We sometimes encounter people, even strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight. Somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.
~~Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I’d seen the El Greco, the Tiepolo and the Manet. But, what I really needed was a bench, so hard to find sometimes in certain rooms of a certain Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue in New York City. It was three weeks and a few days since I came home from the hospital following a spinal fusion. I was taking a risk by wanting to walk through a few galleries of the newly reopened European Paintings 1300–1800. Mariam and I strolled through the rooms, I’d stand for as long as I could, then I would scout the terrain for the much-needed bench. And that’s what brought me to Gallery 636. I positioned myself opposite a large canvas. I soaked up the art. Furthermore, I did what I usually do when I’m viewing a pastoral landscape–I put myself in the scene. I would walk the leas, sit beneath the Lombardy Poplars and listen to the brooks and the birds and the laughter of distant souls. I leaned slightly (my back, remember) to look beyond a woman who has stepped in front of the painting.
Then it happened.
She turned to me, her red hat breaking the monotony of the white walls, and smiled. Not a “sorry, am I in your way?” kind of smile. It was something different. A knowing smile.
Whoa. At this point, I need to interject something in this narrative. I am seventy-six years old and walking oddly, even funny. Grey hair. Scruffy beard. I could be her grandfather. Let’s go back… There was a time, in my mind, not so long ago, when I was datable. (I’m happily married, so this is a memory of a life I lived prior to 1990).
All those years ago… I would have followed her, stood next to her, talked to her, bought her a wine, sat beside her on the steps of the MET, gone somewhere with her. In my present life, I rarely, and I stress, rarely get a compliment from a woman, a stranger.
Crossing Amsterdam Avenue sometime in the 1990s. I stood on the curb. Light changed. I walked out. A woman turned to me and said: “Excuse me, but you have beautiful hair”.
I happened to look to my left, toward the exit. She turned and smiled. Mariam saw the whole thing. “She certainly noticed you,” she said. “Guess so,” I said.
Which brings me to my whole point. Why did she smile at me? Did she recognize me? I have taught hundreds of New York City kids in my twenty years of being an educator. A former student? Perhaps. Someone I once dated? No, she was too young.
Rested. A gallery away. The El Greco. Storm Over Toledo. One of my favorites. There she was. And, and she smiled again. Again, the knowing smile. The faintest hint. The tiniest hint…of what? She saw Mariam. Maybe her smile was for her too. She saw Mariam, so it wasn’t a flirty smile. It wasn’t a come hither kind of thing. So, what was it? Why was this young, attractive woman smiling at me through several galleries of the MET, on a bustling Friday evening. I noticed that she didn’t smile at anyone else.
Only me. Or maybe that’s what I let myself believe. That a woman saw something in me that made her comfortable enough to acknowledge my existence. Many men live for that sort of attention, especially men at my age. Our faded charms are now erased by wrinkles and furrows and a stooped posture. Once we were heroes, knights, mountaineers, doctors, lawyers, walkers, poets and writers. Now, we are old men who sit and think.
Just before the final door that would be our exit, our way back to the real world of a chilly February evening and taxis, buses, and people. But, did I want to lose this moment? I snapped a quick photo of her contemplating a Vermeer-like woman, in oil, on a 20″ x 30″ canvas.
I turned and walked to the Grand Staircase. The steps that would return us to the evening.
I knew I would never see this woman again. That’s a strange thought when you look closely. You see another human. A connection of sorts is made. Then back into nothingness.
As I made my way down the stairs, I tried to find something in the encounter. Is there such a thing as meaningful coincidences, serendipity and chance encounters that aren’t really chance? Why did our paths cross? What did she have to say to me that was left unsaid?
We settled into the taxi and I braced myself for a bumpy ride through Central Park and up Broadway to our apartment. I thought about the woman, and I wanted to keep this memory (it was becoming a memory as soon as I walked down the granite steps to Fifth Avenue) fresh and in my mind. I thought about the woman.
{Author’s Note: This blog post contains a photograph of an x-ray of my lower back taken six days after my spinal fusion. If the image of hardware screwing together two of my vertebra is irksome to you, my gentle readers, then feel free to search for another fine read. I have 645 in the bank. Find a good one and enjoy, just…please don’t check out A Brief History of Chains and Chain-making. It’s good, but there are other good ones out there, and far, far too many people have checked that one out. I have put this graphic at the end of the post for obvious reasons. The lead image is a generic photo taken from Google. Be warned. Enjoy.}
[A surgical room. Place: unknown. My room was more densely packed with instruments that went “Ping”. Source: Google search.]
An idea that fixed him to one spot was that life was a death dance, and that he had quickly passed through the spring and summer of his life and was halfway through the fall. He had better do a better job on the fall because everyone on earth knew what winter was like.
–Jim Harrison “Farmer”.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
–Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”.
I removed my Bluetooth earphones and shifted my body up against the pillows that were packed hard against the headboard of our bed. No relief. The pain was white-hot. Intense. Bitter. Sharp. I reached for the small plastic amber bottle of painkillers. I shook it. Not a lot left. I put the bottle back and stared out at the patio. The half disk of the moon lit the patio with a soft light. Enough to see the BBQ, the umbrella, the covered table and the sturdy English Ivy, hanging out, wanting to grow, waiting for the spring warmth.
I had been listening to a podcast called A Voice From Darkness. The narrator, a young man on a road trip, described driving through New Mexico and suddenly finding himself in a city that appeared out of nowhere. He told of becoming hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of passages, streets, tunnels, sidewalks and dark lanes. He was filled with panic. Where did the city come from? It wasn’t Santa Fe. No indeed. And it wasn’t Albuquerque, either.
I looked out at the pale light and the patio.
I pondered what I had heard.
What the guy in the podcast (Category: Fantasy/Horror) was describing was uncannily familiar. I had the exact same experience, in many dreams, of being lost and confused in an endless series of false paths and empty halls and deserted passages. Often, it was set in New York City. I began having these dreams after moving to northern New York State in 2011. Sometimes the landscape was post-apocalyptic in nature. Sometimes it was a version of my hometown of Owego, NY. It was all too close to me. Too close to my own experiences. How did this storyline emerge from me and find its way into a podcast?
Recently, I have found myself having an abundance of reemerging thoughts and memories that I have not felt in decades. Tiny memories of tiny events–if any events in life can be thought of as tiny. In some weird Proustian way, I can smell a little bit of food and find myself back in 1954. I can hear music of a sort that takes me back to the sweet smell of a fifteen-year-old girl in high school. She’s in my arms, and I’m dancing with her in the gym after the big game. It’s 1964. A woman on Amsterdam Avenue is wearing retro bell-bottoms. It’s 1977.
Was I being set up for something? Why was a trickle of long-buried experiences flowing through the levee in my mind that separates the past from the present? Is this what happens to all people as they age? As they see less of the light and more of the twilight?
I reflected on my memories.
Wait! Do I want, really want to expose my inner fears and seemingly morbid thoughts and force them into the minds of my loving readers? They have their own problems. I can’t add to anyone else’s anxiety. That’s not what I do these posts for. I’m here to entertain and amuse, not deflate and depress.
I mulled over my thoughts.
The solution is likely in the extent of my pain. Pain can do odd things to one’s psyche. It can energize and it can terrify. It can lay you low, and it can cattle-prod you to attention. Make you laugh while you cry out. Run when you want to stop running, and get up when you’d rather sit. And sleep in quiet repose instead of writhing in a pool of nerve endings.
And it can remind you of your mortality. Slap you upside the head and say: You’re not twenty-one anymore. “You’re not thirty-three or forty-seven. You’re seventy-six, soon to be…well, do the math”.
Walt Whitman wrote something…
I paraphrase.
Grass. The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
One of my avocations is being a volunteer for Find-a-Grave.com. I get a request to photograph the headstone of someone. The request may come from a relative who lives somewhere on the map but west of New Jersey, who will never plan to make the trip to New York State to visit Aunt Polly’s grave. So, I do the deed. And, more often than not, I get a thank-you email. They are grateful. I am happy. Their family tree fills out, and I had a chance to walk through the uncut hair.
The uncut hair. As I searched for the requested headstone, I often thought of grass as a shroud. But not hair. I get the analogy now. The earth is so very old that perhaps there are only a few places where we do not tread on a forgotten grave.
I mused over these thoughts.
The patio is still bathed in that pale light. I’m tired, but I have a plan. I will listen to one more song by Nanci Griffith: Late Night Grande Hotel.
“I’m just learning to fly away again.”
I will take my headset off and play one game of solitaire on my iPad.
Then I will go on Reddit and read an article I saw earlier:
A Cool Guide To Escaping Killer Bees
Only then will I pull the covers to my chin. Sip ice water and fluff my squishy pillow. Close my eyes and look out at the pale light on the patio.
And as I fall into sleep, fall hopefully into a sweet sleep… I find myself thinking of my hometown. Owego.
It’s that old blue line that you can never go back home…
I don’t know why I always come here in my dreams…
I only come here to remember my dreams.
–Sarah Jarosz
[R-Before. See the offset? L-After. See the Titanium screws? Photo is mine.]
It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Mt. Rainier is like a distant vision of adventure, challenge and alpine serenity. But we weren’t taking in that view. No, we, my daughter, her husband, Mariam, me and Elias were looking with admiration at the project. It sat, begging for a photo, on Erin’s kitchen table. Even Arlo the cat sat on a ledge and stared with feline admiration at the final, completed model of Leonardo da Vinci’s Ornithopter. I do believe that if Leo himself were there in the room, he would have nodded his artistic head in agreement.
It was done!
For those of you who read my previous post, you can testify to the challenges we faced in completing this unique design.
I jotted a few notes on the activity:
~Total time was approximately six days or eighteen hours.
~1 tube of Elmer’s Glue.
~1 toothpick.
~5 single sheets of toilet paper.
~2 bent paperclips.
~5 cups of Starbucks Cold Brew
And this didn’t include what came in the kit box.
Personal Comments: I’m glad we did it. It was a bonding experiences that went far beyond that of a grandfather and grandson. I wish to thank Bob for his architectural expertise and advise. Erin for taking the right photo at the right time. Mariam for threading tiny string into even tinier holes. Elias for finding the right piece for me when all the pieces looked exactly alike. Arlo for not jumping up on the table and knocking the kit to one side to get a cuddle from me (like he did when I was trying to read an interesting article in The Economist).
However, one question remains: Would I do it again?
Well, yes and no. Yes, if the kit contained six pieces and more glue. And no, not another kit that says 6+ years of age.
I just turned seventy-six. I’m beyond the age limit now.
[Elias poses proudly with the completed model. Photo is mine.]
I was planning on jumping off Erin’s roof just to see if Leonardo had really known what he was doing.
One of my loves walked out of my building and out of my life. It was a lovely late morning. I was handed $50.00. We parted with only a few words. Then, around 4:00 pm, a second love departed. I was left hold $150.00. Cash. Unmarked bills.
I know what your thinking, but it’s far worse than that. These ‘loves’ were not flesh and blood and mesh stockings. They were dreams and hopes I held for a long time…in my heart. One dream dating back almost sixty years.
Okay, I’ll end this agony for you (assuming you’re still reading this).
It all started when we left our Adirondack home this past October. We were moving into a one bedroom apartment in the City. We had to cull, cull and then after we had cheese and crackers, cull once again. I donated, sold or gave away about 50% of my cherished library. That’s okay, in a way, there was no way I was going to get through all those books anyway.
So, consider the challenge: Trying to fit years of accumulated objects into a small apartment. It was clear to me from the start that more had to go.
Yesterday, I took a reluctant step to cutting another boatload free and give something to the outside world.
The first to go, was my kayak paddle. I bought it in 2012 when we purchased kayaks to paddle around Rainbow Lake. I spent many hours, untold hours, alone or with Mariam or my son, Brian exploring the tiny bays and crannies of the large lake. Mariam and I and Brian would pass cheese, a beer, crackers or some wine while we held the boats together and drifted under dark blue skies with patchy cumulus clouds.
The halcyon days of my middle years.
[Lightweight. Functional. I never named them. Some things that you love, don’t need names. Photo is mine.}
I took a monetary loss on the paddle. But I consider it even considering the hours I held them and cut through the waves.
The item that walked in the afternoon was something that had a much longer history than this paddle. It was an Osprey Internal Backpack. I bought it around 2015. I had plans to hike the Northville Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I had a hammock, a sleeping bag, foam pad and light-weight stove…all on my list or in my possession.
There’s some history here.
I first attempted this trail (152 miles +/-) across the Adirondacks, in the summer of 1965. It was the summer before I went away to college. My father and I were going to do the whole thing in two weeks. The only glitch was that we each carried about fifty pounds (far too much for such a hike). We made it thirteen miles before we decided to bailout. We failed.
I tried to do it again sometime in the late 1970’s. Solo this time. Again, I had packed too much. I decided to walk out the same place where my dad and I had done, years before.
[The decision to end the hike on this trip involved some very strange occurrences. A bad feeling in my heart…and soul. Something evil, I felt was following me. I was running with a full pack when I reached the road where I would go into Wells, NY. Horrific and furious thunderstorms drove me to seek shelter on the porch of an empty cottage. It was a terrifying experience for me. I never wrote about it and It still has me thinking about what it was that was ‘after’ me that day. There’s really more to the story, I have to admit. And that part harkens back to the trip with my father. Another story. Another time. But, nearly as frightening.]
I wasn’t using my Osprey pack in those days. I had an original Kelty pack.(then considered to be the Porsche of backpacks). That pack was given to my son several decades ago.
[The Osprey. I took a major financial hit on this. Photo is mine.]
So many dreams.
Someone said to me recently: “We all have to give up our dreams, don’t we?”
I’m wondering.
“Why?” I do not want to go gently into that good night.
[One of the many small chapels in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral. Photo is mine]
I’m sitting with Mariam in a small chapel in the crypt of this amazing Cathedral. There are several reasons why I’m sitting here on a small very hard wooden chair. One is that the temperature is probably close to 65º F. Outside, it’s in the low 80’s. So it’s cool. The crowds are above me listening to the organ practice. So it’s quiet. And I’m trying to act like an artist. I have my sketch book and drawing pencil. I am not really an artist by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But I’m trying. I’m trying to draw a column that was carved and set in place over 1,000 years ago.
Everywhere I turn I am steeped in history. And the thought weighs heavily on me. The worn limestone steps that lead this way and then that way in the Cathedral are places to contemplate. How many monks, abbots, priests and saints have used these very stones? What undiscovered cleric lies beneath my feet, waiting to be discovered when the stones are taken up to replace a water pipe or repair an already replaced electrical cable that had been installed in 1952?
These thoughts ground me to where I stand. They ground me to a solid stability in a time of turbulence and change.
But, enough about the crypt. Let’s go back several days ago when Mariam and I decided to take a walk. I had to justify bringing my hiking boots, didn’t I? We (I) had big plans to hike the North Downs Way, but the usual lower back issues and leg problems kept our walks to a minimum. So instead we took our chances to hike along the Great Stour Way. It’s a fifty-one mile trip, accessible only a few blocks away from our hotel. And I was curious about what I was capable of.
The day was unusually warm for this part of England. The local fields had just been cut and the pollen was as thick as a January blizzard in Yellowknife, or the smoke from the Canadian wildfires blanketing New York State.
The first part of the walk was through a garden-like park at the northwestern edge of town. People were laying on the lawns reading, small groups were sipping wine, and old men and old women sat on the shady benches thinking about the past.
We came to a bridge. Passing through the short tunnel I noticed three poems written on the brick walls. I photographed all of them. Here is my favorite:
Canterbury
The patchwork houses bend their great heads
Down to greet me as I pass
Walking the cobbled path
Saturated in history
Of those who had gone before me
~ ~
I hear them now
The many remembered and forgotten
Their voices live upon the wind
Their hearts wedded to the horizon
~ ~
Raindrops like goblets patter on the street
Marking the places that their feet once trod
I stand in the footprint already imprintedfor me
— Lauren J. (?)
The poem seems to have been written for me, as all great poems are supposed to make you feel.
We finished out trip in a little over an hour. We didn’t get very far, but that wasn’t the point. I know now that I am still capable of some trail walking, no matter how little.
The day after tomorrow, we will be boarding a British Airways flight to JFK. We’ve seen a great deal. The trip was a success beyond my expectations. But what am I going home with? What am I taking with me? How have I changed?
After the exuberance of life in Venice, the riotous traffic of Rome, the art of the Vatican, the pubs and the people of England, the trials and sweat of the Canal boat, seeing old friends…there is a renewed spirit within me that I had begun to lose during the Pandemic.
My experiences have redirected and affirmed aspects of why I choose to get out of my comfort zone. Observing sculpture, buildings and frescoes that were created for the sake of beauty alone and not for utilitarian use has put my mind back on course.
I will choose beauty over the mundane, love over hatred, hope over despair, peace over violence and tenderness over brutality.
And, I will try to remain grounded in the present with deep roots to humanities collective history.
[Along the Great Stour Way. Photo is mine]
[A tree for lovers for sure. Photo is mine]
[Wildflowers along the Great Stour River. Photo is mine]
[NOTE: It is Monday morning in England. 10:45 am to be precise. I have just finished reading “The Case Against Travel” by Agnes Callard in The New Yorker. (June 24, 2023). I have been a faithful reader of that magazine for many decades. I value it’s quality fiction, insightful and timely news articles and, of course, the legendary cartoons.
I found this article a misdirected attack on the whole idea of travel as a broadening experience. Callard clearly does not like to travel so she invokes classic overused quotes from G. K. Chesterton, Ralph Waldo Emerson and even Socrates to support her view. (What can Socrates know about the modern world?). I understand that a fair number of people, famous and otherwise, regard travel as a waste of time. Using that mindset, so is mowing one’s lawn or planting a garden. How do these things change and enrich our thinking about the world as a whole?
I will not write a screed to tear apart her argument. I’ll simply say that I think she misses the bigger picture and that I disagree with her premise. It’s clear to anyone who reads my posts that I love to travel and I feel I am a more rounded and thoughtful individual because of it.]
I didn’t think I could do it. I worried that we couldn’t afford it. I thought we were taking on too much. Was it more than we could pull off? Somehow, though, it all came together and it worked like a charm on a little girl’s bracelet. We were older by four years since our last visit to England. Even then I had trouble walking and had to scurry through muddy fields to catch up with Mariam and our friends.
I didn’t think I could do it.
I had taken her to England and shared with her the footpaths that I love. The thatched cottages, pubs, fields of rape, Roman roads, Christmas pantomimes, chilly and quiet country churches, mossy churchyards that were surely haunted. Stone walls of Yorkshire, crashing waves of the Cornish Coast, the Jamaica Inn, the Ploughmans lunch, steak and kidney pies, a room temperature pint of The Best Bitter, the bell (“Time, Gentleman, please”), the jaw-dropping grandeur of the Gothic English Cathedrals, driving on the left, the hedgerows that were over four hundred years old, the fields of sheep, sitting on a log in a gloomy forest with cold water, a chunk of bread and a chunk of Stilton, the effigies in the old churches, Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral, the manor houses, lonely country lanes, place names like Hoo Farm, Puddletown, Sturminster Newton, Plucks Gutter, Blue Pigeons, Maypole, Chislet Marshes and Wagtail to name a few. I sat with her atop a Tumulus, where the ancient ashes of forgotten local chieftains are mingling with the soil. We sat under the hot sun in Trafalgar Square, walked the halls of art of the National Gallery, ate lunch in a crypt beneath St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, graves beside our table. I took her to the Barley Mow Pub where I drank a pint or two of the “Best Bitter” beer.
I had shown her the England that meant something special to me. An England that held many memories of many trips over the decades.
But after the Covid lockdown we were anxious to travel again. Mariam had been talking about showing me the beauties of Italy for years. She wanted to show me the Sistine Chapel in Rome and DiVinci’s Last Supper in Milan. During my travels in Europe, somehow Italy eluded me. Someone once told me that there was no off season in Rome. Somehow, the idea of crowds put me off any plans to tour Italy.
Until the day I came to realize that it was high time that Mariam had a go at planning a trip and sharing with me the places that she had seen years before we met. Crowds or no crowds, I became interested in seeing for myself the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica.
While we were working out an Italian itinerary, something on the Internet came across my screen. It was a cruise from Venice to Rome calling at ports along the Dalmation Coast. We would see Croatia and Montenegro. It was a relatively small ship (number of passengers were about 275). This wasn’t a Carnival Cruise by any means. It suited us just fine. Despite the hefty cost, we booked the trip. I have posted several blogs that described our experiences. The foul weather prevented us from visiting a few places, but one can’t control the weather. We rode a gondola in Venice, climbed hills in Rovinj, walked in the rain at Pompeii, and saw the Pope in Rome.
[The Duomo in Milan. Photo is mine]
From Milan we went to Lake Como to see the beautiful villages. We returned to Milan and rode the train for six hours to Paris. A week in Paris. We walked a cemetery and saw the graves of artists and existentialists. We celebrated my birthday in a nice restraurant. We went to see the show at the Moulin Rouge.
The Chunnel Train took us to London. A Jack the Ripper tour, tickets to Hamilton and just wandering for a few days.
A quick return to Dorset to visit our dear friends. And then, something new. Something I had been reading and thinking about for many years. A short 5-day trip on a canal. We chose the Kennett Avon Canal not too distant from Salisbury.
Then Brighton to see what an old Seaside Resort looked like. And, of course, the famous Pier.
From Brighton we drove to the White Cliffs of Dover. I had made it so far. I felt good. Mariam felt good. Onto to our final destination…Canterbury.
I had been here several time since the mid-1980’s for only for a brief visit. This time I made sure we set enough time aside for me to sit in the vastness of the Cathedral and sketch some architectural features. We sat in the quiet of Crypt where Becket’s body was first placed after his martyrdom.
Today we walked the Great Stour Way for 2.51 miles. I was uncomfortable but able to walk without holding onto Mariam. I plan to post this on Saturday June 24th. Then I will go down into the crypt at the Cathedral again to attempt to draw the arches and capitals and columns in the cool dark rooms.
Tuesday will find us packing. My problem is where to find the room for the books I bought during this extended adventure.
I will ask Mariam to sit beside me and I will recite a favorite short poem by A. E. Housman from A Shropshire Lad:
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, What farms are those?
~ ~ ~
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
So, here, very near the end…is this the last adventure I will be having? No more walking the footpaths of Dorset, Yorkshire or Kent? Will Mariam push open another swing bridge on another canal? Will I sit in the chill of another forgotten parish church and look at the slabs on the floor that mark the graves of a long-dead villager? Have I reached the age and have I reached the point when anything is a little too much?
I hope this is not the final post from across the sea. I need to see the breathtaking dunes of the Sahara Desert, look down into the vast fjords of Norway or cross the equator and take a boat up the Amazon.
Sometime soon, maybe not in my remaining years, but almost certainly in my grandson’s life, much of what we are so used to seeing as our physical world will be changed.
I hope it not too late, for me or my descendants.
[A portion of the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. The stone has been polished by the steps of pilgrims and seekers for a thousand years. Photo is mine]
[Sunset on the Kennet & Avon Canal. Photo is mine]
Part 1 ~~ Starting Out And Mooring
After arriving at Devizes we had little trouble finding the Foxhangers Canal Boat Rental building. Our boat wasn’t quite ready so we strolled down to the canal and found a lock. I (having watched three YouTube videos on how to open and close a lock) decided that Mariam needed a little bit of explanation of the mechanics and engineering of an English lock. So I spent the next thirty-five minutes mansplaining how one could go from one level to a higher or lower level by using the ingenious lock system.
We returned to the office where Kristy was ready to check us in and send us with our car down to the wharf where our boat was now waiting. But first we needed the restrooms. Finding them took about fifteen minutes.
A few minutes later we were introducing ourselves to Jon. He was the guy who was responsible for giving us a walk-through, instructing us about what was where and how to use it. At the end, we were at the stern. He explained the basics of tilling and steering. I pretty much got that because I have paddled canoes since since about 1956. Want to turn RIGHT, pull the rudder to the LEFT. No problem.
But what about the locks. I didn’t have a 100% grasp of how they worked. I knew the theory, I just didn’t know the method. We walked toward a lock and he gave us a hands-on lesson on how to open the sluices and fill the lock. How to close the gates, let the water rise or fall, and then do it again at the next gates. Our boat (50′ long Narrow Boat) would fit in just right, he said. Back at the stern he handed me a clip board and asked me to check off all the things he had briefed us about. I did.
“Who’s the skipper?” Jon asked.
“Me, I guess,” I said.
“Sign here.” I did.
That meant I was in charge and Mariam was my crew of one. He asked if we wanted to pilot the boat a short distance to get the feel of the thing. I said sure.
Five minutes later he hopped off and went back to the wharf to attend another customer.
It was about 5:30 pm by now. We had to be moored by dusk (an insurance thing).
We were off. Speed limit was 4 mph. I kept it at a notch below that but there was no speedometer, so it was a pure guess. Our first lock was due up in a very short time. Then luck came our way (and remained with us for much of the trip). The other boat that was departing Foxhangers around the same time as us happened to be four twenty-something lads from India. One of them was quite fit. Great muscle tone and seemingly strong. I filed that away in the recesses of my seventy-six years old mind.
One of the points of canal boat etiquette is that if the opportunity comes along, two boats should share the lock (these are “narrow boats” remember). That way labor is saved and water is not wasted. Lucky for us, these friendly guys offered to go through the first several locks together.
At this point I should cut in on the narrative and say that as soon as we hit the water (so to speak) a division of labor was established between Mariam and me. She was very certain she didn’t want the responsibility of steering, something I felt quite secure about. Mariam would work alongside the young men, learning how to use the windlass to crank open the sluices and opening the gates. The guys and ourselves were all first-timers on the canal so the arrangement would be a win-win for everyone.
All I had to do was to keep my iPhone handy for the right photo-op and keep one hand on the throttle and the other on the tiller. True, Mariam had the more physically demanding part of the job, but behind her delicate 105 pound exterior, she possess a strong core. And she is a quick study. Her learning curve would be steep but quick. Mine, on the other hand, usually is slow on all counts.
[Mariam successfully completes opening and closing a swing bridge. Alone. Photo is mine]
We soon said farewell to the fellows from India. They were shooting for a pub near the canal a little bit beyond the point where we decided to moor. This raises a whole new set of issues. The best mooring is one using bollards (something like a cleat) to secure the boat for the night. The other, much less desirable method of mooring, is to pull up close to the canal path, jump off with the center rope (line) and spike in the three lines. The bow, the stern and the center. It’s the same as pitching a tent…with a few exceptions…the spikes are about 18″ long and need a mallet that weighs about forty pounds. So, I got Mariam close by, she leaped, she landed safely and pegged us in. I later used the gang-plank to further drive the spikes in more securely.
[Canal path and the Fennec Fox stake mooring. Photo is mine]
This type of mooring has its advantages and disadvantages. Join me in sorting this bit out. The best thing is that you are often (but not always) moored away from people. This alone has its subcategories. Alone. It’s quiet, with no barking dogs or over friendly travelers. But, alone means you don’t have anyone to help you out when trouble arises. More on this later.
It’s disadvantages are that it can be difficult to find ideal places to do the leaping. On our second night, we could find no proper mooring places with sturdy bollards. The schrubbery was daunting. I decided to be the leaper on this one so I took the middle line (the middle line is the best one to start the mooring) in my right hand and stared at the distance I would have to cover. If I was successful, I would land on solid ground and Mariam would toss me the spike. If I was unsuccessful, I would land in the green/brown water of the canal. I was wearing my expensive HOKAS so there really wasn’t any room for error. I refused to get my sweet gray sneakers change into the color of some long extinct species of algae. I should note here that it was about 89º F that day and I had unzipped the lower legs of my hiking pants, converting them to shorts.
So, there I was standing with the rope in my hand balanced on the gunwale. I looked at Mariam with the expression of a young soldier going off to war.
“Mariam, there’s two outcomes here. I will land safely or I will do something to my lower back (already well into an epic spasm) that my Orthopedic Surgeon in NYC will not only disapprove of but will likely take me to court for non-compliance of medical orders.” This last thought held me back for a moment longer. Would Foxhangers air drop me a walker? Crutches? A wheelchair? In the end, I knew it didn’t matter. I was in England and I was not covered by the National Health System.
So I made the leap.
I landed hard on hard ground and I had to roll like the people who land after a parachute jump. I stood and brushed off the gravel embedded in my knees and looked around to be sure none of this was being videoed for general release on the Internet. I didn’t want to go viral this way. It was then that I felt the pain.
On my way across the small gap of water I had passed through (remember, I was wearing shorts) a large clump of nettles. Now, I grew up with nettles along the Susquehanna River bank in Owego, NY. But these were no ordinary nettles. This species came from another planet. My shins caught fire and I had no way to extinguish the blaze. It hurt like hell. I finished pounding the remaining spikes and used the gang plank to board the ship. I drank a half liter of water to replace the seven liters I had just sweated away.
Then the stinging slowly eased up on my shins…only to be replaced with numbness. You could have stuck a knitting needle in my shin bone and I would have smiled. It was a nice feeling in a way, but I didn’t think I had any legs below my knees. How was I going to walk to the bed to lay down and cool off? With Mariam’s arm, of course. I lay back on the narrow bed and wondered what had become of the cool, brisk and misty English weather? (I read later that a few heat records were broken that day.)
Enough misery. Let’s explore the boat for a moment.
[This was my tiller. My place of work. My reason for swollen feet and ankles from standing for hours. Photo is mine]
[Another view of my office. Throttle on the left. Gauge panel on the right. Dark opening led to our bedroom. Photo is mine]
Part 2 ~~ The Locks
I’m sure that this is the part of the post that you were waiting for. Unfortunately, I am going to skip over all the details of how the engineering works. I will include a diagram that will be helpful in understanding how you can go up or down hill using locks. Nor will I go into any deep history of how this technology developed. But, here are the basics:
England has hundreds of miles of canals, ranging from Sussex in the south to Scotland. Ireland has canals as well. They were built to haul such commodities as wool, coal, grain, wood and other items from one place to a distant place. The watercraft are called “Longboats” because they were made to navigate along narrow waterways. The Kennet & Avon Canal is one of many located in the area near Bath and Bristol. One could, in theory, go just about anywhere in England using the canals. These days, lorries and trains carry the goods. The canal traffic is almost exclusively for tourists, hobbyists or more curiously, traveling people.
There is a whole subculture of canallers. We met one guy who was in his sixties. He owned his boat and lived on it. He said he’d been on the water for a year and three months. Some canallers moor at a location and live there until someone from the Canal & River Trust moves them along. Your permit to stay moored is good for two weeks. There have been disagreements between the people who want to travel (like us) and those who want to live rent-free. It’s a very interesting group. The vast majority are friendly and are willing to help you with the locks and offer advice about a wide range of topics. We connected with college kids, young couples, retirees and many others. A few were solo travelers. I did not meet a woman solo boater.
Here is a photo taken during the time when we passed through a lock. I had to pay very close attention to the tiller so picture taking had to be quick.
[Passing through a lock with two boats. Notice Mariam to the left with the black tee-shirt. Photo is mine]
Part 3~~ Final Thoughts
I will end this rather long post with a few thoughts, for the curious and for anyone contemplating such an adventure.
I was sorry it was over so soon. Yes, it was unusually warm which made things difficult. And, yes, we both were hit hard by our allergies. I have rarely been so nasally challenged. I sneezed. I teared. I sweated and I coughed. I also gained a new respect for nettles. But, the pace of the trip was gentle on my soul. Everything slows down. The world passes by so gently you can watch a bee pollinate a flower. You look out at the pastures at the lowing herds. Moving past the meadows you expect to catch a glimpse of Pooh Bear, the Mole, a hobbit or the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. After every turn, I wanted to jump to the path and sit on a bridge and sketch the willows, a cottage or the very old bricks I sat upon. I wanted to write poetry like Byron and Shelly. I yearned for my watercolor kit. I had the urge to read something about the churches we saw in the distance and go and remunerate about life and death among the mossy and lichen-covered tombstones. Yes, the headstones that named the interred and held carvings that spoke of faith and being reunited in a better world.
At night, the quiet was absolute. The rush of blood through your ears is all you can hear…if you are really hearing it. Venus, shining bright in the western sky…The Evening Star. I fell asleep to rocking of the boat that was so gentle you would dream of your mother.
I will miss all that and more.
Would I do it again? Yes. But not with just two seventy-something people who already had aches from muscles that had been used for your entire lifetime. I would take along two other people to help with the hard work.
I am constantly refusing to give in to my ageing aches, but I’ve had enough of pain, for awhile…until the next adventure beckons.
[The best mooring we had. Real bollards. A pub. And a little WiFi to catch up on things. Note: We didn’t eat at the pub. We had much better microwave meals. Photo is mine]
[Mariam watches the world go by from the bow. Photo is mine]
[Our final bridge before returning to Foxhangers. Photo is mine]
[It’s all over now. Returning the Kennec Fox to Foxhangers. Note: All their boats are names for different kinds of foxes. The Kennec fox has ridiculously large ears. Google it. Photo is mine]
Additional Diagram Of The Parts Of A Lock. Source: Google search:
[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. 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?
[A note to my readers: This blog post contains several images of a sexual nature. Not much more than you would see in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.] To my more delicate and pious readers, this leaves you with three choices:
1~Scroll past this post (and miss some interesting content).
2~Shelve your morals, grit your teeth and read on. See, learn and enjoy for a few minutes.
3~Report me to Florida’s Gov. Ron DeSantis.
[Pompeii, inside the Forum. The cloud-shrouded Mr. Vesuvius lurks in the distance. Photo is mine.]
Part One: Ancient Pompeii
It was August 24, A.D. 79. It may have been late afternoon because there is evidence that the Pompeians were preparing their dinner. But this August day was destined to be like no other for the residents of this resort-of-sorts, close by Herculaneum, and only about seventeen miles from present day Sorrento. Pompeii was the home to 20,000+ residents at that time. Many were wealthy merchants from Naples or Rome. We could think of the city as a sort of Hamptons, or Sag Harbor of its day. Many of the villas were spacious and well-appointed. Large open air markets were common. Fishermen sold their catches of the day. Bakers offered bread. It was a very cosmopolitan city.
Not surprisingly, it supported and allowed the Oldest Occupation In The World. It had a red-light district. (More on that later).
I’m sure more than a few people wandering the streets or walking through the Gymnasium noticed the ominous cloud above Mt. Vesuvius, about six miles to the northwest. The cloud grew to an unusual height. The next twelve hours were filled with tons of pyroclastics, terror and instantaneous death. Historians are unclear about how many people perished that day. What is known is that a great many did survive. There exists a few first hand accounts of the day.
I won’t go into the well-known details of the aftermath except for this brief summary:
The city was buried under twenty feet of ash and cinders, pumice and earth. Pompeii’s very existence began to fade into history. People knew there was a city there, but where was it? Simple excavation equipment didn’t exist. It wasn’t until 1549, when an Italian named Domenico Fontana, digging a water channel through the site found indications of the city. He obviously wasn’t too interested in Archeology because it took another two hundred years before serious excavation began. The year was 1748. A Spanish military engineer with the impressive name of Roque Joaquin de Alcubierre was put in charge of uncovering the entombed metropolis. What he and others discovered was nothing short of one of the most important finds in the Annals of Archeology.
As of 2023, only 2/3’s of the city have been excavated.
So, what was found beneath those twenty feet of volcanic detritus? There were signs of gardens, opulent (for the day) villas, fountains, ovens, storage terra-cotta vases, streets, lanes, Temples to Apollo, Jupiter and Minerva and, of course, brothels, (again, more later). What also caught the eye of a few archaeologists were a large number of empty cavities in the cinder (now turned to stone). Someone had the brilliant idea to pour plaster into these cavities. Here’s where the good stuff comes in.
When the liquid plaster hardened, the resulting casts were the victims caught in the ash fall, in the physical position they were in at the moment when the hot death came for them. Among these are a dog, a man on his elbows gasping for his last breath he will ever take, a woman protecting her infant and two young women (maidens as described in the literature) embracing and kissing as they died.
The poignancy is heartbreaking.
These are just a few examples of many more that were eventually discovered. Here are a few images to look at, contemplate and weep:
[One of only a few human casts on display at Pompeii. Photo is mine.]
[Two women in an embrace, kissing, dying. Photo: Dreamstime.com]
[A haunting cast of a man taking what is likely his final breath. Photo source: See photo.]
Moving on from the awesome casts…
As the twenty feet of burial ash and cinder were cleaned away, houses began to take shape. The frescoes appeared like a photograph in a darkroom. Many depicted scenes of classical mythology. Some illustrated stories relating how men, having too much wine, would chase the women about.
[Household fresco of dubious nature. Photo is mine,]
I promised you the X-Rated frescoes. The innocent souls may turn away at this point. No one will think unkindly of you.
There were several Red Light Districts in Pompeii. How would a man (or woman) in need of some comfort and attention (for a few denarii) of a warm body for an hour or so locate such a place? If you were a resident, you’d already know. But what about visiting merchants or sailors? The Pompeians made it quite simple.
Look for the Phallus.
[This Phallus indicated to strangers where the action was. Photo: Google search.]
What did the brothels look like? That would depend on the location and reputation. The better the clientele, the better the bed. Shown below is likely a ‘working mans’ room.
This is likely not where the high class of sex workers would ply the trade. Photo is mine.]
[A naughty fresco in a brothel. Photo is mine.]
Another common question is what would the typical prostitute charge for her services. The answer is that the average fee was two asses. Yes, I know that sounds like a joke, but an ass was a bronze coin that made up a certain part of a larger amount. A gold denarii was equal to twenty-five silver denarii which was equal to ten bronze asses. There you have it
Part Two: Our Visit
Our excursion from the Wind Star began in the rain and ended in the rain. Our tender rocked violently in the choppy seas. It took two shuttle busses to get us to the top of the cliff that defines the town of Sorrento. The ride was slow all the way. Once there, we were given little radios to hear the guide. We passed beautiful apartments and plant-filled window boxes.
We walked the streets of this very old town. The visuals were extremely fascinating and worthy of an extended examination…but we had to keep up with the guide (who was a fast walker). My personal opinion? I did not have a particularly pleasant day. The rain fell heavy, the cobblestone streets were slippery, the walk seemed endless because of the maze of streets.
And the crowds. I either had to watch where my foot landed on a slick stone or I had to dodge an umbrella. (I can’t believe I forgot my Gore-Tex). There were simply too many people…and yes, I know I was part of that problem.
But how else can travel be done today?
Here is a small sample of what I had time to photograph:
[A rain slicked cobblestone street. Note the grooves that are parallel to the curbs. These are original chariot ruts. Photo is mine.]
[The Temple of Apollo. Note the black lava altar on the white pedestal in the center. Photo is mine.]
That brings my tale of a visit to a place that has held my fascination since I was a young boy. The memory of the stories I read about Pompeii even held its own after I grew a little older and discovered truly mysterious and incomprehensible beings that I knew would share my lifetime on earth.
[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 TheSound 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.
patrickjegan 