral of St. Euphemia.]

We entered the church. The silence was welcoming. I’m not a very religious guy, but I put 1 euro in a slot and lit a votive candle. It was for a flame for my family and for my best friend. They know who they are.

Behind the altar was the room I was seeking. It held the large limestone sarcophagus of St. Euphemia. This is truly a holy site for many and her story deserves to be told. Euphemia was a 4th century Christian. The Romans prosecuted these early believers. So what did they do to this unfortunate young woman? They threw her into an arena…where the lions awaited. The mural on the wall depicts what happened. Scattered about the sand were the remains of other Christians. Apparently, their faith wasn’t as pure or true as Euphemia because there she is, petting the bloody-mouthed lions as though they were her pets.

Her remains were inches from my hand. I touched the stone, polished of course, and uttered a prayer of sorts, from a flawed human who harbors a few doubts about anything I may say that would be heard by anyone.

[The Sarcophagus of St. Euphemia. Note the mural on the far wall. If you have a swipe screen, zoom in for the interesting (bloody) details.]

We left the Cathedral and made our way slowly down the cobbled street and back to the shops at the dock. I sat at a cafe in the shade sipping a mineral water. Mariam went off to buy me a bathing suit. I wrote two postcards, one for my son and one for my daughter. 

If I had a third, I would have written it to Euphemia. She was probably someone I would like to have had a conversation with. Unfortunately, a mere two thousand years separated us.

We boarded the tender and returned to the ship. Me? A little holier, perhaps.

SPLIT

The surprises that this bustling city had in store for me were not at first apparent. That being said, let’s get one little fact out of the way. This is the location of Kings Landing in Game of Thrones. Inside the palace (more on this in a few moments) is where many interior were filmed. There’s even a GOT museum. No, we didn’t have time to go there. We were on a walking tour and walking tours stop for no man or woman.

This stop is one that we chose to take an excursion. After boarding a small coach (with no bathrooms!), we were off for a half-hour ride to Klis & The Stella Croatica Ethno Village, a small family run farm that produced traditional Dalmatian delicacies, olive oil and bread among other items. 

It was in the tasting room that I failed a major test. 

[One of the most awesome Olive trees in the world. Photo is mine taken from an display on the wall of the olive farm we visited.]

I thought I knew a thing or two about olive oil. After, I can make it to a Whole Foods on 97th Street and Columbus Avenue. 

Was I mistaken. I flunked out with the first sip.

[A botanical poster of an olive plant. There is no need to know anything else about olives than what you see here. Photo is mine taken from a wall display.]

The first tiny cup we were presented with had a half-teaspoon of cherry liqueur. Different but nice. Then after a brief PowerPoint lecture about the positive and negative traits of olive oil, we were give two tiny cups of 1) An extra virgin oil, and 2) A low quality of oil referred to as ‘lamp oil’. Now this isn’t what you think. There are no petroleum products involved here. The name comes from a low quality of olive oil that has been used for centuries for lamps. This was before the use of lamp oil as we know it today. There were seventeen people from our boat that were in the tasting room. We all sipped, first the one on the right and then on the left. We were asked which one was the extra virgin and which one was not. I was among three people who chose the left sample. Of course, that was the lamp oil.

So what’s my excuse? I had mis-read the PowerPoint illustration about the desirable traits. The little girl in the drawing looked to me like she was gagging. In reality, she was coughing (a totally acceptable reaction to a very good extra virgin oil). 

Foiled again.

Back on the bus. Back to downtown Split. We removed ourselves from the vehicle and gathered on a broad and busy public (carless) plaza. We were standing outside the wall of the chief Roman, Diocletian. After a short speech by our local guide, We entered an arched gate and found ourselves inside a small town, warren-like in its maze of lanes, streets and plazas. We paused outside a very impressive octagon building. Now, this person really disliked Christianity and was not afraid to order a fair number of that group to be execute in the most gruesome manner. One of his victims was a Bishop (probably St. Dominius). He was beheaded sometime in the 4th century AD. In general, Diocletian was quite unpopular. He died at the ripe old age of seventy, he was buried in a sarcophagus in the octagonal temple. It surprise no-one that after Christianity began to be accepted by the Romans by Constantine, his stone coffin was removed (and vanished into the mists of history) and replaced by the remains of St. Dominus. 

What goes around, comes around. 

[The Diocletian Palace. The octagonal church is the original tomb of Diocletian. His sarcophagus is missing…never found, forever gone. It is believed that the saint he had beheaded, St. Dominius, rests there today. Photo is mine taken from a public display.]

Inside the Palace/town, I once again stared at the polished limestone pavement. I thought of all the human feet that walk those very stones for two thousand years. What were their lives like? Did they love and laugh like we do? Did they have affairs? Babies? Loving sons and beautiful daughters? 

I think they felt cold in the winter and sweat in the summer. I think they were just like us in many ways. Perhaps they worshipped other gods. Perhaps they murdered a best friend. Perhaps they starved during droughts and got fat during the good years.

And I feel they looked up on moonless nights and saw the same stars, the same moon and asked themselves the same questions about death and life.

In those days, like the days of our lives, destinies could go either way.

[NOTE: This blog post was written and published under more duress than usual. The church bells are tolling outside The Square Pub where Mariam and I are sitting…with a strong WiFi signal. Mariam did the proofing. I take full responsibility for any errors, misspellings or other mistakes. I hope you enjoy it!]

Midnight Thoughts of Venice

[San Giorgio Maggiore in the distance. Photo is mine.]

Venice has been said to be the most romantic city in the world. I can think of one famous resident who certainly thought so, Giacomo Girolamo Casanova (b. 1725). He should know a thing or two about romance. He claimed to have slept with at least 136 women in the space of thirty-five years. To be fair, this number included aristocrats, prostitutes, courtesans and servants (and a few men). It should be mentioned that his twenty year old daughter was also on the list. Again, to be fair, this seems like a rather small number compared to the claims made by some members of rock bands (I have no data or sources to back up this statement, so don’t quote me).

But this is not about Casanova. This is about my thoughts and feelings regarding this phenomenal city. I am not in any way claiming to be an expert…far from it. I am spending a mere four nights here before an Adriatic cruise. The city has a magnetism that is almost palpable. But, even considering the briefest of visits, I can sense why some people come here and stay. The crime writer Donna Leon visited Venice in 1993 and basically never left. (Nothing new about this sort of thing. I know of people, life-long residents of Manhattan, who would never dream of traveling below 23rd St.).

It’s that kind of place.

I love history and I love architecture so I’m kind of in my own bit of heaven here. The narrow streets (lanes) have window sills of marble that have been polished as smooth as a super-model’s air brushed skin from centuries of walkers and people just sitting and resting. The cobblestone streets are murder on ones rolling luggage. The churches are old and the crenellations are many. You squint into the sun to view a saint or an important Venetian of old.

In St. Mark’s Piazza, the sun is trapped by the Basilica of San Marco, and three buildings of precise Corinthian columns (maybe the other buildings had other orders, but I was seeking shade and a glass of Aqua Frizzante) so the other side of the piazza will have to wait for another visit). Besides, Mariam and I had a nice table near the ristorante that had a small band. I had to listen to the entire soundtrack of The Sound of Music. As we left, they played Funiculi Funicula, the only Italian piece I could identify.

Of course we took a short gondola ride. Once we were away from the lagoon, we passed through quiet narrow waterways, brushing against other boats. If you are camera-ready, you would get a fine shot of an even narrower canal. We passed under low bridges and along walls crusted with barnacles, kelp and other unmentionable green things growing and marking the usual water level.

[One of the many delights seen from our gondola. This photo is mine. It was edited with several iPhone filters to enhance the melancholy nature of many of the hidden gems.]

[The famous (some would say infamous) Bridge of Sighs. It connects the Courts (Left) with the old prison (Right). Hence the ‘Sighs’ moniker. I know I would more than sigh if I was led in chains across this bridge. Photo is mine.]

Soon we were sipping cool liquids in the great piazza once more. Music was in the air. The sun was dipping west and we began our walk back to our hotel, The Hotel La Fenice et des Artistes.

But we weren’t really done yet. We stopped at a charming, cozy and very small shop where Mariam bought a hat.

She wore it back to our rooms. For a short while she was my Audrey Hepburn of the afternoon.

Dear Greg

[Greg (R) and myself on some forgotten peak in the Keene Valley Region of the Adirondacks. NY. Date: 1970’s. Photo is mine.]

It’s coming up on a year now since you left me on the trail. You needed to climb one more mountain…at the time, I didn’t want another summit, but you had other thoughts.

“One more,” you said.

“Okay, but I need a rest. I like this little spot. There’s a brook over there where I can drink the cool, clear ‘whiskey’ of the Highlands. You go on, buddy. I’ll catch up to you later. I won’t be that long,” I said.

I waited. I repacked my rucksack and set off to follow you, but a late afternoon fog rolled in making my progress difficult. I went back to the place where we parted.

You never came back. Why? I know now the why, but I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that you never said: “See you later, pal.”

Maybe you knew something about the path ahead that I didn’t.

~ ~ ~

I have a few things to tell you. Several years ago you and your beloved Patti took a trip to the land of your ancestors, Italy. Well, finally, Mariam and I are here. At the moment we are ensconced in Venice. It’s a glorious morning. We’ll be heading to St. Mark’s Piazza soon. I heard the 8:00 am bells toll a short time ago. Pigeons fly about outside our window.

You may be interested in knowing this: Several months ago, Mariam and I visited your grave at St. Patrick’s Cemetery. Patti has done a superb job at choosing a beautiful stone for you. We left three flowers there. One for you, one for Patti and one from Mariam and myself. And it was the kind of day you would have loved. A fresh spring breeze of cool valley air blew across the fields and through the cemetery. Thankfully for us the snow was gone. Not something you’d like, since you always claimed you loved snow…the more the better.

Your beloved Yankees are in last place right now, but you probably already know that.

~ ~ ~

I would have loved taking you to Ireland where my father’s side of the family originated from. I could have shown you some rather unique pubs. But it can’t happen now.

Patti tells me that your favorite place in Italy was Capri. So I guess that’s the best that can be hoped for. I’m not a very religious guy but it gives me a certain comfort to think (dream) that someday you will meet me at a taverna in Capri for a cold Birra Moretti or two.

Then we will fly like the angels we are to Dublin and tap two pints of Guinness together (to our health). Then we’ll cross the ‘hapenny’ bridge and do it again.

Then we will fly like the angels we are to an undiscovered place with undiscovered trails and unclimbed peaks and we will watch the next several zillion sunsets, telling each other things true and untrue.

Just like we used to do…back in the day.

Does it take a ‘man’ to tell another man how much he is loved? You’ve been many things to me, Greg, over the years. A friend seems too thin a word to use here. I’m not alone in saying that I miss you very much. I wish we could sit and talk…just talk…once again.

Just like we used to do…back in the day.

I’m kind of lost without you…

Wherever you are, I remain,

your best friend, Pat

The Moonflower

[The White Moon Flower. Ipomoea alba. Photo: Google Search]

Nature is an Aeolian Harp, a musical instrument, whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us.

~~Novalis

This is a true story. It happened to me during my last few years before leaving home to attend college in the South. All of it took place in and around my family home on Front Street in Owego, New York. The central theme in this post took place in the Spring of 1965 when I was only weeks away from saying farewell to all those people and places I knew and loved while growing up.

I was a teenager and I had a dream. It wasn’t the night-time dream of sandy beaches, the Northern Forest, Boy Scout campfires, sock-hops or even nymphs who might be found somewhere in my backyard. No, it was something I saw in a film. It may very well have been in Mrs. Lowe’s French Class at OFA, sometime in 1962 or 1963. Mrs. Lowe mixed grammar and syntax with a dash of French culture. We saw a documentary about Maurice Utrillo, the painter of street scenes in and around Paris. I love Utrillo to this day. On another occasion, she ran a film about another painter who loved nature and landscape. I don’t recall who it was, but it affected me deeply. In fact, I think something nearly audible, almost visceral but so very real began to grow within me. I could feel it, smell it, touch it, but I couldn’t see or hear it. Was it the films or my new interest in poetry, the inner Irish romantic or merely hormones? I can not say. I was simply in love with nature and all its minute glory. I would lie in the grass, beyond the Hemlock trees, past the hedge of Peonies, away from the treehouse in the crotch of an ancient Elm, and try to watch a flower grow, or a blade of grass lengthen, or a bee pollinating a buttercup. If I rolled over onto my back, I would visualize demons and heroes in the cumulus clouds, or watch a hawk ride the thermals.

I was thick with love…of the sky, the grass, the flowers and a girl.

One day, I stood on the sidewalk in front of our house. Something was missing. Too much brown. No hanging flower baskets (that are so present in modern day Owego), no color. I only knew of the backyard foliage, but the front of the house was too naked. I wanted something with color, a hue of some sort. I knew nothing about gardening (I only tried it in a postage-sized patch of ground quite a ways from our backdoor…it was a failure.) There was a swing, wide enough for two, hanging from chains in the area to the left of the front door. In the photo below, it was the place above the obvious lattice work. This is where I decided to plant some flowers.

[Our house on Front Street. Porch space on the left, in front of the window is where the swing was located. Photo is mine.]

But what kind of flowers? Roses? No, too much care. Daffodils? No, we had several in the backyard. Then I spotted a seed packet at the local G.L.F. (now called Agway) store. On the cover was a stunning white flower. It was a Moon Flower. This was it. This is what I would plant beside our porch. The flower was a climber so all I had to do was prepare a planting bed, attach string from the roof area and sit back. Soon, I hoped, my neighbors to the east of me would be blocked out by the foliage of my flowers. I anticipated that I would sit on the swing and read, talk to my brother or write a poem. I would use the shadows to steal a kiss from a childhood sweetheart.

So, in late April or early May, after the danger of a late snowfall or tardy frost, I planted the large seeds. I had strung about twelve strings to accommodate climbing vines. Nothing left to do except wait.

~ ~ ~

It was now early May and steadily creeping toward the middle of the month. Suddenly, I saw a problem. I was under a strict time constraint. I was due to be picked up in late August by the parents of my classmate, Cathy Brown. She had been accepted to the same college as myself, so her family asked me if I would like to join them and make a road trip to Monroe, Louisiana. Few Interstates existed in the mid-sixties so the trip would probably take about three days.

With this hanging over my head, I began checking the Moon Flower every day to estimate its rate of growth. The Big Question was: Will I still be in Owego when my flowers bloomed? I found myself going to the Coburn Free Library to find a plant book and inform myself about Ipomoea alba. What I read made me love the as-yet-unseen flower even more than I had while staring at the seed packet.

It is a night bloomer. The petals are very light sensitive and would blossom under the moonlight. The night pollinators, the bats and the moths would do their job in the midnight hours.

But did I still have time, my final ‘childhood’ time, before I went off to college and begin my adult life, to see my flowers bloom?

~ ~ ~

In early June the tendrils climbed. By late June, the vines were nearly at waist as I stood on the porch and looked down. I began to worry. My plants weren’t climbing fast enough.

July came on faster than I wanted. I busied myself packing my suitcase and trunk. I picked out a few books. My clothes would have to wait. I didn’t know yet how bad the humidity and heat would be in the early Autumn…in far off Louisiana.

In early August, I felt heavy and fearful. Butterflies filled my stomach. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried. This is the end of a major phase of my life, drifting past my eyes…faster and faster. Instead of seeing the months ahead as a new adventure, I felt depressed…about saying farewell to my parents and brothers, neighbor friends and my childhood sweetheart.

I sat on the swing and watched my Moon Flower vines inch upward. “Hurry”, I would whisper to them. “Hurry”. I looked across the street at Craig Phelps’ house on John Street. I looked to my right where Jimmy Merrill lived. I looked to my left, to the houses that extended to the downtown. With my finger I traced the sidewalk, across the street, where I had walked to St. Patrick’s School for eight years of my young life.

It was all going to be gone soon. And, I knew, somehow I knew that once one leaves home, it will never be the same again when you return.

Never.

The third week of August. The vines had reached the cornice of the roof. But there were no flowers, yet. Still, I held out hope. Perhaps a warm evening would awaken the flowers. Maybe she would be there to watch them almost glow in the dark.

[A daylight bloom of the Moon Flower. Soon the petals will close and wait for the dark. Photo source: Google Search]

One day to go. The Browns will be here the next afternoon to pick me up. I was all packed. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to go all the way to Louisiana. It was less than a year after the three civil rights workers were murdered. I was full of dread.

In the end, I was watching TV when the Browns knocked on our door. I kissed my mother goodbye. I hugged my father. I shook hands with Danny and Denny. (Chris was away at college.) I petted our cat one more time. It purred. I wiped away all the tears after I said I needed to use the bathroom one last time.

We walked out onto the porch. I helped to load my trunk. I went back to bottom of the porch steps where my parents and brothers stood. I said my final farewells.

I said I wanted to look once more at my flowers. I went around the porch corner and wiped away the tears that ran down my cheeks.

I was driven away a few minutes later. I never saw my Moon Flowers blossom. And three months later, I received a letter from my girlfriend…

Angel On My Wing

[American Airlines Gate Attendant. Caitlin. Photo is mine. The smile is hers.]

“Collect Moments, Not Things”

Gate #7 was nearly full at the Key West Airport. Mariam snagged two seats, probably using her charm. I would have picked a place to sit and made obnoxious remarks to anyone nearby until they moved. That’s what you do when you’re a seasoned traveler like me. Once she was settled I went looking for one more T-shirt. You know, something that whispers ‘Beach’ without yelling ‘Tourist’. Something subtle, no bikinis, no bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon and nothing with a message. (Actually, I did like the one that said: “Alcohol is the glue that holds this S**t Show together.” Mariam insists I have too many T-shirts already, but we men know one can never have enough T’s. So I avoided the shirt and settled on purchasing a 375 ml bottle of Havana BBQ Sauce. That won’t be around nearly as long as my collection of T-shirts. I mean some T’s can never be worn, not now, not ever. Like my Rolling Stones Steel Wheels Tour beauty or my priceless Bob Dylan Concert Shirts that will never be taken out in public. They’re enshrined.

I got back to my seat and popped a ginger lozenge in my mouth in case the flight got bumpy. It was then Mariam told me about our tickets. Actually, she tried to tell me the story back at our hotel in Key West but I was too busy trying to position myself in the late morning sun (so I wouldn’t return to New York looking as pale as when I left. Every last minute of UV was critical to get that ‘I’ve been to the beach look).

Here is what she said: Pat, remember how we paid for extra leg room because of your Restless Leg Syndrome (very true!). Well, she continued, they changed us. I’m in the row behind you but you still have an aisle seat. She said that American would refund the extra fee for the extra leg room. I told her it didn’t seem fair. We paid. Who gets to override our seating? Why can’t we sit together? I don’t think anyone at AA was aware that I needed her arm to clutch during take-off. I looked over at the Gate attendant. She was standing in front of her computer. Behind her was the departure information for a Dallas/Fort Worth Flight that was leaving before us.

I turned back to get another ginger lozenge. Not fair, I said.

A voice over the PA speakers: “Paging a Mr. Mueller. Mr. Mueller. Mr. Mueller.” This was about the fifth time I heard the announcement. I wondered where this Mr. Mueller was.

I don’t believe that once we board, someone won’t be willing to switch with us so we can sit together, said Mariam. I said, it still isn’t fair. It’s the principle of the thing. Let me go talk to the young woman. She’s not busy.

But, she was. “Looking for a Mr. Mueller. Please report to Gate #7. Mr. Mueller. Mr. Muuueelller. Mr. Muueellllerrrr.” I glanced around. So many people were smiling. I had to smile too.

I’ll go ask her now. She’s handling the Dallas flight, but she has a computer. She’ll know everything, I said.

No, I’ll go. Your back is sore and we’re going to be in the air almost four hours, said Mariam.

Okay, I said.

I got up to stretch. Ninety seconds later, Mariam was back. It’s all taken care of, she said.

Thank you, I said.

I looked back to the gate attendant. She was petite and young. I began to search for another ginger lozenge but before I could unzip my backpack, the attendant was standing in front of us. I noticed her pretty smile and her energy. She must love her job, I thought.

Would you two like to be upgraded to First Class?

I chocked on my lozenge. Sure, we said. A minute later she handed us two upgraded boarding passes. I couldn’t help but think that this would never happen at LaGuardia. Never.

I decided I would like to take her picture for a possible post or even a blog. I wasn’t sure if such a thing was allowed because of all the security concerns. I walked up to her and kindly asked her permission. She already knew me, of course. I glanced at her badge at the end of a lanyard.

So, it’s Caitlin with a C? Yes, she said, and posed for a photo. I felt a real human connection that moment. Something so hard to find these days. Her smile was contagious. I liked her without even spending more than five minutes in conversation.

I wondered how she perceived me. How she saw me. Did I remind her of her grandfather? Her uncle Fred? Or did she see me (as I sometimes like to see myself) as a distinguished gentleman of travel. A Sean Connery with a beard? Julio Iglesias? Timothy Dalton? Joe Biden? Yul Brenner with hair? A convicted felon? I wonder what she was thinking when I (jokingly) put my thumb on my ear and my pinky on my lips and mouthed “Call Me”.

Caitlin? Well, I struggled with finding a title for this blog. I thought “Angel-Something” but almost passed on it until I went to my dictionary App and read the synonyms for ‘angel’.

It all feel into place:

~~A benevolent celestial being.

~~A kind and lovable person.

~~One who manifests goodness, purity, and selflessness.

That’s all I needed. We passed her as we walked out onto the tarmac to board AA4555. We smiled. She smiled.

[The Keys. Ten minutes after takeoff. Photo is mine.]

And, several hours later, when I sat on our sofa in our New York apartment, I checked my iPhone.

There was a Friend Request from Caitlin Ford on Facebook. Truly, honestly an angel in many ways.

[Author’s Note: Thank You Caitlin.]

My 75th New Year

[Source: Google search]

Some of you will be reading this post late on Sunday afternoon…after several Alka-Seltzer tablets. Some will be reading this tonight, before the Ball Drops in Times Square. Some of you will see who the blog is from and move on without a glance. “Oh, him again.” Some will see my name and say: “Patrick Egan, oooh he’s good. Another gem of unparalleled literary brillance.”

I’m thinking back on many December 31 nights. My brothers and I would have Dick Clark’s New Years Rocking Eve. My father, perhaps in his fifties or sixties would go to bed around 9:30 pm. Now, here I am at 75 and waiting for 11:30 or so to watch Anderson Cooper in the fog and rain. Hopefully Lady Ga Ga will perform. Maybe Bob Dylan will pop a few confetti-filled balloons after getting the thousands of people in Times Square all excited and elated by singing Desolation Row.

Yes. It’s finally over. 2022 was a, let’s say, interesting year. My best friend passed away and we moved to Manhattan. That’s a lot to deal with.

[Photo is mine.]

I love metaphors (and similes), even when I sometimes can’t tell the difference. I know the rule: Like vs Is, but I’m easily confused about a lot of things. So, I offer this simple metaphor to you, my wonderful readers:

This is a once-a-year event and a chance to reinvent yourself. But you have a rare gift in your lap right now. You have been given a crisp new map, neatly folded and sharply creased. When you open the map and spread it out on a table you will be alarmed for a second. This map has so many trails, paths and byways you’re confused. That’s the point. You can choose any path now. It’s all going to be new. It’s your choice how 2023 will go. But it takes a first step. There may be sadness in the months to come. Perhaps unlimited joy. You may cry but when the tears ebb, laugh your beautiful heart out.

[Photo is mine. Taken somewhere in England.]

Remember to close the gate behind you and keep your eye on the distant and beautiful hills.

The best of luck and Happy New Year!