first impression

Lisbon definitely takes the award for creepiest first impression.

We arrived late by bus, catching a cab to our downtown hotel. Which was a great idea at the time, except the guy drove like he was in a Ferrari on the autobahn – a Ferrari with squeaky breaks. When we got out, the first person we saw tried to sell us pot/hashish/marijuana as he quickly called it, hand cupped and outstretched with a really disgusting looking brown lump balled inside. We politely declined. And we walked right past our hotel because it was a four-foot wide gated entrance wedged between a wedding dress shop and a dingy souvenir store. And the hotel was full of old leather – not classy Bogart leather, but dusty storage-room leather. And green felt wallpaper.

You know those movies with the dimly lit hotel and a slightly odd attendant and creepy music playing in the background – the kind of hotel that usually attracts zombies? – yeah, well minus the music, this place was the inspiration.

So we went to sleep in our smoke (and urine, in that one corner) smelling room with sticky carpets and one outlet hoping the paper-clip thin latch on the door would deter whatever living dead happened to have checked in that night.

beauty in dance

The flamenco performance I have just returned from was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It was incredible. And I am now convinced that flamenco is, without question, the most passionate and moving thing man has ever created.

The three guitarists took the stage, seated against the wall, and started playing – softly, back and forth, goading each other on. The oldest with long grey hair played with his right eye half closed, as if he could do it in his sleep. And the vocalists had raspy, rough voices – voices shaped by sand paper. One sang with his tongue out – as if the thing was a stopper which, when pulled, let the music flow freely from the pipes within. They sang those words with such raw emotion and power – as if (and this may very well be the reality of it all) there was no other way to sing.

And the dancing was so passionate – so full of energy, and so focused. One woman wore a red and ruffled dress, and when she twisted around she looked like an inverted rose, her body the stem – her arms the thorns. And the way she danced – you knew that to grab her would leave your hand pricked, and bloody.

It was the most beautiful thing I have seen – and even though I did not understand a word of what was sung, I felt like I understood it all. And I hope to spend the rest of my life discovering such beauty – beauty in music, in art; in words and in people. And I will hold on to what I find – because in this fickle fickle world there is nothing else really worth taking.

day trippers

Looking back on things, it seems that I’ve – with the exception of Florence – failed to mention any of the daytrips we’ve taken. There have been three – to Versailles, Mont St. Michel, and Altea.

Our day to visit Versailles turned out to be rain-drenched and miserable. We waited in the downpour for an hour-and-a-half while groups of travelers cut in line and pushy Germans (not stereotype, reality of the day) wedged themselves between people to get closer to the door. And this was the reservation-in-hand line. Things got no better inside: the floor was slick, and despite the vast grandeur of the palace, there were so many people crammed into the thing that I felt like I was in some anachronistic French aristocracy mosh-pit. Oh, and don’t get me started on the audio guide. 8 euro I think it was, and the person basically read aloud the placards in each room. Thanks. If I can get to Versailles by train and identify 8 euro to pay, chances are I can read. And the hall of mirrors I found somewhat dull. And the gardens were wonderfully designed, but nothing was in bloom. Versailles is much more impressive in film, and I’m happy to leave any future interactions with the place to that medium.

Mont St. Michel, on the other hand, was incredible. Seen from miles away, it rises out of the flat Normandy coast like the unfinished base of Babel. It looks dropped – as if the giant delivery man of abbeys and castles, bag slung over his shoulder on his trek east to the German Rhineland, unknowingly lost one along the way. It is a thing that should be admired from a distance, because it is truly amazing so: within the walls I thought it lost much of its grandeur and majesty. But it was still fun walking around the cobbled streets. A word to the wise: the omelets there, while famous, are not quite what you might be expecting. More like an eggy foam. And the special apple omelet: eggy foam with apple slices. The drive was long – four hours each way – and we booked with a tour company and it was just the two of us and the guide, so it was interesting – but worth it.

The town of Altea was a short drive outside of Benidorm on the Costa Brava. A very quiet town in sharp contrast to the swarming and loud tourists of Benidorm. The beaches were rocky and abridged, but still topless. But it was actually somewhat relaxing, and had we more time and better weather we probably would have visited more of the coastal towns.

So there you have it. The daytrips.

but i've never seen anything quite like this

Granada is a beautiful city. The most beautiful I have seen on the trip so far – perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The drive in was breathtaking. The Sierra Nevada mountain range rippled from the earth like sets of large, muscular shoulders supporting weight – while the lesser hills curved sensuously below, dotted and draped as they were with orchards like thighs wrapped in fishnet stockings. And between the hills and mountains lay vast and sweeping plains – stretching for miles around – and from an elevation you might think the valley was paved, cobbled with the clay tile rooftops of the houses below.

And Granada itself – what a place of poetry and prose. It’s no wonder that Washington Irving found inspiration here – it’s no wonder that Lorca found within its gardens the ink for his pen. There are the more industrial, residential areas, but – having walked most of the city; having seen the stark difference between the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish quarters divided now by rivers of tire and metal – I was struck by how well these areas blended, and if they were less beautiful, how little I cared.

It may be the artistic contrast between the lush and vibrant foliage and the whitewashed walls and the earthen tile roofs. Or it may be the charming, narrow alleys and the winding roads that so appeal to me. Or it may just be the architecture – the mixture of Moorish and Muslim design – something that is, in my mind, so singular and unique.

And if Granada is where Beauty makes her annual pilgrimage, then the Alhambra is the temple in which she prays. The endlessly intricate wall carvings, the poetry inscribed in stunning layer upon layer, the amazing arches and beautifully designed and populated gardens and courtyards. And the views onto Granada from above – nothing quite compares.

These pictures hardly do any of it justice – but hopefully they are enough to inspire a trip, at some point, to Granada.

baby you can drive my car

Seeing how the Costa Brava is basically a string of small coastal towns, with Benidorm being one of the larger hubs, I thought it would be fun to rent a car in Alicante and drive around a bit, then knock out the 4 hours to Granada and get back into the whole train thing. And I knew going into it that I’d be driving a manual, seeing how there are NO affordable automatics in all of Europe, and though it had been about 5 years since I was last behind a stick, I practiced a good ten minutes before leaving (thanks, Mike).

And I assumed that it would be rough at first, but that I’d get the hang of it. And I assumed that a few people would stare as I peeled out and/or stalled. Fine. But these assumptions were also based on my impression that Benidorm and the surrounding coast was relatively flat: an assumption that turned out to be very wrong.

I soon discovered that Benidorm, and – in fact – many of the smaller coastal towns, are a good 75% of the “hills-leading-down-to-beach” variety. Sort of a milder San Francisco combined with the cramped, narrow streets of Taiwan. Terrain on which, I also soon discovered, is not good for someone with ten minutes of refresher after a five-year hiatus from driving a manual transmission (once) to get back into the swing of things. Hills are evil.

AND, as I mentioned previously, the population of said towns were a good 90 odd percent elderly – so not only was I trying to drive up hills, but I was also trying to drive up hills without breaking into an old lady with a tennis-ball walker. How could I, in good conscience, go into geriatrics after that?

But you know, I did ok. Yes there was this one insane hill (seriously, a right angle incline – I should know better than to drive up walls). Yes, I stalled (twice). Yes, it was a busy street (and fast). Yes, cars backed up (but they were nice). Yes, I burned a LOT of rubber going up (and scared a few of the elderly). But we made it to the top. And we made it around the coast. And we made it to Granada, all in one piece.

Nothing quite like a trial by fire. But it was kind of fun. And honestly, the hardest part was not the driving but the navigating in a foreign city. But there was no honking, and no gesturing. The Spanish, I think, are too laid back for all that.

There she is. Sexy, no? A two-door Citroën C2, with a 0-60 in about seven minutes under my foot. Kind of fun to drive I guess.

Would have preferred a smart car, though.

the times they are a-changin'

I’ve developed a number of things while on this trip. An appreciation for art. A love for Amsterdam, and Paris. A respect for different cultures, and a far more honest acknowledgement of my own comforts. And a pressing need, I’m told, to shave.

And, most recently and unexpectedly, a taste – it seems – for shellfish.

I used to eat the stuff all the time as a kid: shrimp, lobster, crab – I’d eat it all indiscriminately. But then, after my time in Japan, I went cold turkey – no one in the family really knows why (it has, in fact, been a subject of some debate and contention) – and these twenty years in between have been shellfish-free. And it never bothered me – I still think shrimp are strange, strange creatures. And I never thought I was missing out.

But then I figured – well, since I’m here seeing/doing/trying new things, why not re-examine the whole no-shellfish rule? So I did. And I suppose it didn’t hurt that I was on the coast of Spain, ten feet from the Mediterranean. Or that I was superfan starving. Or that I’d had more than a few glasses of sangria.

Or that the paella looked like this.

It was pretty amazing.

Shrimp, I think, is still low low low down on the list of things I’d order in a restaurant – and if it comes whole, I don’t think it’s worth the effort of de-shelling.

But I guess it’s just one more way I’ve changed - since way back when.

in this issue

Benidorm is a nice change from the hectic, gatling gun check lists of Paris and Barcelona. There’s really nothing to do here but eat. And lay out on the beach. And eat. Which, at this point, is a welcome evolution in our travel.

Forty minutes outside of Alicante on La Costa Brava, Benidorm is – for all intents and purposes – the Key West of Spain. It is Shell Beach realized. People from all over the EU flock here (but mostly from the UK), walking the boardwalk, packing the beaches and the bars. And like many parts of Florida, the population here is 90 odd percent advanced in years. But unlike many parts of Florida, the beaches here are topless. And I’ll speak no more of that.

But it’s generally pleasant.

And I’m starting to wish I hadn’t charged my way through Moby Dick – I would have liked to have read some of it on the beach, so I could dive into the water when my eyes grow tired and taste the salt and think and float.

Now all I have is Nina’s Vogue. With its special on wedding dresses…

move along

I think the one thing I will take away from Barcelona is how much I love a well played trumpet. I love how the notes float and hang in the air like winter clouds, heavy with but holding onto snow. I love how the melody echoes through the city, like some sad song played on an weary gramophone in the halls of an abandoned prison.

And it’s not so much that I think of Barcelona as a prison, but that I’m a little travel worn, and about ready to return to the things I know best. It’s a good thing – I feel like I’ve completely satisfied the need in me to travel, and can spend these next few years doing what I need to do.

But then again, maybe all I need is a couple of days on the coast, driving around, baking on the beaches.

Maybe I’ll let these city legs float for a bit in the sea, and see then if I’m ready to move on.

closed, from 2 - 4

It’s funny – you can walk onto the same street in Barcelona at three different times during the same day and see three different stores open, and never open simultaneously. I’d walk by in the afternoon, and what I thought was a one shop street was actually a three – and at night, what I thought were walls in passing were really cafes and tea houses.

Is there some kind of rotation in place? Is the schedule posted somewhere?

And I also don’t know what to think about the siesta. Not so much that it is a minor inconvenience to the foreign traveler, but that I’ve never been one for naps or midday breaks. I don’t really understand it. It seems a little lazy. But then again, the relaxed and paced atmosphere of the Mediterranean is one of the things I’ve developed a taste for – so maybe, with more time here, I too would close up shop in the afternoon and go wherever the Catalans go, and do whatever the Catalans do – in those few hours after two.

(And I’ve also seen no fewer than five women here who look like Jenny Lewis. And that I could also get used to)

take it all, it comes cheap

Food. Without it we cannot live. For some, eating is an indispensable part of life – and if, somehow in the future, it is made obsolete, life for these people of principle may no longer seem worth the living. It is a necessity for some, a burden for others – a captivation for a few. But it is a thing we all must do.

Food. Some hop from meal to meal as if from stone to stone in a pond, with everything between a vast and drenching mess. But there are good meals, and there are bad meals. The bad leave us with regret, and dissatisfaction – and often pain. The good leave us with memories. So what, then, is it about a really good meal that – even years later – brings a smile to our faces?

The wine, perhaps. The lighting. The music playing softly, softly seeping from the walls. The flavors, the colors, the presentation. The service. I have had several really good meals so far on this trip: the duck in Prague, pasta night in Cinque Terre, that café in Montmarte. I will remember each for years with fondness.

But at the same time I have to wonder if these same meals would have been as memorable experienced alone. I have to think not. I have to think that there is no good meal not bettered by good company. In my opinion, sharing a good meal with good company is the third most intimate thing we, as humans, do. It is a great and beautiful thing.

Barcelona is a lyrical place for food. The streets sing with a vibrant energy, and after eight everything takes on an air of carnival. But eating here is not so much idolized – not so much an art, as it is in France, or a sanctuary, as it is in Italy: it is more of an extension of the human body, and as such it is as necessary and natural as breathing. Tapas bars are lively, and good social fun, but the food is fast and cheap, greasy and filling. And you eat, and move on – eat, and move on. And though each night may be in good company, and each meal satisfying – I think this method, in some way, detracts from the beauty and intimacy of the meal.

But I don’t know – who am I to judge, half the time I’ll eat if you put something in front of me. It’s a reflex.

And I do like tapas – it’s a fun way to do it – but if I had my choice, I’d take the duck or the pasta or the café in Montmarte over that bar any day.

sorry for the rant...

There aren’t very many things in this world that I actively hate. I don’t like complaining about the small things because, well – what’s the point. The cliché is cliché for a reason – because it’s true: life is too short. I’d rather spend the time and energy doing something I enjoy. And I firmly believe that all things, in time, will pass - and tomorrow will come if you let it, and if you need to start over then to hell with the world, start over. The sad – but if you think about it, liberating – truth is that ultimately, when all is said and done, the world and time will not care what most of us do with our respective lives. Such is the nature of a grain of sand in a world of beaches.

So I choose to live for myself – and for the ones I love – in pursuit of happiness. In pursuit of bettering myself, and leaving the people I meet on this adventure warm and smiling. And so my world view does not have much room for hatred.

But there is one thing that I absolutely loathe – that I detest, that I… yes, I’ll say it: that I hate. That one thing is disrespect. Disrespect, specifically, for art.

I have been to a dozen or so museums on this trip so far – and I’m proud to say that the majority of people treat art with an almost saint-like reverence. They respect, and admire, and keep their distance, and let the works move them to whatever emotional end they settle on without demanding attention in return.

But oh – there are some… some people… some… boy, it gets to me. We were in Rome, not thirty days after the first ever opening of the House of Augustus, a beautifully unearthed grouping of rooms in the Palatine with pristinely preserved frescoes spreading from wall to the ceiling, of such rich and vibrant color you would have sworn the paint was still drying. And right there, in front of the attendant, this guy reaches out and rubs the wall. Rubs the wall! I was livid. And at the Louvre – the people reaching out to touch paintings, hanging on and molesting the sculptures, pointing and laughing. You know they ask you not to use your flash for a reason – they don’t just like saying it.

And then there are people like the guy who sledge-hammered Michelangelo’s Pieta in the Vatican. Livid… livid. I hope they sledge-hammered him, Misery-style.

So if I see someone rubbing their hands on a statue, or howling like a hyena at some wonderful piece of history, or talking loudly in a theater on their cell phone to their friend who wants to go drinking or maybe bowling – well then, that person will get the sharpest, most pointed, barbed and jagged look I can launch. And I hope it strikes him in the eye with Queequegian accuracy, and sticks in him like a ten-foot harpoon.

And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

sunday morning passing

It is hard, at times, to remember the day while traveling – you can’t read the paper, or understand the blur of words spoken on tv or on the radio. Several times what I thought was a Tuesday was, in fact, a Wednesday – and once what I thought was Wednesday morning was actually Friday afternoon.

And the only way I knew today was Sunday was because a soft, gossamer hymn unfolded from the open doors of Notre Dame like some lyrical, curved finger – beckoning, beckoning.

So I sat in on early mass – empty as it was, the words echoing throughout those vast and delicate halls. It was serene, like how I imagine sitting in a Vermeer painting might feel. And I wished – to some very small degree, as I had in the Vatican – that I felt something for religion. That I could appreciate the moment on more than two dimensions. The words meant nothing to me – the statues were just statues; the robes just pieces of cloth. But they were words sung beautifully, and statues carved with skill, and robes draped and stitched by an attentive hand. And to me, it made a nice picture.

But then again, isn’t that – in part – what religion is all about? Finding the greater beauty in things. I may not believe in God, but I do believe in religion – religion for personal edification, for personal bolstering. Religion for personal meaning.

I may not accept it all, but I feel it at times – and I take from it what I can, and give in return my appreciation and respect. And while I may be heathen at heart, I hope I am at least reverent in mind – and can sit in mass, and smile.

Because oh she sang so much like an angel.

vivre sa vie

Of white wine born and butter bred are you, dear lovely Paris. You are beautiful; so cultured and so very debonair. You are a magnificent thing to behold. And in my heart you compete only with New York City – though I think I have room enough for two.

I walk your tree lined Seine half in a daze – walking, as if, through a perfumerie, washed over by scent after subtle scent. And when I breathe in deeply my every vacancy is housed with the thought that here, on these streets, I could live and love – here in Paris I could finally understand poetry, as I clearly never understood it before.

There is a quiet, collected calm about you. If New York City is the adolescent charged with a static energy, blinded by idealism, hounded by hormone and fleeting identity – if NYC is the confused, the maturing boy then Paris is the man, sipping bourbon in a leather armchair, surrounded by the things he knows and loves. Closing his eyes and looking back on those exciting days when he didn’t know for sure, but glad to be where he is at long last.

I would like to know both men well.

And if I had my life to live, care-free and without consequence, then I would spend the afternoon of it in New York, while I have the energy and the drive – but the evening… the evening I would spend on the wide, the wonderful streets of Paris.

'cause it's gonna be hot in my big silver pot!

Then again, maybe Nice wasn’t the existential vortex of self-doubt that I initially thought. Maybe it just reminded me of something familiar – something that felt, in a distant way, like home.

The wonderful thing about foreign travel is that it – through sudden immersion – forces you to reflect upon your own culture and comforts, and the things that keep you afloat – the things that keep you dry and smiling, though you be at times in a dark and drifting sea. But it also makes you painfully aware of how distant these things now are.

It has been almost a month-and-a-half since I’ve seen a movie. I shake at night – or after a long, exhausting day. I am, at times, nonsensical. And it doesn’t help that I’ve gone from Italy now to France - the land of Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard; of Renoir, Besson and Tati. Some of my favorite films of all time – My Life to Live, Breathless, Day For Night – are French, as are some of my favorite characters in film – the French chef, anyone? I miss throwing on a movie whenever, or going over and sharing my comfort with friends.

But I also miss the reliability of food, and my own language. I miss showers with curtains, and not doing laundry in a sink, and having something other than CNN to watch. I miss driving, and sitting at my coffee shop writing and staring at nothing. I miss not having to use a power adapter. I miss not carrying a backpack.

So maybe it was that Nice reminded me of California, which reminded me of the states and what I’ve grown familiar with these past four years in Houston. Or maybe my previous assessment still holds, and I’m just trying to justify it all. I don’t know.

One thing is certain: when I get back, I’m having a burger and watching a movie. And speaking English – a lot of English.

all the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey

With only one day to explore Nice, I decided to go for a run – it seemed like the cheap, efficient thing to do. And the best way to burn off some of that gelato that seemed to linger well past its due.

So I ran. Around the hotel, and through some side streets. I ran down to the beach, and along the boardwalk, and did my sidestep around the dogs and the power-walkers. I ran with the sun to my back and a soft breeze ahead, and it was so calming that I ran, at times, with my eyes closed. And before long, and without knowing, I had run into a large, stinking, putrid pile of self-doubt. And no matter how hard I stepped or how quickly I ran, I could not shake it off.

The fact of the matter was this: I liked Nice. I liked the beachfront, the wide expansive boardwalk, the palm trees. I liked the sun and the sunbathers. I liked the people running with their dogs. I liked the ocean calm and collected. And the old men searching, head bent, for pearls among the pebbles.

And I sat there and thought to myself at the end of it all “well, that was unexpected.” This from someone who finds no appeal in California – for whom there is only one coast, rocky and industrial. For whom the beach life is nothing more than sand and fake plastic trees.

Maybe I'm growing, huh? Changing.

Or maybe I’m starting to realize that I don’t know myself as well as I thought. What if there really is a beach bum buried beneath these layers of Broadway? What a frightening thought. And even more so, this: what if, through a series of different turns, I could have ended up elsewhere – even happier, perhaps, than I am now – tanning my skin a rough and leathered brown?

Herbert, you old dog – you had it wrong: self doubt is the mind-killer. We can all overcome fear. Fear is nothing. Sit in therapy and have yourself de-conditioned. Self doubt hides in the shadow behind the curtain, whispering in your ear until you grow flushed and flustered and forget your lines. And when you run backstage there is nothing there. Then the review comes out in the Times the next morning and that’s that. Self doubt can haunt you forever.

I doubt myself all the time, yes. I have questioned my talent as an artist, my intelligence, my potential as a physician/boyfriend/future husband/parent. But I think doubt and confusion can be good things – after all, who grows if never questioned; if never forced to ponder his own decisions and limitations? When these build up and fortify we call it strength: when they break down and cripple we call it weakness. I think I may sit somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. But I also have a certain come-what-may attitude with regard to things, which seems to help at times.

So for now I’ll be keeping my distance from both coasts. And I’ll continue to cling to what I feel is right, and not look back, and just keep running against the wind. After all, what other way do I know… what other way is there – to go?

when i was younger

Before I left on this trip I blindly copied almost everything I had written onto a flash drive, and stuck the thing in my coat pocket with the hope of perhaps writing something new in these two months, or at least reflecting on what I’d done. It has been almost ten years – ten years! – since I’ve touched these things, a decade since I’ve set eyes on these few and scattered pages.

Sitting now in this cold room in Cinque Terre I read the plays that I started and never finished, the poems that I penned in part and tossed aside – discouraged perhaps by my self consciousness, or my perceived immaturity (but what, in all honesty, seems mature or consequential when you have read Albee, Williams and O’Neill – Tennyson and Keats?). And I feel now a returning warmth of a sudden; a familiar comfort, like smelling on a passing wind some childhood scent, wrapped serpentine around a distant memory.

I read the words I wrote when I was younger, more impressionable perhaps and innocent, and I think about the thoughts I had then – swirling and molten in the burning flows of my adolescent mind – and I wonder in which direction those thoughts were moving, and where they would have led. Because now, ten years later – still young, but so much older – I have trouble remembering what I thought at the time.

Ambassadors To An End – my high school graduation project. A short, one-act play I had written about a wealthy and curious man determined to better understand the human mind, to unlock the secrets of our mortal thought process. I remember enlisting three of my classmates to play the three characters. I remember going with my dad to Home Depot to buy the door frame and the potted plant – the only props in the play – and I remember after-school rehearsals with my advisor, and my naïve attempts at stage direction. Look up slowly, pensively. Look into the distance. Gasp for breath, and writhe! I remember the auditorium and the stage – so vast and daunting; so intimidating to my seventeen years.

But it was so much fun – my first, and to date, only – stage production. And I do remember the applause, courteous and brief, and standing at the podium answering questions from my classmates. How long did it take to write? What kind of things inspire you? Is this something you want to do for a living?

And I remember thinking at the time, and answering “yes – yes, it is.”

And it still is, though perhaps now I’ve matured and realized some of my limitations as a person, and as an artist. And I’ve shed most of my innocence, for sure – and graduated, to a degree, in mind. But still the longing and desire remain.

I am hesitant now to finish what I started, so seemingly long ago. There is no doubt some truth to the thought that an artist’s work should never be revised – that creation in the moment is a reflection of the artist in the moment, and that as the artist grows so too will his work evolve. Perhaps then I will keep the originals, and file them away in memory – and work into something new the fundamentals therein.

And maybe, many more years in the future, I will return again to these various incarnations and reflect upon my mind at seventeen and twenty-six, and smile – and think to myself: “how far you’ve traveled, these years between. How different now your voice, hoarse and weathered by these decades of expression!”

It is a conclusion, and an end, which I think I will enjoy – and until that time, I’ll look forward to its coming.

looking back on Moby Dick

I sat down this afternoon with a bottle of wine and my ocean view and finished, at long last, Moby-Dick.

What a remarkable work of fiction – truly, and without doubt, one of the greatest American novels to date. There is nothing I have found remotely comparable in scope and breadth – nothing as encyclopedic in nature; nothing as purely, beautifully and strikingly allegorical.

The book itself is like the sea – calm and docile at times, with occasional gusts of wind that kick the waves to frenzy, but always on the horizon the potential for a devastating storm. And when this potential is realized in the final chapters – when the pace quickens and the chase is on, when the winds pick up and the pages turn through your fingers like a weather vane in a tornado – you feel as if you are riding the Pequod, holding fast the rigging line, a slave to Ahab’s maniacal modus operandi.

And the symbol of the great white whale, and one man’s crazed quest to conquer that beast – what more perfect allegory exists in literature for the struggle between man and his desire than this? Because I am, at this stage in my life, concerned with finding love – especially as the intensity of residency looms ahead – and concerned with my own expectations and needs as an aspiring artist, I have taken Moby Dick to represent the seemingly unattainable and potentially destructive things I seek. But such is the fundamental simplicity of the whale as a symbol that it represents so much more – infinitely more. Human avarice and greed, for example; temptation, time and the end of time, a purity which the darkest of dark cannot and will not taint. Religion and faith. The naturalist’s credo; the inability of man to change something ultimately greater and far superior to himself. Inspiration, and the fleeting nature of.

And Melville surely, at some point in his life, aspired to be a pathologist. He dissects his subjects with such surgical precision and attention to detail – his chapters on whale cetology, on the minutiae of the inner workings of the ship – that he, at times, seems to chart the anatomy of his own fiction. And the novel is so delicately paced that the 650 odd pages seem to flow by effortlessly – and when the final chapters unfold you feel as if: “yes, this is how it must be. There is no other way.”

Reading these pages I could not help but wonder if it was all by design. Did Melville intend for the whale to represent so much? Or did he simply set out to write a book about whaling and a mad Nantucketer, and mean no allegory by this? Did he just happen to pick a subject with so much endless potential for interpretation? Or have we the readers – as with so much of artistic interpretation – ascribed more meaning to the work than the artist originally intended?

The answer is, of course, moot in point: art has no more meaning than that which the viewer feels in viewing. Such is the infinite beauty of art – as there are billions of people on this planet so too are there as many possible interpretations of one man’s art. And what is beautiful or meaningful to one person may seem trite and plain to another.

But I – I have been moved by this artist’s work. And if you feel the same, then please –we have so very much to talk about.

the way we talk

Landed, as I have, in these foreign countries – and surrounded as I am now by so many different languages – I have recently given some thought to communication, and the way we talk.

Listening to Dutch and German, Czech and Italian, I am continually amazed by the fact that these series of sounds emitted from the body have translated into effective means of communication, that vary none-the-less from country-to-country and oftentimes therein. How odd we must sound to each other! And yet we each speak the same words, express the same fundamental needs and desires.

We tourists especially have our own language – a certain signing, if you will – universally understood, though if not at times begrudgingly accepted. “Check, please” is a scribbling gesture in the air. “Restaurant” is the shoveling of food to the mouth. “Hotel” is the folding of hands under head. “Bathroom” is a little more difficult and potentially embarrassing to enact in public, but usually gets the point across. And these signs, I have to think, are universally understood because they are fundamental needs felt by all, and so sympathized and recognized by all.

This contemplation of communication has led me to a deeper consideration of interpersonal talk, especially on a more intimate level. I was recently shown an article about communication between physicians and the elderly, and how often what is assumed – perhaps due to prejudice or preconceived ideas – may irreparably damage the physician-patient relationship. Older adults, though perfectly capable of expressing themselves, will often withhold information or hesitate in communication if the physician initially treats them as “unique” or “special” patients: that is, as if the elderly – due to their advanced years – are in some way handicapped by age. It is an unfortunate occurrence, but one which I suspect happens far too frequently.

And I wonder, on an even more intimate level, how many relationships have suffered – or ended – because of what was left unsaid, or what was assumed. After all, what is an assumption, in so many cases, if not an excuse – a way to cover up or justify something done or forgotten? A way, at times, to avoid confrontation?

I have vowed in all my relationships to be honest and completely open – and because I do not enter these things lightly, I believe such respect is called for. Sometimes I am hurt – sometimes I hurt others; sometimes the honesty is reciprocated, oftentimes it is ignored. Swept under. And I have known some who think it better not to address or acknowledge cracks in the foundation – but I can’t do this, I can’t live in a house fit to fall. And I don’t mean the small things – the white lies – I mean the things that keep you up at night, tossing from one side to the other of your pillow.

Honesty, I think, is healthy and necessary – and though it may cause momentary suffering, ultimately cannot be scorned. It is respectful, and sincere. We sail through life as ships in a sea of experience – at times we dock, at times we hail other ships and share concerns and stories. And all we can hope to be in life is a good, sincere, and honest captain of our own vessel – respectful of those we keep close; respectful of those linked, in whatever way, to the pursuit of our own end. And all we can hope to do in life is touch the lives of others, if for but a moment, and leave the better off for touching.

And I think it has become my philosophy to never settle in life, or in love. Both can be so short, and fleeting, if blindly spent – so quickly shattered and sunk. Perhaps I am an Ahab – perhaps this white whale will ultimately be my undoing. But still I give chase because of the principle of the thing - because it is the only thing I see, the only thing really worth pursuing in this great wide frothy ocean.

And so I’ll sail on, hailing ship after ship until I hear word of my aim – and then, with passion, pursue.

wave of mutilation

This string of five coastal towns – this Cinque Terre, composed of Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso from head to tail – certainly has its appeal. If you like a pristine and charming coastal beauty with jutting promontories and precipitous, sheer-face drops into a churning sea, then Cinque Terre should top your list of places to visit. And if you like endless hiking trails, and looking down onto towns spread like brickwork butter over mountainous loaves of bread, then Cinque Terre could very well be your heaven.

But for me, Cinque Terre was a bit of a disappointment, and a bit of a contradiction in itself. I expected a place like this to be calm and peaceful – with just you and nature and the crashing waves and no other sound – but Cinque Terre is, pound for pound, the most tourist-overrun destination I have visited so far, and that includes Bruges. And when the town you are staying in is one street long, and up and down you gaze upon swarms of tourists buzzing around their respective raised and folded guide umbrellas, it can seem a little maddening.

And those waves – the nonstop, incessant crashing against the rocks! I enjoyed the sound at first, I thought it calming and soothing – I sat outside and read to it for hours. But after a while, when it is the only thing that echoes in your head – when it has driven out all other thought with its pounding – when it plays on an endless loop over and over and over again, you feel as if it is the soundtrack to some untimely lunacy.

Cinque Terre is beautiful, for sure – but if you visit, do so with a large, soft buffer between yourself and peak season. And bring a lot of money, or a flexible credit card – because food and lodging here are potentially breaking.

Cinque Terre soundtrack – the waves… the waves… the waves…

an exposition of sorts

Those of you who know me well know that I am a quiet person. I am reserved. Temperate. If you are comfortable with it, we could just as well sit for an hour with not a word passed between. I don’t mind silence – I rather enjoy it at times: I think silence between two people often reveals more than conversation. Which is not to say that we should only communicate through glances or intimation – there are things in this world that need discussion, require discussion: things that must know the public forum.

But to me, the discussion of other people is not one of these things. I don’t know why, I can’t fully explain it – it is one of my peculiarities, perhaps one of my flaws. I don’t gossip, I don’t speculate. If you start talking about someone, even a stranger, chances are I’ll sit there in silence, contemplating the carpet. I won’t object – I just won’t contribute much. This is the way I’ve always been.

I have no sound explanation for it, except that maybe I like to think of only the good in people – and gossip, and discussion of personality, so often hinges on the perceived bad. Which is completely understandable – flaws are what make us unique, individual and interesting; flaws are what make us human. They are the very things which distinguish us from other animals, and from automatons. But I derive no great joy in discussing these flaws – just as I take no pleasure in the pain or misfortune of others, just as I can’t watch clips of accidents or most of reality television, just as I can’t watch the first half of American Idol or game shows that put people to lie detectors with the intention of hurting more than they help.

Which is why The Price is Right is, in my opinion, fantastic good fun – everyone wins, everyone is happy (as long as the price is right).

And it doesn’t matter the subject – family, friend, or complete stranger – my feeling doesn’t change. And it’s not that I see anything wrong with discussing other people, or with gossip in general – I think it can be wonderfully cathartic for certain individuals, and is perhaps the world’s oldest pastime. But I am just not one of its advocates.

I think about the stuff all the time, of course. Different characters I’ve met, the ways people act and react. How fascinating are we as a culture, composed of so many millions of contradictions and variations – and yet, when falling aggregate on a winter’s field, we form this great, expansive, homogenous blanket of man? The answer is: very.

Then how can I be a writer of worth, you say, and not enjoy discussing personalities? I don’t know – maybe I won’t amount to much of a writer at all. Maybe this is one of my weaknesses – what will consign me to the cold but cramped guest quarters of mediocrity. But I am also stubborn, the subject of another exposition perhaps. And so I will not begrudge you your public investigation of personality – I will just conduct mine in private.

And I will discuss, in my own muted way, anything else I have knowledge of in this whole wide, wondrous world – music, sports, film, literature, politics, or paint peeling – but just not, for reasons perhaps pertaining only to myself, other people.

a woman in passing

She stood there, face angled toward the monitor, waiting in silence for the platform number to appear. In one hand rolled back and forth the handle of her traveled suitcase – in the other her purse. And she had wide country eyes, and lips that turned up more than down, and a neck slender and porcelain. And as we both looked away from the screen our eyes met, and we held each other so for but a moment, warmly – as if there was recognition in those ten feet between.

We shared a smile – just a sliver of one, fleeting. Then 23 flashed bright and beckoning and we looked at the train, and turned toward the things we were certain of.

And though I’ve never seen this woman before, and never will again, I can’t help but wonder if – in some parallel reality on another platform in time – we had known each other well.

backwards and in high heels

I remember the first time I watched Swing Time, huddled on my dorm room bed in the white middle of winter, comforter at my neck – my roommate’s 15inch TV/VCR combo balanced on my chair. I remember sitting there, face inches from the screen, my eyes fixed on its grainy glow – and I remember watching Fred Astaire glide effortlessly across the dance floor like an ice-cube on wax paper, so fluid and so very smooth. I remember the songs, and the way you look tonight. I remember thinking Ginger Rogers was beautiful – so graceful and charming, so lithe. And I remember sitting there smiling, uncontrollably, until my cheeks started trembling. And when it was finished, and the credits rolled, I stopped the tape and pressed rewind and watched it all again.

It was the same when I first listened to Revolver, and Blonde on Blonde – the same when I first read Frost. The discovery of something so completely in tune with your person – something that cuts through all your caution and guarding like a scalpel through fat and touches, in one pass, your heart – is an amazing experience. You are in this moment of discovery completely vulnerable – you are in this moment at your most human.

I have had, on this trip so far, several moments like this. The first on the streets of Amsterdam; the second at the Borghese Gallery in Rome beside Bernini’s amazing marble sculptures of Apollo and Daphne and Pluto and Proserpina; and the third most recently in Florence at the Uffizi Gallery, standing before the works of Botticelli. I had seen the Birth of Venus before – who has not – but to see it in person – to stand inches from the canvas – was, for lack of a better word, breathtaking. The colors are so soft and temperate up close, but so striking at a distance – and the whole scene is at once both beautifully comical and deeply reverent. And to discover for the first time his Fortitude and his Columny of Apelles, and to discover new artists like Bronzino – what an experience.

I hope the rest of my life is filled with such firsts. And I hope one day to feel so moved by some woman, sitting there – smiling at the wind for no apparent reason. But until then I am satisfied to feel as I do for my poetry and prose, my movies and my music.

Feel so – for my art.

in constant pursuit

Creation is such a powerful drug. When you get in a rhythm and start drawing or writing and the perspective works and the rhymes are sharp and crisp – when you really get going and that primal, pulsatile energy starts beaming through your center and out from your fingertips and you feel overcome by some tremendous elation, like when you breathe in deeply and hold a smile – this is creation at its most potent, and most wonderful, effect. It is so comforting, so elegant: in that one moment you feel as if you have accomplished something singularly great.

But as with any drug the feeling doesn’t last, and pretty soon what you thought was great and liberating seems – separate from the act of creating – simple, and burdened by banality. And you crash. And you hit lows, when nothing seems to rhyme anymore; when the lead crumbles under a gentle pressure. And sometimes the block lasts for a long while and you do nothing new, and it weighs heavy on your mind the thought of how it could feel. It is an artistic, substance-induced depression of sorts.

I have to think many artists feel this way, and that I am not alone in this sentiment. We are tormented by our art – drawn, perhaps subconsciously, toward a need to feel that rush one more time. And so we push and try always to create: because, in many ways, we only – in all the living that we do – feel fully alive when we are so doing. And we push and try often prematurely, when we are not ready or not properly equipped to handle the consequences.

At least that's how I see it. Maybe I am wrong – maybe this is just a weakness in my character. I don’t know.

But if ever I seem moody, or downtrodden – when none of the whales seem worth hunting – this, perhaps, is the reason why.

my kingdom for gelato

I am now so damned picky when it comes to gelato. I am a gelato snob. An aficionado of the most focused and passionate ilk. I was afraid this would happen – afraid now of the consequences, especially when I leave Italy in a few days and start craving that sweet, oh that most delectable delicacy – softly scooped out from the dreamscape of angels.

This list is for everyone, but even more so to remind me of my newly formed principles and the standards by which certain things should be judged. And so here is a top five list of things to watch out for and bear in mind when selecting your gelato in Italy:

5. If someone is standing outside of a gelateria telling you to “eat here, it’s the best!” – don’t: he’s a professional liar.

4. Never buy gelato from a place with multilingual placards. Italian is the language of Italy.

3. Real pistachio gelato should still have shells in it. Eat them like a man.

2. Highly piled and lavishly decorated gelati are trying to compensate for lack of flavor – go for the minimalist basins, with maybe a small ripple of a design on top. But nothing more.

1. NEVER buy gelato within fifty feet of a major tourist attraction. It will taste like you got ripped off.

Happy eating.

mi scuzzi – il conto, per favore…

I have had, I think, too much of Rome. Perhaps the kid in a candy store analogy was more appropriate than I thought – perhaps this is the morning after the binge, when I sit huddled in a corner shaking… convulsing. Praying for the passing.

Which is so very strange to me since I’d normally eat this all in and not feel wretched. I thought I would love the taste of Rome – all that rich, sumptuous history mixed with a hint of Mediterranean charm and a dash of that spicy Italian passion. Cooked over a gentle heat, served with a glass of red wine. Maybe an accordion gently folding in the background. I thought I would shut down the buffet, bust out the Kobayashi Shuffle and just keep going.

But something didn’t sit right.

It’s not all the history and architecture – that I love. It’s the city itself. Rome is dirty. I come back at the end of the day and rub my hands with soap and warm water and watch as the basin turns black – and I wonder whose blood it is that I now wash away. The romantic in me, perhaps – who loves the quaint and quiet villas, the candlelit dinners, the sound – at times – of silence.

New York City on a plate is what it is, and knows it is deliciously filling, and if you don’t like what you ordered then to hell with you, don’t come back. But Rome… Rome tries so hard to sell itself, with so much accordion garnish and “Ciao, Bella!” on the side that after a while you lose your appetite. And then you look around, and realize there are cigarette butts underfoot and the floor is scuffed black with heel-marks, and things creep and crawl in dark corners.

And the chef stands there smiling sardonically, hair-net in his back pocket, picking at his grease-stained nails.

the lone and level sands

With the one exception of New York, I had never – until this day – visited a single entity of a city, isolated and removed from its country and surroundings, and known it to be – without question – great. I have been charmed by some cities, tickled by others; shocked and disturbed by more than I care to mention. But few and far between are those that exude a colossal and effortless greatness, as vast and immutable as a snow peaked Everest.

Rome is, in my opinion, one such city.

Imagine, if you will, the cluttered, dyspeptic bowels of a metro line buried deep beneath the surface of the skin. You pass your way through the system, stop by gurgling stop, moving only by the pressure of buildup behind, until you start to question the health and beauty of a thing with such a septic inner working. And then – in a sudden, jerky upheaval of passengers – you are spat onto the city street.

And what do you see there sprawled out before you, in every direction, occupying every imaginable point on the horizon until your eyes, not knowing where to focus, move seemingly independent of each other in a sensory overload? There… there is history. Condensed, and undiluted.

And you drink it all in, thickly. And it is all so wonderfully overwhelming that you feel, at times, like a kid in a candy store. Everywhere the things you’ve read in books, the things you’ve seen in films – everything packaged so nicely, shelved and within reach: all you have to do is point and say “there.”

There on those steps Caesar stood and there he died; there Nero, there Romulus and Remus quarreled. There the gladiators fought to their deaths. There the Palatine and the Roman Forum, and there the Trevi Fountain.

And here, standing beside the Colosseum in all its magnificent, wilting glory – here am I made aware of the eternity of Time, watering her seeds with sand, and how we each – to some degree – grow Ozymandian in her garden.

If greatness is measured by how much remains above the sand as time goes by and by, then what greater city is there than this.

Rome soundtrack: Born Ruffians – Red, Yellow & Blue

it was a close call

army of one intent

Venice the morning after is sad, and reminiscent. Empty bottles and used plates line the streets like flower petals after a wedding, a sullen reminder of what once was. There are no more couples waltzing to live orchestras, no more drinking and eating in the alleys, no more laughter and cheer.

Instead, a dense fog has settled on the city – and from this fog rise the Tourists. Slowly. Eerily, like an army of the undead. And I – wielding my camera in hand like a sharpened blade, ready to strike – am one of the many, many footmen.

We storm the Basilica de San Marco, march with heavy foot through the square, swarm around the Palazzo Ducale, stampede over the Ponte Rialto. We are unstoppable, unconquerable and known the world over. What did Xerxes' army have that made it so feared? We have our Cannons – and Nikons, too; we have purse upon purse full of euro, we have an unquenchable thirst and legendary disregard for culture and etiquette. We have our folding maps. And our fanny packs.

Know us by our chatter – recognize our shrieks and fear our coming!

In the end, as with all things in our path, Venice is vanquished – just as Rome is ravished and Paris is plundered; as Barcelona burns. And we march on – as surely as the sun rises, as surely as the wide world turns.

Venezia, mi amore!

Venice, I am smitten. You could hurt me – lie to me, wreck me beyond all hope of repair or reconciliation, take everything I have and leave me stranded heart in hand – and I would still turn at your mention, blush at the sound of your name.


I fell for it all from the beginning – the canals, the narrow alleys winding and weaving to seemingly nowhere, the street musicians filling the air with the soundtrack to a fine romance. The fresh fruit and seafood markets. The decorated gondolas, the battling orchestras of Piazza San Marco. The water reflecting its soft-focus onto the Palazzo Ducale and the Ponte del Sospirl.


And your language – how beautiful and undulant, like a gentle ocean! Balanced on the tongue at times like a sigh of anticipation on the tip of the lungs; or a first kiss – held softly, delicately at the lips before lips part and the moment passes, and the eyes slowly open. When I hear your language spoken I close my eyes and hear Cabiria describing her nights – I hear Fellini behind the camera, working his art.

And I have to admit I walked your streets tonight hoping to get lost and never found – to get swept down some canal, or be pressed into some alley wall like a finger into soft dough – and so spend the rest of my days here, knowing what you know.

One day I will return to Venice – with my girlfriend or my wife – and we will fall in love for the first, or second time – wrapped so in your charms.

Venice soundtrack: anything played on an accordion

for those about to rock we salute you

In my life, all things – it seems – return to music. Waiting at the Innsbruck station for our 13.26 to Venice, I met a gentleman from Murona known, in circles, as DJ Tuzlo. He works the Murona club scene with five other dj’s, mixing hip-hop with classic American songs and Italian ballads, keeping the beat alive. He would like to visit New York City someday. He told me how most people in Italy have stereotyped club disc jockeys as drug abusing ingrates who listen to obnoxious music and stay out too late – and that his mother was not too supportive of his life aspiration. But he pursued his dreams anyway, and assured me that he does no drugs – just beer. And he’s been mixing and scratching since he was this tall (the level of his knees), and has always loved his music.

He was a nice guy, and he left me with two pieces of advice: one – never go to the Balkans; and two – get married in Venice.

I sit here now on the train, listening to my punk rock, my indie darlings, my blues, my mixes and remixes. And I sit across from a nun whom I am convinced is clairvoyant, for when I feel myself identifying with the darker lyrics – or when I intentionally think of something inappropriate – she closes her eyes and looks away. And I am happy to have met someone who lives music as I do – someone who tries to defy stereotype and counter convention as I can only subtly, and gracefully, hope to.

And looking out, and seeing the hillside layered and fortified with vineyards and the mountains smoking as if fresh baked, and feeling my heart beat ever faster – I know I am in Italy.

I wish you the best of luck, DJ Tuzlo – I’ll keep an ear out for you stateside.

out of fog and time

We climbed the stairs to platform seven, lumbering under the weight of our packs like two of Hannibal’s less fit, slightly asthmatic elephants. And then – at the peak of our ascent, broken and panting – we gazed suddenly upon a thing of such wonder and grace that our packs grew instantly weightless, and our spirits lifted and revived. There, uncoiled and stretched before us like a gilded serpent, was the Orient Express.

Her deep and royal blue, though muted and restrained, was shocking in contrast to the constant red and white of the standard OBB. Her golden emblems and lettering reflected the sun – even hidden as it was behind dense cloud. Her attendants in smart, well-fit livery bowed and smiled. And through window frames of wood and plated gold I looked on scenes of painted elegance, royal delegates and heads of state dining in pressed evening attire, seated in lavishly decorated dinner cars lit for intimate conversation and the sharing of secrets.

It was an unreported stop – not listed on any schedule – and she arrived out of a thick and swirling fog without sound, her wheels cushioned from the grating metal track by a thin layer of grace. And it seemed as if this train had – for this one brief instant – crossed over, as if someone had flipped a switch on that anachronistic track of time it traveled parallel to our own and brought this seldom seen figment of our imagination into unexpected realization.

And this Brigadoon of trains – this Laputa, this great pink sea snail – vanished from sight as mysteriously as it arrived, timed to the precise moment when all bystanders simultaneously – and coincidentally – blinked.

We drab we burdened few rubbed our eyes, looked at each other, and shrugged – not sure if what we saw was real.

But I managed to snap a picture.

stuck in the middle with you

Innsbruck was a necessary stop for us – so as to split a potential ten hour train ride to Venice into two manageable halves. It was wedged between two exciting destinations, bookended if you will by two things of almost legendary beauty. Hallstatt was the opening novel, Venice the closing volume – and like any middle book in a trilogy, Innsbruck seemed in many ways a piece in transition, unfinished and unsatisfying.

But it was a somewhat amusing transition – a busy Alpine town, still basking in the golden years of its two winter Olympics. And a town very much built on the combined beauty of a Hallstatt and the modern conveniences of a Vienna. Innsbruck sits at the base of the elephantine Alps, seemingly at risk of being trampled underfoot, the mountains being so close and dominant of the skyline. The streets are lined with restaurants and high end stores. There is a mall, and a couple of movie theaters. And a handful of tourist attractions.


But in all truth my mind – reeling from Hallstatt and foaming in anticipation of Venice – had little room, in thought, for Innsbruck.

if i may wax a moment...

Love is the single most important thing in my life. The love of family, love of friends, love of another. And there is absolutely nothing I would not do – or sacrifice – for love. I would consign myself a hundred times over to a life of mediocrity and sadness to know that someone I love truly – deeply and heartfelt – would be, from this moment forward, forever happy. I would forgo fortune and fame, turn down career and comfort for love – for all of these things are meaningless in its absence. Love is my north star, my guiding light – the strength in all my human weakness, a blanket’s warmth in coldest night. It is my only, and my all.

And with all of this in mind I know one thing with utter certainty: a life without love is a life less lived.

And how grateful now, am I, for this opportunity to travel Europe with my best friend – to sit in a park, swallowing down two and four scoops of gelato as they melt with a vengeful madness in the sun.

So happy birthday, Nina – my lovely, beautiful sister. And though this day you grow a year older, you stay – in my eyes – forever young.

before the day

It is interesting, watching a town ready herself for the day. She goes through much the same routine as a woman would in the early morning – the rubbing and scrubbing, the cleansing, the momentary self reflection, the makeup.

Hallstatt’s morning is the early spring, her working day the summer and fall, her night the end of winter. Everything seems to open on April 26 – the funicular to the salt mine, many of the larger shops and restaurants, several of the pensions. And until that time – until that hour when she must face full-force that worldly crowd of tourists and their cameras – she will beautify herself, and ready her face for the lights.

And it shows. Tractors and cranes rumble around every corner of market square – there are men with ladders and paint brushes, wheelbarrows sloshing with cement, puzzled looks and long drags on cigarettes. It all seems very hectic for this tiny, peaceful town on the edge of this pristine lake.

But perhaps the seasons weather a small town faster, and with more ferocity, than a large city. Or maybe Hallstatt is just more self conscious, more self aware – perhaps it is her constant reflection in the lake that makes her question her natural beauty.

Hallstatt should be known at all times of day – during her snow filled night, her shuffling early hours, her bustling noon. But if I had to chose – or recommend – one time to visit, I’d say come when the flowers are in bloom, and the children swim in the lake, and the paint and caulking have all since dried, and set.

But regardless of the hour – should the opportunity arise – come, by all means come, to Hallstatt.

for that which is not there

I sit here looking out on Hallstatt lake as the snow falls like a particulate curtain, draping the mountains in its fabric white, and in the distance – at the very edge of vision, peering out from behind the snow – sits a large and looming ship, weightless like a feather on the waves.

Her two masts jut out like javelins angled in earth, her sails hang modestly from the rigging; her bow – a compass point drawn by some invisible magnetism toward the horizon. A whisper thin plank leads to land where I barely make out men crossing back and forth, loading the vessel with salted pork and loaves of bread - the women standing on shore, waving.

I sit for minutes staring until my eyes turn dry, searching for any sign of movement, waiting with baited breath for the vessel to push off and begin her long and lonely voyage.

And then the snow lets up, and the mountains come into view dusted now in a soft layer of talcum, and I see that there is no ship – just a small island with two trees, the branches fanning out against the backdrop. The plank is a tiny bridge. And the men crossing back and forth do not exist, and the women waving do not exist.

A sigh escapes my lips, and I watch it press against the cold window – it, too, yearning even separate from my body. Only later does it occur to me that I am in the middle of Austria, at the edge of a lake.

And how cruel, how bitterly spiteful to have a ship built for the sea – a thing of such imagined grandness – moored, in mourning, there.

punk is not ded

There was a hint of something magical along the way. Looking out from the train I noticed that the river water was not clear or black or blue, but bright green – a greener-than-grass green, as if the thing was distilled from crushed and melted emeralds. And I thought to myself how very strange and peculiar that such a river should exist outside of a fairytale, or an illustrated children’s book.

And then we arrived in Hallstatt, and I no longer found it strange and peculiar, and I understood: this place, this Hallstatt, is a thing of the imagination – forged from a magical, childish fancy. When you close your eyes and think of the most serene, timeless place you can picture – though you may know it by a different name – you are thinking, in part and perhaps unknowingly, of Hallstatt.

The town is tragically picturesque. Soft, pastel colored buildings with lattice-work balconies and brown wooden rooftops scurry down the hillside, crowding over each other and almost toppling into the lake like giddy children running to the sea. A protestant church clings to a postcard promontory, and narrow cobbled pathways lead down narrow alleys to quaint households and tiny restaurants. And overlooking it all the mountains lay like nude bathers in a shallow pool, their thighs stretched out in the sun unabashed and bronzed.

And when it snows, and all you see is drifting white and all you hear is silence, you feel like here – in this place protected from time and trespass – you can escape anything, and never be found.

It is a wonderful feeling.

Hallstatt soundtrack: The Ramones

sorry for the bulk posting - internet is hit-or-miss here...

the seafarer

I am now a third of the way through Melville’s Moby-Dick, and it has quickly become one of my favorite novels. Melville writes with such wit and humor, and such a keenly educated, referential insight that I often find myself shaking my head in amazement. That, combined with its almost encyclopedic knowledge of whaling and the sea-faring life, both of which are completely foreign to me, makes the book hard to set down.

But more than that, I like the white whale as a metaphor for life and the artist’s aspirations, and for love. The Pequod’s journey is one I think all of us can relate to on some level – and just as she is populated with a crew of contrasting characters so too do we each handle the journey differently. We each search – and some of us are fortunate enough to find.

I look out now from the train to Hallstatt – book in hand – onto rolling green and brown hills, rising and falling like the swells of some great earthen sea. And I sit here, a mast-hand at his post, looking out for any break in the surf. The skies darken briefly and the soft ebb and flow grows thrashing mad and violent, and suddenly the Alps tower above the horizon, their foam-tipped waves smashing against the earth, the spray jetting upward to form the clouds. I watch it all with a keen eye.

And I wonder what it is exactly that I am looking for, and if I find it – or spot it slowly diving in the distance, out of reach but accessible on a strong wind – will I recognize the thing for what it is, and accept it and sing it out, or look to the next patch of sea? Is there, then, a great white whale that I hunt? And if so – do I chase it with the madness maddened of Ahab, or Starbuck’s bitter hesitation?

Or with a chuckle, like Stubb?

i'm sad to say...

Vienna did not strike me as I thought it would. I expected the city to fill me with poetry, to capacity and overflowing – this the city of Mozart, of such immense tradition and culture, of art and opera. But it did not. Walking the city I felt very little at all. The streets were so very wide, everything so distantly spaced that I felt like I was walking through a museum, staring at old buildings as if they were artifacts behind velvet rope or glass casing. The city felt, to me, very inaccessible – so grand and opulent, so regal and out of reach – so much so that I tried not to cough for fear of disturbing something nestled in a divine equilibrium.

Which is not to say there was a shortage of activity – our two days in Vienna were amazing, and packed to the brim. I saw wonderful exhibits of Bruegel and Arcimboldo at the Kuntshistoriches Museum. I learned about the Empress Elisabeth – she who found comfort only in the shadows, and so became the shadow. I walked the Naschmarket and tried all sorts of food and wine, and marveled at the strong Turkish influence on the city – then pushed my way through the throngs at the flea-market. I watched Ariadne auf Naxos from the standing room only section at the Vienna state opera house, and closed my eyes every few minutes just to hear. I wandered into an anti-EU demonstration. I walked for miles without aching.

Everything was there to make me fall utterly, completely, irretrievably head-over-heels in love with the place - but still the city did not speak to me.

And so Vienna… Wien – we had fun, and you are a lovely city with so much to offer, but I don’t think it will work out between us.

It’s not you, Vienna – it’s me.


Vienna soundtrack – The Rolling Stones

to everything - turn turn turn

Long train rides fill me with a certain melancholy. They are times of introspection, of reflection on the things that I have done, the decisions I have made. Reflection on who I am as a person and who I wish myself to be. We are none of us perfect, that is certain – and when faced with our greatest fear we are all vulnerable, and naked. It is not a time of confession for me – I do not believe in sin, only human faltering. Human misunderstanding. Human miscommunication. These long train rides are more of a cleansing – a dusting off, a shaking of the sheets. I find it helps me breath better.

Regret is perhaps the one thing I fear above all else – I would rather not have it in my life. I have tried to live without it, and have acted to shield myself from it. Perhaps because of this I tend to dwell on things and over-analyze situations, perhaps because of this I am more cautious in my ways. I don’t know – but this way has brought me here, and I am happy with the view.

I think back on all the friends I’ve had, their faces reflected in the window some sharper than others. I think back on all the women I’ve known, and remember their touch some softer than others. I think back on some of the pain I’ve caused people, and some of the joy. I grimace at times – at times I smile.

And again I feel that heaviness of time like an iron shawl around my shoulders, pressing. I look from the window and see things passing by. I see all the streets I will never walk, look through windows into rooms I will never pace. There is a park I will never run, there a café in which I will never write. They are silly thoughts, I know – pointless. But still they haunt me.

Then the train pulls into the station, and I close my eyes and breathe in deeply and feel that much lighter.

And the doors open. And I step outside.

Vezměte mě na štrůdl, prosím!

I like food. I like trying new things, experimenting – I’ll eat anything once, many times twice. I ascribe to the Anthony Bourdain/Andrew Zimmern doctrine – that one of the best ways to understand or appreciate a new culture is by eating its food. Which is why Prague has been a mecca for my religion.

I have had – undoubtedly – one of the best meals of my life in a tiny café looking onto the underside of Charles Bridge. The soft, red interior was warming – the paint pulsed a soothing glow in the afternoon light, and the pint of Pilsner Urquell – its amber muted in my palm – was light and refreshing. And I waited in anticipation until it arrived, carried by a congenial man in a shirt too-tight, steaming and diffusing its scent in a billowing cloud: roasted duck with dumplings on a bed of cranberries and cabbage.

I lost some of my innocence that afternoon.

If traditional Czech food is not your thing, and you prefer greasy heart-stopping street sausage, then come to Prague! For about $3 USD you can order up all the culinary pleasure one can appropriately enjoy in public. And the best part – the carts are open well past midnight.



If you want something a bit sweeter, Prague has – based on multiple reviews – the best strudel in all of Europe. It was a bit of a trek finding the place – we had to take several trams and metros into one of the residential districts, hike through a park and wind our way to the storefront, tucked in an alcove beneath an apartment complex. But the strudel – about half the length of my forearm and just as wide around – was a taste explosion, and for only $2.50 USD I’m surprised the man stays in business.

So děkuji, Prague! I leave you enlightened, full, and with a renewed faith in food.